By now anyone who was curious about it has already read the official
report of the incidents that occurred on that warm October night fifty
years ago. Many rumors and conspiracy theories came, went, were
forgotten. I think it's time people learned my side of the story. Yeah, I
was there. I was the one who started it all and I was the one who
finished it, cleaning up the debris after everyone else left.
Back then I squeaked out a meager existence as the assistant editor
at a tiny magazine in town called The Firebrand. My boss, a grumpy
middle-weight Latino named Carlos Lampas with a perpetual grin, claimed
he wanted accuracy in all our articles. The problem was that he always
confused that with efficiency. He said he wanted things done right, but
he really just wanted it done right now. As a result, the office was
always filled with chaos as writers and photographers scrambled to
finish last-minute pieces before yet another layout revision threatened
to cause a revolt by the printers. And there was Carlos with his
always-present grin. After 5 years with him, I learned that the grin
didn't mean anything; it was his gaze that told you his mood. His
grey-green eyes had this way of mesmerizing you, transmitting his
emotions to anyone who looked long enough. When things went well, they
twinkled. When his eyes filled with a storm front, your best bet was to
batten down the hatches, shut your mouth, and look as busy as possible.
That particular Wednesday in October began normally enough. Carlos
held back the whip from most of the office as we worked on a special
issue. We were challenged by a sister magazine, Weekly Telegraph, to
fill an issue with articles focusing only on obscure funeral customs
found in cultures south of the equator. It was a vague enough challenge
that we could pick a single continent or hemisphere to focus on, thus
saving a ton of the magazine's cash on travel. However, Carlos not only
had to meet a challenge head-on, but he also had to do it so completely
that anyone who came after him would have to reinvent the wheel just to
be in the running. So, we sent out every writer and photographer who
ever worked with us. They traveled all over the southern half of the
globe, researching, observing, and photographing what cultures did when
someone died. Some of the practices seemed pretty ghastly. For instance,
Molly Porter found a small island where the people stuffed the orifices
of the deceased with lizards so that the critters could suck up the
soul if the person decided they didn't want to stay dead. Bobby Malone
took pictures of one body that got a camouflage make-over so that you
couldn't see it when it was placed out in the woods. The idea was that
the longer it went unnoticed by man or nature, the more worthy the
person was of a place in the heavens. Any body left intact after 3 weeks
was brought back to the village and buried in quicksand so it could
make it through to the afterlife. Bobby never could bring himself to
show us the pictures of what happened to "unworthy" people.
We usually put the magazine to bed on Friday, so there was only
subtle chaos in the office that day. Most of our crews had returned a
week before and were already putting the finishing touches on their
respective pieces. It was starting to look like our friendly competitor,
specifically the editor, Milo Hankson, would have to accord us the
satisfaction--and newsstand space--we earned from publishing a
one-of-a-kind issue that would never be duplicated. Carlos was excited
because he hoped the special edition would bring in enough extra cash to
open up a satellite office, allowing us to reach a wider audience and
double or triple our market share. Carlos never got the chance to
fulfill his dream.
I left early (for me) that fateful day, around 8 p.m., since we still
had a day or two before crunch time. I offered to walk Amanda Peterson
home. She was having issues sleeping ever since she returned from
Africa. I had not yet read her article; something told me I shouldn't
pry. Maybe she would talk about it after we published. I did commend her
for her bravery because whatever she witnessed obviously shook her,
but she still came in every day to work on her articles. I could tell
that her fatigue was catching up with her, though. She had moments when
she would recite the same phrases over and over, almost as if she were
trying to memorize the dialogue from a play. Any time I tried to listen
too closely, though. Carlos would drop his gaze toward me. His eyes took
on a steely hardness that froze my thoughts. Amanda finished her
recital and returned to work as if nothing happened. After a couple of
days, I couldn't stand it any more. Amanda was a good friend and I hated
to see her suffer. That was my mistake and how I caused the downfall of
our magazine.
As I said, it was warm for an October night. Even though it was
Wednesday, I suggested we stop by a little diner down the street to get
a couple cool drinks. I hoped I could get Amanda to open up about what
she witnessed on her assignment. On that front I was successful. She
actually didn't find too much out of the ordinary in the death rituals
she observed. It turns out that her problems were closer to home. It
seems that Carlos was using Amanda to learn all he could about his
opponent, Milo Hankson. Amanda was supposed to get friendly with our
challenger, maybe go out on a couple dates with him, to find out if his
challenge was some kind of ploy to distract us so he could get any big
scoops while we focused on something so outrageous. He was working on
something completely different, but it wasn't bigger stories. Poor
Amanda just got caught in the cross-fire between the two life-time
rivals.
I wasn't sure how I was supposed to help Amanda. I didn't want to
cross my boss, but I didn't want her to get hurt either. We walked to
her apartment after the diner. I told her she could call me any time she
needed anything. I also advised her to dump Milo, removing herself from
his rivalry with Carlos. She promised to call Milo that evening. That
was the last time I spoke to Amanda.
I got a call at 3:00 a.m. I picked up, but there was no one on the
line. All I heard was one drawn-out raspy breath and the line went dead.
I tried to go back to bed. That didn't last long. A loud banging on my
door around 7 a.m. pulled me out of dreamland. I opened the door to find
two police officers looking at me intently.
"Mr. Fitzberg?" the more senior officer asked. I nodded, unable to find words.
"We have some questions about Amanda Peterson."
I once again nodded dumbly in response, waving them into my apartment.
It seems that one of Amanda's neighbors called the police just after 3
a.m. to report some strange noises coming from her apartment. When the
police arrived, they found her lifeless of the floor. A preliminary
examination at the emergency room revealed that everything was intact
except her diaphragm; it had been cleanly severed from her lungs and rib
cage. However, this was the only injury. The police found no other
wounds of any kind on Amanda's body. I asked them why they came to me
instead of her family or Carlos. They told me that I was the last person
she talked to before she died. Now I knew what that cryptic call was.
The police asked me many more questions about Amanda. I didn't think.
I wanted to help so I told them everything I knew, even about her
getting mixed up in the rivalry between Carlos and Milo. I suppose that
was the biggest mistake I made.
As you already know, The Firebrand did publish the special issue
about strange death rituals. You may also know that Weekly Telegraph did
not publish on time that month. In fact, it never went to print again.
What fewer people know is that The Firebrand never published again.
Rather than open a satellite office and expand, Carlos lost everything.
The owners of the magazine shut everything down and tried to put out a
new publication under the title of Popular Gazette. They even asked me
to spearhead it during its short run. So, what happened?
As the police investigated Amanda's mysterious death, they uncovered a
whole slew of secrets about Milo and Carlos. Both grew up in the same
little nowhere town. Both went to the same college and majored in
journalism and business. Both got their start at the same newspaper. And
both started out as the same person. Some 13 years before that night in
October, Carlos Lampas/Milo Hankson went on a trip to research the
rituals of a newly discovered culture in southern Africa. Something
changed him. Instead of one person, two journalists returned. They
developed an instant rivalry from that moment, almost as is he finally
found a worthy opponent for his over-the-top approach to challenges.
Unfortunately, friendly competition escalated into a cycle of vengeance.
Milo and Carlos moved from outdoing each other to finding ways to sabotage each other in attempts to stay on top. They grew increasingly paranoid over the years as the challenges and sabotage grew more
complicated. That revenge cycle culminated with Amanda's death. I said I
started it and I was the one who finished it.
I started the endgame when I got Amanda to open up to me. She didn't
realize it, but the dialogue she was spewing was the chanting from an
interrupted ritual. This ritual, usually used in that culture to
separate a soul from a body upon death, was mistakenly used on
Carlos/Milo when he first visited that south African region. He stayed
asleep throughout the entire chant, which split his body, mind, and soul
into two separate people. Amanda woke in the middle of it, so she never
split in two, but it left her vulnerable to certain powerful
incantations. Both Carlos and Milo developed these powers over the years
as they sought to beat one another. Amanda obviously mentioned the
chanting when she discussed her article with Carlos. He then cast his
spell on her so that he could spy on Milo. Poor Amanda got another dose
of the spell when Milo also tried to use her as a gateway to Carlos.
Both of them discovered what was going on when Amanda told me. They both
tried to control her at the same time, making her talk to both at once.
That strain is what pulled her diaphragm loose; it could not handle the
pressure to speak in two directions at once.
I ended the vengeance cycle when I told the police everything I knew,
or thought I knew. Carlos and Milo were brought in for questioning at
the same time. They were physically together for the first time after
casting a mediating spell. They were linked together, but Amanda was
dead, so the link pulled on their two souls. The official report just
states that both men disappeared. I know what really happened. When the
police put Milo and Carlos together, then spell pulled at both of their
souls. It essentially tried to combine both of them back into a single
person. But, since their animosity toward each other was too great.
Instead of coming together back into one body, the spell ripped out
their souls from their fabricated bodies. There wasn't much left of
either after that.
I came in the next day, Friday, to finish the special edition. I
dedicated it to Amanda and included a thank you for the years of service
put in by Carlos. I tried to resign the following Monday. That's when
the owners gave me the job of running the new magazine. And that's the
long and short of what happened that night in October 50 years ago.
[Copy write Christina Guardino 2014]
