"What, Deja Vu Again?"
May. 14th, 2022 02:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"What, Deja Vu Again?"
9/23/-9/25/1976
I.
Behind the rear wall of the boarding house crept a bizarre figure in a black leather uniform, with a silver helmet and a round shield strapped to his left arm. Sheathed at his left hip was a scabbard holding a three-foot-long straight sword. Listening, holding his breath, the Silver Skull satisfied himself no one was near enough to be aware of his return. He released his role. In a vague shimmer of blue light barely visible in the gloom, the uniform and weaponry vanished instantly.
Back in his regular clothes of dark slacks and green polo shirt, Dr Lawrence Taper tested the window to his room. It was still open an inch, as he had left it. Good. Sliding it up, Taper climbed nimbly through the opening into the darkened room beyond. Only after the venetian blinds were down and the curtains drawn did he reach behind him to thumb the wall switch which turned on the lamp by his desk.
At thirty-one, not quite six feet tall but in a good athletic trim, Taper seemed likeable if unremarkable to most people. He was glad he made this impression. Drawing attention to himself do easily would only make his crusade more difficult.
The clock on the desk read one-fifteen. Plenty of time to get enough sleep, now that he had prowled the streets of Brookton and found nothing but a slumbering little college town. Taper set the alarm for six-thirty. His suit for the next day was already laid out on the easy chair. Stripping down to T-shirt and shorts, he slipped between cold linen sheets and moaned with the comfort.
No way to tell what had drawn him here. The Skull helmet always drew him where he was needed. When he summoned the uniform and helmet and weapons, a tugging as if being pulled by a magnet impelled him to where the Midnight War was heating up. Tonight had not given any clues. Taper yawned, stretched his full length and let go. Tomorrow would be the first day of filling in for Norman. Maybe he would spot a bit of the darkness which always waited to break into the ordinary world. He shifted his position a little and was asleep without transition.
II.
"According to the timepiece affixed to the plasterboard, several minutes are available for banter," Taper said, leaning back against the desk at the head of the classroom. When he had agreed to fill in for his old friend Norman Newsome for a week, Taper had tried to curb his lifelong habit of using an unusual word in his speech when a normal one would have worked better. But he soon discovered the students enjoyed trying to follow his dialogue and saw it as a challenge.
"Dr Taper," began a student near the middle of the thirty desks. This was a soft-looking teen with glasses and two T-shirts worn, one over the other. "Mount Rushmore is in the news, what with the Bicentennial and all. Should we give that land back to the Sioux? It belonged to them before we carved their sacred mountain into a tourist attraction."
There was a murmur of approval from the class. Taper felt pleased that at least these teenagers were taking an interest in something beyond sex, drugs and loud music. "One might think so," he replied, "But complications arise from the fact that the Lakota themselves seized that land by force. They took it by waging war against the Crow and other tribes who were already residing there. So justice might demand that the Black Hills be bestowed upon the Crow, which would leave the Lakota still disgruntled."
"Wait, Dr Taper, did another Native American nation live there before the Crows then?" asked a different student without waiting to be recognized.
"Indubitably. Over millennia, ownership of various regions in North America vacillated many times, usually through violence. The popular misconception is that the tribes holding an area at the time of the European white settlers had been there for an inestimable period stretching back generations."
The bell rang as the clock struck three, and most of the students scrambled to reach the door as if the classroom had caught fire. Taper called out, "Tomorrow we'll cover Chapter Eleven in Wilkins. There may be a ten-question quiz, so take heed and prepare."
Only two students remained, two whose names he remembered. Victoria and Jenny. Taper was too ethical to ever consider an affair with anyone from the class, but he certainly would have been tempted if these two had dropped hints. Both nineteen, Victoria and Jenny were close to being identical in height, shape and facial features, all gorgeous with the perfect unstressed health of youth. Victoria had shiny black hair hanging straight down her back, while Jenny wore her butter-yellow blonde hair in a ponytail.
Although they looked like twins, they were not related.
"Professor, I want to argue with you about the Trail of Tears," Victoria began, holding three textbooks flat against her shapely bust with both hands. "It breaks my heart to think about that needless suffering."
"I'm not a professor, tragic though the admission is to my pride," he replied.
"Don't believe her, Dr Taper," interrupted Jenny with a smirk. "She's so used to every male in town following her around that she wants to flaunt her stuff to get your reaction."
Taper smiled. "I acquiesced to moderate this class in late 19th Century American history as a favor to my compadre Norman, but my presence here will be fleeting. Friday terminates my subsitution."
"That's what I came to tell you," the blonde laughed. "You've increased my vocabulary a million times this week! I keep writing down words you use and then try to work them into conversation."
"Jennifer Anne, please control yourself," Victoria said.
"It's a large charge, a blast and a half," Jenny went on, disregarding her friend. "I don't like it, I love it!"
In the doorway, two boys appeared and one whistled. He had the gawky appearance with long arms and legs of a colt, a sign he had not finished with growth spurts. The boy's brick-red hair and freckles made him distinctive enough that the sleeveless black sweater he always wore over his button-front shirts wasn't necessary to identify him as Marty Melton. His buddy behind him was less distinctive, his most noticeable feature being sleepy eyes which never seemed fully alert. Sometimes outside he affected a shapeless felt hat older than he was.
"We're heading to devour those Sundaes," Marty said. "It's my treat. If you gals would rather chat with the Teach, Goof and I can eat them ourselves."
"Coming, coming," replied Jenny, taking Victoria by one arm. Pulled along, the brunette bestowed a dazzling smile at Taper like a parting gift.
Left alone in the classroom, he exhaled with relief. Despite some experience giving lectures at the University, filling it at this small Midwest community college was quite a change of pace for him. The faculty had approved his coming here for Norman, not so much because of Taper's qualifications but because of the fame his pop-culture book had brought him. YOU'RE WRONG IF YOU BELIEVE... was on its second printing as a trade paperback and royalties for the moment gave him a base income that was enough to scrape by on.
Gathering up the papers from the desk to put them away in his briefcase, Larry Taper shook his head ruefully at the two girls who stayed everyday to flirt. He could see why some professors succumbed to temptation. His own double life as the Silver Skull kept him in enough trouble. After Friday, he wanted to head to the Southwest where Preincarnation activity had been reported lately.
Erasing his notes from the blackboard behind the teaching desk, Taper smiled as he thought about the two boys who were always seen with Victoria and Jenny. He didn't know if Marty was dating first one and then the other to try to keep both available, or if the girls were playing a tease game with him. The one called Goof was invariably around but stayed out of the triangle. Kids. The more things changed, the more they stayed as they had ever been.
Glancing up at the clock, Taper was relieved to remember he was done for the day. Four classes and a meeting in the lounge with the other teachers for lunch had made a full day. He dropped back into the swivel chair behind the desk and noticed a row of the college's yearbook THE PRISM on a shelf near at hand. The oldest one was from 1957 and he reached out to bring it in front of him. For the next ten minutes, he thumbed through the black and white photos. The hair and clothing styles had varied so wildly since then, but the college's rooms and props had hardly changed.
Then, glancing through the senior pictures at the end of the yearbook, Larry Taper froze motionless. He felt the familiar thrill of the inexplicable. There. MARTIN R. MELTON, Music Club and Chess Club. The short curly hair, the freckled face with its snub nose and full cheeks was identical. Even the sleeveless sweater over a dress shirt was the same. This was the same kid that he had seen in the halls and doorways of the college every day this week.
But the yearbook was twenty years old.
Thumbing quickly through the glossy but yellowing pages, Taper found the other three. Victoria Chambers, Jennifer Fletcher, even Wilber Quincy, listed with the nickname Goof in quotes. All completely recognizable down to tiny details. One such identical face might have been a parent of the current student, a Senior to the modern Junior. But all four...? Taper's pulse had sped up. This smacked of Midnight War shenanigans.
Taper made sure he left the classroom as tidy as he had found it. Picking up his white topcoat from where he had draped it over his chair, he went out into the hall to say a few polite words to the other teachers who were smoking in the lounge before leaving. Suddenly there was a lot to find out about the situation in Brookton.
III.
In the boarding house room he had rented for the week, Larry Taper made sure the curtains were drawn and the door locked. He had removed his tie and unfastened the top button on his shirt before sitting on the edge of the board-hard mattress of his bed. Now to dig through memories of those who had gone before. The air shimmered blue and Taper's head was covered by a silver helmet crafted in the shape of an unsmiling Human skull. He could summon part or all of his accoutrements at will. Many times in the last year, the shield or the sword had appeared barely in time to protect him from attack.
When he wore the Skull helmet and let go of his conscious mind, whispers began to echo through his head. The voices of previous wearers of the helm floated through his mind. Taper felt like he was wandering through a darkened room and overhearing snatches of conversation. He listened for anything relevant. After a few minutes, the voices of his predecessors began speaking of their experiences with imposters, masters of disguise, Doppelgangers, even an encounter with Infiltrators from Fanedral. Taper drifted through the memories of hundreds of men who had been the Silver Skull before him.
The mundane jangle of an alarm clock snapped him out of it. Reaching over without looking, Taper pressed the silence button. A second later, he unbuckled the chin strap and lifted the gleaming helmet up off his head. It was too easy to get lost in the memories of others. When he had first become the Skull, he had spent thirty straight hours wandering through the voices and had come out of it with a frantic need to urinate and the realization he had lost more than a day. Now he relied on the clock to bring him back.
It was eight at night. He had learned nothing useful about this town or four unaging teenagers. An audible rumble from his stomach brought him to practical matters. Taper went into the small attached bathroom and scrubbed his hands and face with hot soapy. He changed his white dress shirt for a dark green pullover and felt freshened up enough to go out. From the nightstand, he scooped up wallet and jacknife and some loose bills, then stepped out into the hall to see none of the other tenants.
The streets of Brookton were quiet this time of night, with only an infrequent car rolling by. He strolled down the sidewalk of the residential area, seeing the flickering blue light of televisions in most windows. From one house came the booming beat of a rock band he didn't recognize. It was a crisp clear September night and Taper felt he could walk contentedly for hours.
On the corner of the main street prosaically called 'Main Street,' sat UNCLE JIM'S, a general purpose eatery. There was a wide assortment of ice cream flavors, as well as a grill. Taper had eaten here a few times already in the three days he had been here. Two posters hung on the walls, a kitten dangling from a branch with the caption HANG IN THERE and a charming portrait of a busty TV star grinning to show every tooth she had. Selecting a round leather-covered stool at the counter, he greeted the sullen old man in the greasy apron.
"Salutations, chef," he said. "Nothing elaborate for my cuisine, merely the ubiquitous cheeseburger, French Fries and a black coffee unweakened by milk or sugar. A thick slab of apple pie should end the repast with grace, don't you think?"
"Yeah, sure." Uncle Jim wiped his hands on a relatively clean rag hanging off a counter hook and set to work. The sizzle of the meat on the hot grill made Taper salivate, reminding him how hungry he was.
As soon as the plate was set in front of him, he dabbed a little catsup to one side and set to work.
"Of course your rustbucket didn't make it here," came a girl's voice from the doorway. With a mouthful of French fries to chew, Taper turned his head as the four students bustled in.
"Everything makes noise on that jalopy except the horn," laughed Jenny. She had thrown a baby blue Cardigan over her blouse as a concession to the night air. "Riding with Marty is an adventure."
"AWw, everything happens to me," mumbled the redheaded boy. With Goof beside him, he slid into a booth under the big picture window facing the street. The two girls positioned themselves opposite the boys and immediately began studying the menus.
So far, Taper thought they had not noticed him. He remained still, finishing the last of the cheeseburger and not looking their way. Their excited voices carried clear as bells.
"No parking up on Smooch Hill tonight, eh Marty?" teased the blonde. "Too bad. Victoria's swearing the shirt with only three buttons."
"Jenny, HONESTLY, settle down." The brunette folded the menu and sighed. "I don't suppose any gentlemen are present to offer me a meatball sub?"
"That sure wouldn't be me," Goof replied blandly.
"Um, well, I suppose I could cover you gals for a couple of subs and two Cokes. My old man paid me for mowing the lawn but he's tight as a new pair of shoes," said Marty.
Done with his own meal, Taper left enough cash on the counter to include a decent tip. As he stood up, the action caught the kids' attention.
"Professor! Professor Taper!" squealed Jenny.
"He's not a professor," Goof corrected her without much hope.
Larry Taper went over to stand by the booth. "And a felicitous encounter this is. I trust you have all read the chapter for tomorrow?"
"Absolutely. Most fascinating material since the back of a cereal box," Jenny said.
"Have a seat, Dr Taper?" offered the brunette Victoria. Even seen at such close range, her skin was flawless, her teeth perfect and her hair glowed with life. Her make-up was so minimal it was not even certain to any observer that was wearing any. "Not much night life out there for a sophisticated Big City man like yourself."
"Brookton's placidity has its charm," Taper said, pulling off a free wooden chair and sitting facing the booth. "The sirens and crashes and horn serenades of Manhattan is more pleasant by their absence."
"Yeah, it's a snoozy town," Marty admitted. "Soon as I graduate, I'm heading to Poughkeepsie for a job with some room for advancement."
"WHEN you graduate," Victoria said. "That's a ways off, my friend."
"Curiosity is my intellectual engine," Taper said. "Are your families all from Brookton?"
"Not mine," the brunette was prompt to say. "We're a branch of the Boston Chambers clan. My father moved here to manage some real estate."
"My old man settled here when he got out of the service," Marty said. "Met Mom and put down roots."
"Are you asking me?" Jenny asked. "We're from across the river. Wiltonville. My parents moved here when I was ten."
"My dad's a rolling stone," Goof put in with an edge to his voice. "Always looking to make his fortune. Mom and me don't hold out much hope of that happening."
Taper leaned back and crossed his left leg over his right knee. "I see. So none of you had family here, say, two decades ago?"
They all shook their heads and regarded him with some puzzlement. "Why do you ask?"
"Idle conversation, nothing of significance. I overhead your perplexity a minute ago. Uncle Jim, if these young folks order some subs and sugar-loaded carbonated water, put the damages on my tab, will you? I'll settle it tomorrow."
"Sure thing." The grunted reply sounded unhappy at the prospect.
Taper rose. "Tedious paperwork calls me, I'm afraid, and tomorrow's first class will arrive with frightening earliness. Enjoy yourselves." With a mock salute of two fingers to his temple, he turned and left the bistro as the kids sang out their thanks.
IV.
The next morning, having thought of something he wanted to check, Larry Taper drove to the community college in his rental car and arrived fifteen minutes early. A few other teachers were already preparing for the day as well, he nodded politely as he rushed to the one classroom where he would spend most of the day. There, on the shelf behind the desk, were assorted reference books and dictionaries, as well as eleven old yearbooks. Taper plopped down and began digging through them.
A few minutes later, he felt dazed. It was exactly what he had feared. Every volume, the four students appeared. Their names and faces remained unchanged over the years, even their hairstyles varied only slightly as fashions had changed.
How could it be that no one noticed this? He was used to indifference and even outright incompetence in college recordkeeping but this defied all explanation. Four individuals with the names unchanged, attending a two-year collegew for over two decades. It had to be Midnight War. There had to be gralic magick involved, which meant it was dangerous for anyone delving into it.
Exactly what he was looking for....
The first two classes went smoothly enough. They were covering the late Reconstruction Era and the rise of Jim Crow laws. Students asked the usual questions and he tried to give honest answers that weren't blunt enough to land him before the Board being censured. The best he could usually do would be to point genuinely curious students to books and authors where they could learn more.
It was the final class scheduled that day, beginning at two-fifteen, when Jenny and Victoria sauntered in. They were wearing the exact same clothing as the day before. They took their seats, seemed attentive enough and the class rolled by without complications. As the bell rang, Taper said, "That concludes our attempts to make rational sense out of actions fueled with irrational fears and hatred. Tomorrow, I want each of you to pen a short manifesto regarding your personal feelings on this topic, we may expect some heated discussion."
As everyone hurried from the room, the blonde and brunette who looked like differently colored twins approached him.
"Professor, I want to argue with you about the Jim Crow laws," Victoria began, holding three textbooks flat against her shapely bust with both hands. "It breaks my heart to think about that needless suffering."
"I'm not a professor, tragic though the admission is," he replied, exactly as he had responded the day before.
"Don't believe her, Dr Taper," interrupted Jenny with a smirk. "She's so used to every male in town following her around that she wants to flaunt her stuff to get your reaction."
Despite his misgivings, Taper smiled. "I acquiesced to moderate this class in late 19th Century American history as a favor to my compadre Norman, but my presence here will be fleeting. Friday terminates my subsitution." Repeating himself word for word was too easy for comfort.
"That's what I came to tell you," the blonde laughed. "You've increased my vocabulary a million times this week! I keep writing down words you use and then try to work them into conversation."
"Jennifer Anne, please control yourself," Victoria said.
"It's a large charge, a blast and a half," Jenny went on, disregarding her friend.
Larry Taper wanted to yell, 'What is WRONG with you two? Why did you just now repeat exactly what you said yesterday? Why smile or pout at the same moments?' But he restrained himself.
As he had expected, Marty and Goof turned up in the doorway, also dressed as they had been the previous day. "We're heading to devour those Sundaes," the redheaded youth called cheerfully.
Shaking his head, taking a breath, Taper asked, "You four have known each other a while, I take it?"
"I suppose," Victoria replied indifferently. "Sometimes it seems like we've been putting up with those two screwballs all our lives. Why?"
"Merely manufacturing idle chatter," Taper said. "Go and enjoy being young, it's a flower that blooms and fades in an afternoon."
Jenny Fletcher gifted him with a warm smile as the two girls sauntered from the room, rolling their hips a bit more than seemed necessary. Taper didn't notice. His mind was racing. He had a chilling certainty that he had stumbled upon somethng dark and outre. Back to his desk, he checked the yearbooks again and confirmed they had not changed. Should he show those baffling pages to the other staff? Ask them why they hadn't noticed the unaging students coming to this college year after year?
No. That might be the wrong approach. If everyone was affected by some spell, they would not see the photos and think he was acting strangely. He could mention this to no one. Still thumbing through the yearbooks, he got to the end of the earliest one and came to a page with a single photo and a heavy black border. That made him bend closer and examine it.
The photo showed a teenage girl with platinum-blonde hair done up in an elaborate swirl. She had a narrow feral face with oblique dark eyes and had smiled for the camera with tightly closed lips. The caption read "AGATHA CALVERONI, March 1, 1938 - May 13, 1956." Under that was a cursive phrase "Always in our hearts" It wasn't the tragedy of a hopeful life cut off so short that shook Taper, it was the girl's name. Calveroni.
In his two years as the Silver Skull, Larry Taper had learned of many threats to humanity which were not part of established folklore. Even regular civilians knew something about vampires or ghouls or werewolves. People interested in legends or the occult were aware of Skinwalkers, Trolls or even Snake men. But only those who had penetrated deeper into the hidden world of the Midnight War knew of the darker, more perilous menaces. The Darthim, the Nekrosim. The slumbering Sulla Chun. Cults like Those Who Remember and Red Sect. And the Calveron, 'the Ones Apart.'
V.
Taper dug into his memories. Originating in the Darthan Age, the Calveron began as Human sorcerers serving the vile Darthim but, as millennia passed, their use of magick changed them. They lived to be three or four hundred years old but did not retain youth and became physically frail. Bearing children was difficult and uncertain. Every century, their numbers dwindled.
Calveron did know and use Darthan spells but they largely relied on an innate ability to channel gralic force for various effects. They worshipped the Halarim, mostly Draldros and often used Invocation to call for help. Many Calveron posed as Romani or 'Gypsies' to cover up their natures.
It was asking to much of coincidence to explain all this. A young girl named 'Calveroni' dead the same year four of her classmates became enmeshed in some hellish loop that trapped them for decades. He glanced up at the wall clock. Three-eighteen, the library was open until six. Taper gathered his papers into his brief, replaced the yearbooks to the shelf and strode from the classroom as if late.
Heading across a concrete median to the next building, even in the pleasant dry sunlight, Larry Taper felt fear grip him. The urge to summon his protective armor, his shield and sword, was strong but he could not give himself away in public like that. Hurrying into the library, he began in the room where back issues of the local newspaper were stored in cabinets but those only went back a few years. Taper requested use of the microfilm viewer, obtained the film for the issues of 1956 and 1957 and got to work.
The date he had seen in that yearbook was fresh in his mind. May 13, 1956. Taper pulled up the image of the front page of the BROOKTON HERALD for that day and read of the death of Agatha Calveroni.
A car crash that wrapped a clunker of an old jalopy around an oak tree that barely noticed the collision. There had been five young people in that car, but only the passenger in front right seat went half way through the windshield and was effectively decapitated. The driver and the three riders in the rear suffered minor injuries.
The article stressed that drinking was not thought to have been involved, which made Taper suspicious that many must have thought alcohol was a factor. No tickets were issued nor charges pressed. The wholesome activities of Agatha Calveroni were described with glowing praise. Other occupants of the car were listed as the driver being Martin Melton, with passengers Victoria Chambers, Jennifer Fletcher and Wilber Quincy, even there listed with the nickname 'Goof' in quotes.
Taper leaned back, removed the film and shut down the viewer. He felt a curious rush of vigor, which he knew meant adrenaline was coursing through his body. Of course. Of course. Revenge of the Calveron, those secretive people dreaded for holding grudges to the next generation. Those four teenagers had been walking in circles for twenty years and no one could see it.
The rest of the day dragged mercilessly. Taper checked phone books going back a decade but no 'Calveroni' was listed. He walked up and down every side street in the town, trying to look casual but hoping to spot some clue. Even an uneasy chill on his spine would mean the presence of Midnight War phenomena but no luck. Taper went back to the boarding gas, got his rental car and drove to the gas station outside Brookton to fill his tank, then check the oil and tires. In case of trouble later, he wanted to be as prepared as possible.
Finally, more tired emotionally than physically, he returned to his room at the boarding house. For a few minutes, he made polite chat with the middle-aged couple who owned the place, then retired. Setting his alarm for a quarter to eight, making sure the door was locked, he sat down and summoned the gleaming helmet on to his head. He opened up his awareness to the whispers of his predecessors. For the next hour and a half, Larry Taper sought answers in the wisdom of those who had gone before him.
VI.
By eight, he had shaken off the advice and criticisms from previous Silver Skulls. A hot shower and shave, then changing into fresh trousers and a loose white button-front shirt where he kept the cuffs rolled back a turn helped his state of mind. Hearing the TV blaring some ridiculous 'juggle' sitcom from the front room, Taper instead slid neatly out his window into the night.
Entering the quiet bistro, he greeted Uncle Jim and received a sour reception. The old cook acted as if customers were an imposition, but he did whip up a tasty BLT with the lettuce crisp and the bacon chewy and the seeded rye toasted exactly right. A side order of hot hash browns and a tall tumbler of unsweetened iced tea left Taper feeling more sanquine than when he had entered.
Sure enough, the bell over the door jingled as the four teens breezed in, wearing the same clothes as the night before, taking the same seats like actors in a well-rehearsed play.
"Everything makes noise on that jalopy except the horn," laughed Jenny. She had thrown a baby blue Cardigan over her blouse as a concession to the night air. "Riding with Marty is an adventure."
"AWw, everything happens to me," mumbled the redheaded boy. With Goof beside him, he slid into a booth under the big picture window facing the street. The two girls positioned themselves opposite the boys and immediately began studying the menus.
Listening to the blithe repartee as it repeated itself word for word, a sharp pang stabbed Taper's chest. These kids were so cursed that they didn't even know it. Neither did anyone else in town. It was heartbreaking. It was said that the retribution of the Calveroni for any slight was cruel and extended, but this was worse than he had expected. Deja Vu with a vengeance.
"No parking up on Smooch Hill tonight, eh Marty?" teased the blonde girl. "Too bad. Victoria's wearing your favorite shirt, the one with only three buttons."
Rising, Taper walked over to their booth. "Excuse me," he began, "I have to bum you out. Bring you down, you might say. What can you tell about Agatha Calveroni?"
"Who?!" squeaked Jenny.
"Never heard of the name," added Victoria.
Marty opened his mouth, closed it again and finally managed, "It's a small town, professor. I think we'd remember anyone with a name like that."
"Try to remember," Taper insisted. "Listen. At two in the morning on May 13, 1956, a Chevy slammed into an oak out on Mill Town Road. One passenger was killed. Three others and the driver survived."
"I don't like this..." Victoria moaned. "It makes me feel dizzy. Dr Taper, please, go away. Leave us alone."
"True memories are often painful," said the Silver Skull. "We put up walls and draw curtains inside our brains but the memories eat their way through in any case."
Slapping his palms down on the table, breathing heavily, Marty said, "I can't stand it. It hurts. It's opening the doors to what should be forgotten. Get outta here!"
Speaking for the first time, Goof interrupted, "Widow Calderon lives out on Loana Lane, past the town limits. By the bridge over the creek, that's where you find her and her caregiver, Egan."
"Goof, no! Don't say anything more," begged the girls in unison.
"It's the only way," Goof replied. "The old lady never shows herself. She phones in orders to the supermarket and the pharmacy, and that hulk Egon drives into town for them. Her checks are always good."
"I'm on my way," Taper turned but he found Marty had seized his forearm.
"Doctor, it's not something we can talk about," the teen pleaded. "It hurts to even admit the horror. But good luck. God help you."
"I'll do my best," Taper replied, giving them as reassuring a wave as he could manage when leaving that bistro.
VI.
Whenever he traveled, Taper was sure to bring a thick manila envelope crammed with maps he had carefully assembled. If he was going to a new vicinity, getting a few appropriate maps was one of his first steps in preparation. He had memorized the roads to the north of Brookton to the extent he could have sketched them out himself.
More than once, this had saved him from arrest or even death. Knowing what side roads he could duck up if pursued, which roads could be connected by a hike through intervening woods, what roads led to a major highway for higher speed getaways. A career doing research for his publications sometimes served him well.
Forty minutes away from the center of town, rolling through the night on country roads with neither street lamps nor more than a lone house every few miles, put him in the right frame of mind for Midnight War activity. He owned a gun, a Colt .44 revolver but he seldom used it and it was locked in the glove compartment of this car. The armor and weapons of the Silver Skull were all he relied on.
More than thirty thousand years old, the black uniform and the other a
coutrements of the Skull had been created by normal Humans in the Darthan Age but then ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin themselves in approval. All the Silver Skull paraphenalia would appear on him with a mental summons or vanish if also sent away. No one knew where the uniform or helmet or sword went when not in use. Scholars of the occult debated and theorized but it remained a mystery.
Two years ago, when he had been within seconds of being murdered, the Skull uniform had appeared on Taper without warning. The circular shield had been strapped to his left forearm and the sword Chalcemar had been in his right hand. By trial and error, he had discovered what his new role entailed. Now he reveled in the excitement, the danger and the opportunity for true heroism. He would never give it up.
Crossing a short white-washed stone bridge over a nearly dried up creek, Taper slowed the car. He pulled over next to a dilapidated barn which sagged badly to one side. Ahead, at the end of a dirt road was a simple one-story house with one window glowing yellow. Taper squinted. It was a candle in the window, judging by the flicker.
Remembering the four teens who had been reliving each day over and over for the past two decades, Larry Taper marched steadily up the dirt road toward the house. Whatever entity or force had bestowed the role of the Silver Skull upon him, he felt only gratitude. It placed him in a position to undo past injustices and to protect the innocent from threats they did not even know existed.
As he neared the house, the front door creaked open and a big misshapen form squeezed through. This must be Egon, Taper decided. It was hard to guess what sort of traumatic injuries had left Egon with one shoulder five inches higher than the other, or with his head bent permanently to the right so that the vertebrae in his neck showed clearly even in the gloom. The man was raising a thick home-made candle in a ceramic holder, revealing a face which had been badly battered not too long ago. He was leaning heavily upon a thick cudgel which had been fashioned from an oak branch.
"Turn back..." called his hollow sepulchral voice. "There is still time."
"The traditional ominous platitudes," Taper answered without slowing his stride. "How often have I heard those lyrics?"
"Turn back while you can...."
"What, Deja Vu again?" laughed the Skull. "I swear, you're as predictable as those poor students trapped in the loop."
Behind the brute emerged a tiny withered form that seemed pitifully frail next to his bulk. The woman was bent almost horizontal, with the hump between her shoulders of advanced arthritis. The white hair was bound up under a nightcap, and the fragile body hidden beneath a quilted robe.
"The quintessential nightmare Hag, lacking only the black peaked hat and vehicular broom," Taper mocked. "Is it too much to expect the appearance of a black cat or perhaps a toad?"
"You trespass on land held by me and mine for generations," said the old woman. "We are within our rights to defend our persons."
Taper slowed just out of reach and held up his open hands. "Allow me to elucidate, beldame. You are a Witch of the classic variety, a Calveron in fact. A young damsel of your kindred, perhaps a great-granddaughter? perished unfortunately in an auto accident. That incident is twenty years gone."
"Stranger, take care."
"And ever since, you have exerted your sorcerous ability to keep unchanged the four young people that you blame. Quite an enchantment, I grudgingly admit. Not only does no one notice that the four remain nineteen, no one notices they enroll in the same classes year after year. People have their eyes skip over the yearbook picture, not take in the import of a driver's license. I imagine their parents may even be dead now, yet the four carry on as usual. Perhaps you pay their mortgages and utilities."
"Egon! Crack his skull for me, if you will!" the old woman cried.
Facing an enraged brute nearly twice his size, Taper scoffed. "So predictable."
The giant swung the cudgel up behind his own head and brought it down as if intending to drive Taper into the ground like a tent stake. In a shimmer, a round silver shield appeared on Taper's left arm to deflect the blow away. A sinister figure in tight black leather, wearing a skull-shaped helmet, hopped to one side.
"I gather diplomacy has failed," laughed the Silver Skull. He whipped the sword Chalcemar from its sheath and lunged forward on one bent knee to slide the point directly into Egon's chest. The big misshapen man sighed and dropped to his knees and then over onto one side.
The blade emerged easily, with no trace of blood on its blade. "Ah. The Judgement of Chalcemar," said the Skull. "It seems he was not entirely beyond redemption. Well, that's what the sword decided."
Outlined in the doorway by the dim light of that single candle, the Calveron straightened slightly. Around each claw-like hand, a red nimbus of unholy force crackled.
"You should realized that my sword, my shield, my helmet are all fashioned of steel, true. But it's steel that was forged incorporating numerous flecks of Ensalir. You know the word. Silver blessed by the Eldarin. I advise you to drop the fireworks you plan."
"I call on the Dread One on his throne in Fanedral, I call on Grelok beneath the waves and Margoth in his circle of flame!" The ancient witch thrust her hands forward, thin white-hot threads of malice crackled like lightning toward the Silver Skull... and rebounded off the round shield to strike the Hag directly. A single agonized scream rang out before the blackened corpse dropped to the dirt outside the doorway.
Lowering his shield and sheathing his sword, Taper sighed. "I gave you fair warning, my conscience is clear." He saw that the interior of the house was smoldering from the gralic force which had been redirected into it. The curtains caught fire. In another second, flames were spreading across the ceiling. "Prudence advises relocation," the Skull said.
Egon was far enough from the house not to be in any danger. The sword had deemed him not entirely evil, and Taper left it at that. He did not always agree with Chalcemar's decisions. Heading back down the dirt trail to where he had left his car, he shivered as the uniform and weapons blinked away to leave him back in his usual clothes.
Driving back into Brookton, he was surprised to find it was barely ten o'clock. At a stop sign, he spotted the four teenagers sitting on a green metal bench in front of a darkened store. Pulling up to the curb, he cranked down his window. "Say, isn't tomorrow a school day?"
"Oh! Dr Taper!" squeaked Jenny. All the kids hopped up and ran over to his car, trying to talk all at the same time until he motioned for Marty to start.
"We've had some kind of, well, revelation," the redhead explained. "What my grandmother called an epiphany. We've been stuck in a such a rut."
"We're young! We need to be crazy and reckless and go on road trips!" added Victoria, hugging herself in excitement. "Get out of this dead-end village."
"The strangest thing is that we all felt it at the same time," added Goof. "We were ready to go home same as always when Jenny started yelling at us."
"It was exactly like a heavy weight being lifted," Jenny put in. "Like chains falling off our shoulders or maybe a jail door swinging open. What do you think, Dr Taper? Isn't this so strange?"
"It's a strange world," the Silver Skull agreed.
7/9/2020
9/23/-9/25/1976
I.
Behind the rear wall of the boarding house crept a bizarre figure in a black leather uniform, with a silver helmet and a round shield strapped to his left arm. Sheathed at his left hip was a scabbard holding a three-foot-long straight sword. Listening, holding his breath, the Silver Skull satisfied himself no one was near enough to be aware of his return. He released his role. In a vague shimmer of blue light barely visible in the gloom, the uniform and weaponry vanished instantly.
Back in his regular clothes of dark slacks and green polo shirt, Dr Lawrence Taper tested the window to his room. It was still open an inch, as he had left it. Good. Sliding it up, Taper climbed nimbly through the opening into the darkened room beyond. Only after the venetian blinds were down and the curtains drawn did he reach behind him to thumb the wall switch which turned on the lamp by his desk.
At thirty-one, not quite six feet tall but in a good athletic trim, Taper seemed likeable if unremarkable to most people. He was glad he made this impression. Drawing attention to himself do easily would only make his crusade more difficult.
The clock on the desk read one-fifteen. Plenty of time to get enough sleep, now that he had prowled the streets of Brookton and found nothing but a slumbering little college town. Taper set the alarm for six-thirty. His suit for the next day was already laid out on the easy chair. Stripping down to T-shirt and shorts, he slipped between cold linen sheets and moaned with the comfort.
No way to tell what had drawn him here. The Skull helmet always drew him where he was needed. When he summoned the uniform and helmet and weapons, a tugging as if being pulled by a magnet impelled him to where the Midnight War was heating up. Tonight had not given any clues. Taper yawned, stretched his full length and let go. Tomorrow would be the first day of filling in for Norman. Maybe he would spot a bit of the darkness which always waited to break into the ordinary world. He shifted his position a little and was asleep without transition.
II.
"According to the timepiece affixed to the plasterboard, several minutes are available for banter," Taper said, leaning back against the desk at the head of the classroom. When he had agreed to fill in for his old friend Norman Newsome for a week, Taper had tried to curb his lifelong habit of using an unusual word in his speech when a normal one would have worked better. But he soon discovered the students enjoyed trying to follow his dialogue and saw it as a challenge.
"Dr Taper," began a student near the middle of the thirty desks. This was a soft-looking teen with glasses and two T-shirts worn, one over the other. "Mount Rushmore is in the news, what with the Bicentennial and all. Should we give that land back to the Sioux? It belonged to them before we carved their sacred mountain into a tourist attraction."
There was a murmur of approval from the class. Taper felt pleased that at least these teenagers were taking an interest in something beyond sex, drugs and loud music. "One might think so," he replied, "But complications arise from the fact that the Lakota themselves seized that land by force. They took it by waging war against the Crow and other tribes who were already residing there. So justice might demand that the Black Hills be bestowed upon the Crow, which would leave the Lakota still disgruntled."
"Wait, Dr Taper, did another Native American nation live there before the Crows then?" asked a different student without waiting to be recognized.
"Indubitably. Over millennia, ownership of various regions in North America vacillated many times, usually through violence. The popular misconception is that the tribes holding an area at the time of the European white settlers had been there for an inestimable period stretching back generations."
The bell rang as the clock struck three, and most of the students scrambled to reach the door as if the classroom had caught fire. Taper called out, "Tomorrow we'll cover Chapter Eleven in Wilkins. There may be a ten-question quiz, so take heed and prepare."
Only two students remained, two whose names he remembered. Victoria and Jenny. Taper was too ethical to ever consider an affair with anyone from the class, but he certainly would have been tempted if these two had dropped hints. Both nineteen, Victoria and Jenny were close to being identical in height, shape and facial features, all gorgeous with the perfect unstressed health of youth. Victoria had shiny black hair hanging straight down her back, while Jenny wore her butter-yellow blonde hair in a ponytail.
Although they looked like twins, they were not related.
"Professor, I want to argue with you about the Trail of Tears," Victoria began, holding three textbooks flat against her shapely bust with both hands. "It breaks my heart to think about that needless suffering."
"I'm not a professor, tragic though the admission is to my pride," he replied.
"Don't believe her, Dr Taper," interrupted Jenny with a smirk. "She's so used to every male in town following her around that she wants to flaunt her stuff to get your reaction."
Taper smiled. "I acquiesced to moderate this class in late 19th Century American history as a favor to my compadre Norman, but my presence here will be fleeting. Friday terminates my subsitution."
"That's what I came to tell you," the blonde laughed. "You've increased my vocabulary a million times this week! I keep writing down words you use and then try to work them into conversation."
"Jennifer Anne, please control yourself," Victoria said.
"It's a large charge, a blast and a half," Jenny went on, disregarding her friend. "I don't like it, I love it!"
In the doorway, two boys appeared and one whistled. He had the gawky appearance with long arms and legs of a colt, a sign he had not finished with growth spurts. The boy's brick-red hair and freckles made him distinctive enough that the sleeveless black sweater he always wore over his button-front shirts wasn't necessary to identify him as Marty Melton. His buddy behind him was less distinctive, his most noticeable feature being sleepy eyes which never seemed fully alert. Sometimes outside he affected a shapeless felt hat older than he was.
"We're heading to devour those Sundaes," Marty said. "It's my treat. If you gals would rather chat with the Teach, Goof and I can eat them ourselves."
"Coming, coming," replied Jenny, taking Victoria by one arm. Pulled along, the brunette bestowed a dazzling smile at Taper like a parting gift.
Left alone in the classroom, he exhaled with relief. Despite some experience giving lectures at the University, filling it at this small Midwest community college was quite a change of pace for him. The faculty had approved his coming here for Norman, not so much because of Taper's qualifications but because of the fame his pop-culture book had brought him. YOU'RE WRONG IF YOU BELIEVE... was on its second printing as a trade paperback and royalties for the moment gave him a base income that was enough to scrape by on.
Gathering up the papers from the desk to put them away in his briefcase, Larry Taper shook his head ruefully at the two girls who stayed everyday to flirt. He could see why some professors succumbed to temptation. His own double life as the Silver Skull kept him in enough trouble. After Friday, he wanted to head to the Southwest where Preincarnation activity had been reported lately.
Erasing his notes from the blackboard behind the teaching desk, Taper smiled as he thought about the two boys who were always seen with Victoria and Jenny. He didn't know if Marty was dating first one and then the other to try to keep both available, or if the girls were playing a tease game with him. The one called Goof was invariably around but stayed out of the triangle. Kids. The more things changed, the more they stayed as they had ever been.
Glancing up at the clock, Taper was relieved to remember he was done for the day. Four classes and a meeting in the lounge with the other teachers for lunch had made a full day. He dropped back into the swivel chair behind the desk and noticed a row of the college's yearbook THE PRISM on a shelf near at hand. The oldest one was from 1957 and he reached out to bring it in front of him. For the next ten minutes, he thumbed through the black and white photos. The hair and clothing styles had varied so wildly since then, but the college's rooms and props had hardly changed.
Then, glancing through the senior pictures at the end of the yearbook, Larry Taper froze motionless. He felt the familiar thrill of the inexplicable. There. MARTIN R. MELTON, Music Club and Chess Club. The short curly hair, the freckled face with its snub nose and full cheeks was identical. Even the sleeveless sweater over a dress shirt was the same. This was the same kid that he had seen in the halls and doorways of the college every day this week.
But the yearbook was twenty years old.
Thumbing quickly through the glossy but yellowing pages, Taper found the other three. Victoria Chambers, Jennifer Fletcher, even Wilber Quincy, listed with the nickname Goof in quotes. All completely recognizable down to tiny details. One such identical face might have been a parent of the current student, a Senior to the modern Junior. But all four...? Taper's pulse had sped up. This smacked of Midnight War shenanigans.
Taper made sure he left the classroom as tidy as he had found it. Picking up his white topcoat from where he had draped it over his chair, he went out into the hall to say a few polite words to the other teachers who were smoking in the lounge before leaving. Suddenly there was a lot to find out about the situation in Brookton.
III.
In the boarding house room he had rented for the week, Larry Taper made sure the curtains were drawn and the door locked. He had removed his tie and unfastened the top button on his shirt before sitting on the edge of the board-hard mattress of his bed. Now to dig through memories of those who had gone before. The air shimmered blue and Taper's head was covered by a silver helmet crafted in the shape of an unsmiling Human skull. He could summon part or all of his accoutrements at will. Many times in the last year, the shield or the sword had appeared barely in time to protect him from attack.
When he wore the Skull helmet and let go of his conscious mind, whispers began to echo through his head. The voices of previous wearers of the helm floated through his mind. Taper felt like he was wandering through a darkened room and overhearing snatches of conversation. He listened for anything relevant. After a few minutes, the voices of his predecessors began speaking of their experiences with imposters, masters of disguise, Doppelgangers, even an encounter with Infiltrators from Fanedral. Taper drifted through the memories of hundreds of men who had been the Silver Skull before him.
The mundane jangle of an alarm clock snapped him out of it. Reaching over without looking, Taper pressed the silence button. A second later, he unbuckled the chin strap and lifted the gleaming helmet up off his head. It was too easy to get lost in the memories of others. When he had first become the Skull, he had spent thirty straight hours wandering through the voices and had come out of it with a frantic need to urinate and the realization he had lost more than a day. Now he relied on the clock to bring him back.
It was eight at night. He had learned nothing useful about this town or four unaging teenagers. An audible rumble from his stomach brought him to practical matters. Taper went into the small attached bathroom and scrubbed his hands and face with hot soapy. He changed his white dress shirt for a dark green pullover and felt freshened up enough to go out. From the nightstand, he scooped up wallet and jacknife and some loose bills, then stepped out into the hall to see none of the other tenants.
The streets of Brookton were quiet this time of night, with only an infrequent car rolling by. He strolled down the sidewalk of the residential area, seeing the flickering blue light of televisions in most windows. From one house came the booming beat of a rock band he didn't recognize. It was a crisp clear September night and Taper felt he could walk contentedly for hours.
On the corner of the main street prosaically called 'Main Street,' sat UNCLE JIM'S, a general purpose eatery. There was a wide assortment of ice cream flavors, as well as a grill. Taper had eaten here a few times already in the three days he had been here. Two posters hung on the walls, a kitten dangling from a branch with the caption HANG IN THERE and a charming portrait of a busty TV star grinning to show every tooth she had. Selecting a round leather-covered stool at the counter, he greeted the sullen old man in the greasy apron.
"Salutations, chef," he said. "Nothing elaborate for my cuisine, merely the ubiquitous cheeseburger, French Fries and a black coffee unweakened by milk or sugar. A thick slab of apple pie should end the repast with grace, don't you think?"
"Yeah, sure." Uncle Jim wiped his hands on a relatively clean rag hanging off a counter hook and set to work. The sizzle of the meat on the hot grill made Taper salivate, reminding him how hungry he was.
As soon as the plate was set in front of him, he dabbed a little catsup to one side and set to work.
"Of course your rustbucket didn't make it here," came a girl's voice from the doorway. With a mouthful of French fries to chew, Taper turned his head as the four students bustled in.
"Everything makes noise on that jalopy except the horn," laughed Jenny. She had thrown a baby blue Cardigan over her blouse as a concession to the night air. "Riding with Marty is an adventure."
"AWw, everything happens to me," mumbled the redheaded boy. With Goof beside him, he slid into a booth under the big picture window facing the street. The two girls positioned themselves opposite the boys and immediately began studying the menus.
So far, Taper thought they had not noticed him. He remained still, finishing the last of the cheeseburger and not looking their way. Their excited voices carried clear as bells.
"No parking up on Smooch Hill tonight, eh Marty?" teased the blonde. "Too bad. Victoria's swearing the shirt with only three buttons."
"Jenny, HONESTLY, settle down." The brunette folded the menu and sighed. "I don't suppose any gentlemen are present to offer me a meatball sub?"
"That sure wouldn't be me," Goof replied blandly.
"Um, well, I suppose I could cover you gals for a couple of subs and two Cokes. My old man paid me for mowing the lawn but he's tight as a new pair of shoes," said Marty.
Done with his own meal, Taper left enough cash on the counter to include a decent tip. As he stood up, the action caught the kids' attention.
"Professor! Professor Taper!" squealed Jenny.
"He's not a professor," Goof corrected her without much hope.
Larry Taper went over to stand by the booth. "And a felicitous encounter this is. I trust you have all read the chapter for tomorrow?"
"Absolutely. Most fascinating material since the back of a cereal box," Jenny said.
"Have a seat, Dr Taper?" offered the brunette Victoria. Even seen at such close range, her skin was flawless, her teeth perfect and her hair glowed with life. Her make-up was so minimal it was not even certain to any observer that was wearing any. "Not much night life out there for a sophisticated Big City man like yourself."
"Brookton's placidity has its charm," Taper said, pulling off a free wooden chair and sitting facing the booth. "The sirens and crashes and horn serenades of Manhattan is more pleasant by their absence."
"Yeah, it's a snoozy town," Marty admitted. "Soon as I graduate, I'm heading to Poughkeepsie for a job with some room for advancement."
"WHEN you graduate," Victoria said. "That's a ways off, my friend."
"Curiosity is my intellectual engine," Taper said. "Are your families all from Brookton?"
"Not mine," the brunette was prompt to say. "We're a branch of the Boston Chambers clan. My father moved here to manage some real estate."
"My old man settled here when he got out of the service," Marty said. "Met Mom and put down roots."
"Are you asking me?" Jenny asked. "We're from across the river. Wiltonville. My parents moved here when I was ten."
"My dad's a rolling stone," Goof put in with an edge to his voice. "Always looking to make his fortune. Mom and me don't hold out much hope of that happening."
Taper leaned back and crossed his left leg over his right knee. "I see. So none of you had family here, say, two decades ago?"
They all shook their heads and regarded him with some puzzlement. "Why do you ask?"
"Idle conversation, nothing of significance. I overhead your perplexity a minute ago. Uncle Jim, if these young folks order some subs and sugar-loaded carbonated water, put the damages on my tab, will you? I'll settle it tomorrow."
"Sure thing." The grunted reply sounded unhappy at the prospect.
Taper rose. "Tedious paperwork calls me, I'm afraid, and tomorrow's first class will arrive with frightening earliness. Enjoy yourselves." With a mock salute of two fingers to his temple, he turned and left the bistro as the kids sang out their thanks.
IV.
The next morning, having thought of something he wanted to check, Larry Taper drove to the community college in his rental car and arrived fifteen minutes early. A few other teachers were already preparing for the day as well, he nodded politely as he rushed to the one classroom where he would spend most of the day. There, on the shelf behind the desk, were assorted reference books and dictionaries, as well as eleven old yearbooks. Taper plopped down and began digging through them.
A few minutes later, he felt dazed. It was exactly what he had feared. Every volume, the four students appeared. Their names and faces remained unchanged over the years, even their hairstyles varied only slightly as fashions had changed.
How could it be that no one noticed this? He was used to indifference and even outright incompetence in college recordkeeping but this defied all explanation. Four individuals with the names unchanged, attending a two-year collegew for over two decades. It had to be Midnight War. There had to be gralic magick involved, which meant it was dangerous for anyone delving into it.
Exactly what he was looking for....
The first two classes went smoothly enough. They were covering the late Reconstruction Era and the rise of Jim Crow laws. Students asked the usual questions and he tried to give honest answers that weren't blunt enough to land him before the Board being censured. The best he could usually do would be to point genuinely curious students to books and authors where they could learn more.
It was the final class scheduled that day, beginning at two-fifteen, when Jenny and Victoria sauntered in. They were wearing the exact same clothing as the day before. They took their seats, seemed attentive enough and the class rolled by without complications. As the bell rang, Taper said, "That concludes our attempts to make rational sense out of actions fueled with irrational fears and hatred. Tomorrow, I want each of you to pen a short manifesto regarding your personal feelings on this topic, we may expect some heated discussion."
As everyone hurried from the room, the blonde and brunette who looked like differently colored twins approached him.
"Professor, I want to argue with you about the Jim Crow laws," Victoria began, holding three textbooks flat against her shapely bust with both hands. "It breaks my heart to think about that needless suffering."
"I'm not a professor, tragic though the admission is," he replied, exactly as he had responded the day before.
"Don't believe her, Dr Taper," interrupted Jenny with a smirk. "She's so used to every male in town following her around that she wants to flaunt her stuff to get your reaction."
Despite his misgivings, Taper smiled. "I acquiesced to moderate this class in late 19th Century American history as a favor to my compadre Norman, but my presence here will be fleeting. Friday terminates my subsitution." Repeating himself word for word was too easy for comfort.
"That's what I came to tell you," the blonde laughed. "You've increased my vocabulary a million times this week! I keep writing down words you use and then try to work them into conversation."
"Jennifer Anne, please control yourself," Victoria said.
"It's a large charge, a blast and a half," Jenny went on, disregarding her friend.
Larry Taper wanted to yell, 'What is WRONG with you two? Why did you just now repeat exactly what you said yesterday? Why smile or pout at the same moments?' But he restrained himself.
As he had expected, Marty and Goof turned up in the doorway, also dressed as they had been the previous day. "We're heading to devour those Sundaes," the redheaded youth called cheerfully.
Shaking his head, taking a breath, Taper asked, "You four have known each other a while, I take it?"
"I suppose," Victoria replied indifferently. "Sometimes it seems like we've been putting up with those two screwballs all our lives. Why?"
"Merely manufacturing idle chatter," Taper said. "Go and enjoy being young, it's a flower that blooms and fades in an afternoon."
Jenny Fletcher gifted him with a warm smile as the two girls sauntered from the room, rolling their hips a bit more than seemed necessary. Taper didn't notice. His mind was racing. He had a chilling certainty that he had stumbled upon somethng dark and outre. Back to his desk, he checked the yearbooks again and confirmed they had not changed. Should he show those baffling pages to the other staff? Ask them why they hadn't noticed the unaging students coming to this college year after year?
No. That might be the wrong approach. If everyone was affected by some spell, they would not see the photos and think he was acting strangely. He could mention this to no one. Still thumbing through the yearbooks, he got to the end of the earliest one and came to a page with a single photo and a heavy black border. That made him bend closer and examine it.
The photo showed a teenage girl with platinum-blonde hair done up in an elaborate swirl. She had a narrow feral face with oblique dark eyes and had smiled for the camera with tightly closed lips. The caption read "AGATHA CALVERONI, March 1, 1938 - May 13, 1956." Under that was a cursive phrase "Always in our hearts" It wasn't the tragedy of a hopeful life cut off so short that shook Taper, it was the girl's name. Calveroni.
In his two years as the Silver Skull, Larry Taper had learned of many threats to humanity which were not part of established folklore. Even regular civilians knew something about vampires or ghouls or werewolves. People interested in legends or the occult were aware of Skinwalkers, Trolls or even Snake men. But only those who had penetrated deeper into the hidden world of the Midnight War knew of the darker, more perilous menaces. The Darthim, the Nekrosim. The slumbering Sulla Chun. Cults like Those Who Remember and Red Sect. And the Calveron, 'the Ones Apart.'
V.
Taper dug into his memories. Originating in the Darthan Age, the Calveron began as Human sorcerers serving the vile Darthim but, as millennia passed, their use of magick changed them. They lived to be three or four hundred years old but did not retain youth and became physically frail. Bearing children was difficult and uncertain. Every century, their numbers dwindled.
Calveron did know and use Darthan spells but they largely relied on an innate ability to channel gralic force for various effects. They worshipped the Halarim, mostly Draldros and often used Invocation to call for help. Many Calveron posed as Romani or 'Gypsies' to cover up their natures.
It was asking to much of coincidence to explain all this. A young girl named 'Calveroni' dead the same year four of her classmates became enmeshed in some hellish loop that trapped them for decades. He glanced up at the wall clock. Three-eighteen, the library was open until six. Taper gathered his papers into his brief, replaced the yearbooks to the shelf and strode from the classroom as if late.
Heading across a concrete median to the next building, even in the pleasant dry sunlight, Larry Taper felt fear grip him. The urge to summon his protective armor, his shield and sword, was strong but he could not give himself away in public like that. Hurrying into the library, he began in the room where back issues of the local newspaper were stored in cabinets but those only went back a few years. Taper requested use of the microfilm viewer, obtained the film for the issues of 1956 and 1957 and got to work.
The date he had seen in that yearbook was fresh in his mind. May 13, 1956. Taper pulled up the image of the front page of the BROOKTON HERALD for that day and read of the death of Agatha Calveroni.
A car crash that wrapped a clunker of an old jalopy around an oak tree that barely noticed the collision. There had been five young people in that car, but only the passenger in front right seat went half way through the windshield and was effectively decapitated. The driver and the three riders in the rear suffered minor injuries.
The article stressed that drinking was not thought to have been involved, which made Taper suspicious that many must have thought alcohol was a factor. No tickets were issued nor charges pressed. The wholesome activities of Agatha Calveroni were described with glowing praise. Other occupants of the car were listed as the driver being Martin Melton, with passengers Victoria Chambers, Jennifer Fletcher and Wilber Quincy, even there listed with the nickname 'Goof' in quotes.
Taper leaned back, removed the film and shut down the viewer. He felt a curious rush of vigor, which he knew meant adrenaline was coursing through his body. Of course. Of course. Revenge of the Calveron, those secretive people dreaded for holding grudges to the next generation. Those four teenagers had been walking in circles for twenty years and no one could see it.
The rest of the day dragged mercilessly. Taper checked phone books going back a decade but no 'Calveroni' was listed. He walked up and down every side street in the town, trying to look casual but hoping to spot some clue. Even an uneasy chill on his spine would mean the presence of Midnight War phenomena but no luck. Taper went back to the boarding gas, got his rental car and drove to the gas station outside Brookton to fill his tank, then check the oil and tires. In case of trouble later, he wanted to be as prepared as possible.
Finally, more tired emotionally than physically, he returned to his room at the boarding house. For a few minutes, he made polite chat with the middle-aged couple who owned the place, then retired. Setting his alarm for a quarter to eight, making sure the door was locked, he sat down and summoned the gleaming helmet on to his head. He opened up his awareness to the whispers of his predecessors. For the next hour and a half, Larry Taper sought answers in the wisdom of those who had gone before him.
VI.
By eight, he had shaken off the advice and criticisms from previous Silver Skulls. A hot shower and shave, then changing into fresh trousers and a loose white button-front shirt where he kept the cuffs rolled back a turn helped his state of mind. Hearing the TV blaring some ridiculous 'juggle' sitcom from the front room, Taper instead slid neatly out his window into the night.
Entering the quiet bistro, he greeted Uncle Jim and received a sour reception. The old cook acted as if customers were an imposition, but he did whip up a tasty BLT with the lettuce crisp and the bacon chewy and the seeded rye toasted exactly right. A side order of hot hash browns and a tall tumbler of unsweetened iced tea left Taper feeling more sanquine than when he had entered.
Sure enough, the bell over the door jingled as the four teens breezed in, wearing the same clothes as the night before, taking the same seats like actors in a well-rehearsed play.
"Everything makes noise on that jalopy except the horn," laughed Jenny. She had thrown a baby blue Cardigan over her blouse as a concession to the night air. "Riding with Marty is an adventure."
"AWw, everything happens to me," mumbled the redheaded boy. With Goof beside him, he slid into a booth under the big picture window facing the street. The two girls positioned themselves opposite the boys and immediately began studying the menus.
Listening to the blithe repartee as it repeated itself word for word, a sharp pang stabbed Taper's chest. These kids were so cursed that they didn't even know it. Neither did anyone else in town. It was heartbreaking. It was said that the retribution of the Calveroni for any slight was cruel and extended, but this was worse than he had expected. Deja Vu with a vengeance.
"No parking up on Smooch Hill tonight, eh Marty?" teased the blonde girl. "Too bad. Victoria's wearing your favorite shirt, the one with only three buttons."
Rising, Taper walked over to their booth. "Excuse me," he began, "I have to bum you out. Bring you down, you might say. What can you tell about Agatha Calveroni?"
"Who?!" squeaked Jenny.
"Never heard of the name," added Victoria.
Marty opened his mouth, closed it again and finally managed, "It's a small town, professor. I think we'd remember anyone with a name like that."
"Try to remember," Taper insisted. "Listen. At two in the morning on May 13, 1956, a Chevy slammed into an oak out on Mill Town Road. One passenger was killed. Three others and the driver survived."
"I don't like this..." Victoria moaned. "It makes me feel dizzy. Dr Taper, please, go away. Leave us alone."
"True memories are often painful," said the Silver Skull. "We put up walls and draw curtains inside our brains but the memories eat their way through in any case."
Slapping his palms down on the table, breathing heavily, Marty said, "I can't stand it. It hurts. It's opening the doors to what should be forgotten. Get outta here!"
Speaking for the first time, Goof interrupted, "Widow Calderon lives out on Loana Lane, past the town limits. By the bridge over the creek, that's where you find her and her caregiver, Egan."
"Goof, no! Don't say anything more," begged the girls in unison.
"It's the only way," Goof replied. "The old lady never shows herself. She phones in orders to the supermarket and the pharmacy, and that hulk Egon drives into town for them. Her checks are always good."
"I'm on my way," Taper turned but he found Marty had seized his forearm.
"Doctor, it's not something we can talk about," the teen pleaded. "It hurts to even admit the horror. But good luck. God help you."
"I'll do my best," Taper replied, giving them as reassuring a wave as he could manage when leaving that bistro.
VI.
Whenever he traveled, Taper was sure to bring a thick manila envelope crammed with maps he had carefully assembled. If he was going to a new vicinity, getting a few appropriate maps was one of his first steps in preparation. He had memorized the roads to the north of Brookton to the extent he could have sketched them out himself.
More than once, this had saved him from arrest or even death. Knowing what side roads he could duck up if pursued, which roads could be connected by a hike through intervening woods, what roads led to a major highway for higher speed getaways. A career doing research for his publications sometimes served him well.
Forty minutes away from the center of town, rolling through the night on country roads with neither street lamps nor more than a lone house every few miles, put him in the right frame of mind for Midnight War activity. He owned a gun, a Colt .44 revolver but he seldom used it and it was locked in the glove compartment of this car. The armor and weapons of the Silver Skull were all he relied on.
More than thirty thousand years old, the black uniform and the other a
coutrements of the Skull had been created by normal Humans in the Darthan Age but then ensorcelled by the immortal Eldarin themselves in approval. All the Silver Skull paraphenalia would appear on him with a mental summons or vanish if also sent away. No one knew where the uniform or helmet or sword went when not in use. Scholars of the occult debated and theorized but it remained a mystery.
Two years ago, when he had been within seconds of being murdered, the Skull uniform had appeared on Taper without warning. The circular shield had been strapped to his left forearm and the sword Chalcemar had been in his right hand. By trial and error, he had discovered what his new role entailed. Now he reveled in the excitement, the danger and the opportunity for true heroism. He would never give it up.
Crossing a short white-washed stone bridge over a nearly dried up creek, Taper slowed the car. He pulled over next to a dilapidated barn which sagged badly to one side. Ahead, at the end of a dirt road was a simple one-story house with one window glowing yellow. Taper squinted. It was a candle in the window, judging by the flicker.
Remembering the four teens who had been reliving each day over and over for the past two decades, Larry Taper marched steadily up the dirt road toward the house. Whatever entity or force had bestowed the role of the Silver Skull upon him, he felt only gratitude. It placed him in a position to undo past injustices and to protect the innocent from threats they did not even know existed.
As he neared the house, the front door creaked open and a big misshapen form squeezed through. This must be Egon, Taper decided. It was hard to guess what sort of traumatic injuries had left Egon with one shoulder five inches higher than the other, or with his head bent permanently to the right so that the vertebrae in his neck showed clearly even in the gloom. The man was raising a thick home-made candle in a ceramic holder, revealing a face which had been badly battered not too long ago. He was leaning heavily upon a thick cudgel which had been fashioned from an oak branch.
"Turn back..." called his hollow sepulchral voice. "There is still time."
"The traditional ominous platitudes," Taper answered without slowing his stride. "How often have I heard those lyrics?"
"Turn back while you can...."
"What, Deja Vu again?" laughed the Skull. "I swear, you're as predictable as those poor students trapped in the loop."
Behind the brute emerged a tiny withered form that seemed pitifully frail next to his bulk. The woman was bent almost horizontal, with the hump between her shoulders of advanced arthritis. The white hair was bound up under a nightcap, and the fragile body hidden beneath a quilted robe.
"The quintessential nightmare Hag, lacking only the black peaked hat and vehicular broom," Taper mocked. "Is it too much to expect the appearance of a black cat or perhaps a toad?"
"You trespass on land held by me and mine for generations," said the old woman. "We are within our rights to defend our persons."
Taper slowed just out of reach and held up his open hands. "Allow me to elucidate, beldame. You are a Witch of the classic variety, a Calveron in fact. A young damsel of your kindred, perhaps a great-granddaughter? perished unfortunately in an auto accident. That incident is twenty years gone."
"Stranger, take care."
"And ever since, you have exerted your sorcerous ability to keep unchanged the four young people that you blame. Quite an enchantment, I grudgingly admit. Not only does no one notice that the four remain nineteen, no one notices they enroll in the same classes year after year. People have their eyes skip over the yearbook picture, not take in the import of a driver's license. I imagine their parents may even be dead now, yet the four carry on as usual. Perhaps you pay their mortgages and utilities."
"Egon! Crack his skull for me, if you will!" the old woman cried.
Facing an enraged brute nearly twice his size, Taper scoffed. "So predictable."
The giant swung the cudgel up behind his own head and brought it down as if intending to drive Taper into the ground like a tent stake. In a shimmer, a round silver shield appeared on Taper's left arm to deflect the blow away. A sinister figure in tight black leather, wearing a skull-shaped helmet, hopped to one side.
"I gather diplomacy has failed," laughed the Silver Skull. He whipped the sword Chalcemar from its sheath and lunged forward on one bent knee to slide the point directly into Egon's chest. The big misshapen man sighed and dropped to his knees and then over onto one side.
The blade emerged easily, with no trace of blood on its blade. "Ah. The Judgement of Chalcemar," said the Skull. "It seems he was not entirely beyond redemption. Well, that's what the sword decided."
Outlined in the doorway by the dim light of that single candle, the Calveron straightened slightly. Around each claw-like hand, a red nimbus of unholy force crackled.
"You should realized that my sword, my shield, my helmet are all fashioned of steel, true. But it's steel that was forged incorporating numerous flecks of Ensalir. You know the word. Silver blessed by the Eldarin. I advise you to drop the fireworks you plan."
"I call on the Dread One on his throne in Fanedral, I call on Grelok beneath the waves and Margoth in his circle of flame!" The ancient witch thrust her hands forward, thin white-hot threads of malice crackled like lightning toward the Silver Skull... and rebounded off the round shield to strike the Hag directly. A single agonized scream rang out before the blackened corpse dropped to the dirt outside the doorway.
Lowering his shield and sheathing his sword, Taper sighed. "I gave you fair warning, my conscience is clear." He saw that the interior of the house was smoldering from the gralic force which had been redirected into it. The curtains caught fire. In another second, flames were spreading across the ceiling. "Prudence advises relocation," the Skull said.
Egon was far enough from the house not to be in any danger. The sword had deemed him not entirely evil, and Taper left it at that. He did not always agree with Chalcemar's decisions. Heading back down the dirt trail to where he had left his car, he shivered as the uniform and weapons blinked away to leave him back in his usual clothes.
Driving back into Brookton, he was surprised to find it was barely ten o'clock. At a stop sign, he spotted the four teenagers sitting on a green metal bench in front of a darkened store. Pulling up to the curb, he cranked down his window. "Say, isn't tomorrow a school day?"
"Oh! Dr Taper!" squeaked Jenny. All the kids hopped up and ran over to his car, trying to talk all at the same time until he motioned for Marty to start.
"We've had some kind of, well, revelation," the redhead explained. "What my grandmother called an epiphany. We've been stuck in a such a rut."
"We're young! We need to be crazy and reckless and go on road trips!" added Victoria, hugging herself in excitement. "Get out of this dead-end village."
"The strangest thing is that we all felt it at the same time," added Goof. "We were ready to go home same as always when Jenny started yelling at us."
"It was exactly like a heavy weight being lifted," Jenny put in. "Like chains falling off our shoulders or maybe a jail door swinging open. What do you think, Dr Taper? Isn't this so strange?"
"It's a strange world," the Silver Skull agreed.
7/9/2020
