Otherworld by Jared C. Wilson Page A

subconsciously.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œAnybody check them out?”
    â€œYeah. Lane drove out to each site. He said he didn’t see anything. He took down some statements. Also, there was a camera crew here.”
    â€œCamera crew? What for?”
    â€œNot here at the station, but here in town. They’re from some TV show. Lane said they followed him around from site to site.”
    Graham nodded knowingly and smiled. He wondered at first why the townspeople had waited so long to make their calls, but he realized that the TV show’s presence in Trumbull was too much for some to bear. They, like Pops Dickey, wanted their day in the spotlight. Tired of anticipating the reality shows no one knew lay on the television horizon, they wanted their fifteen minutes now.
    â€œAnybody get any photos of these lights?” he asked.
    Kelly only smirked.
    â€œOf course not,” he said, and he smiled back at her.
    â€œLane’s reports are out here on the table if you’d like to look at them.” She was still smiling.
    â€œNo, that’s all right.” He was still smiling too.
    Kelly exited, closing the door behind her. Graham settled deep into his chair and thought about the events of the past week. What should have been a simple case of one unknown person killing a local farmer’s cow had blossomed into a national media event, and all thanks to one veterinarian. One crazy veterinarian who had read too many science-fiction novels and had seen one too many alien autopsy videos. The panel of experts who investigated the crime did nothing to squelch the publicity, despite their vague conclusions, the obtuseness of which, in fact, only provoked more crackpot theories to fill in the gaps. The people of Trumbull wanted flying saucers and nothing else. Just like the urban myths of the inner cities (alligators in the sewer or a ghostly woman who appears when you say “Bloody Mary” five times into a mirror in a dark room) or the stories of sea serpents from sailors who had spent too much time on the ocean, the bored people of Trumbull (schoolteachers and widows and waitresses and retirees and, of course, farmers) shared an imagination collective enough that it eventually became truth. All of the hoopla disappointed Graham. He had hoped his fellow citizens would cling to their better judgment, a practicality and a simple empiricism common in rural folk. He didn’t like the eagerness with which they had lapped up the media attention. It sickened him, all of this strange talk diverting people’s attention away from the concerns of real life.
    Â 
    Mike read Dr. Bering’s article four times, and each time it made more sense. He was sure there was a lot of data left out. Bering alluded to many theories and studies and researchers’ findings without fully elaborating on them all. The magazine the article appeared in, Science Quest , was intended for mass audiences, not scholars or the intellectual elite. Mike assumed Bering was writing for people like himself—people who would have great difficulty understanding complex physics without the proper education, yet who had, as hobbyists perhaps, studied up enough to both expect and appreciate the supporting science. There was enough advanced material to make Bering’s claims appear credible, and Mike decided he’d like to meet with him to discuss the matter further. In their original meeting, Mike was intrigued enough by the theories to take interest, but he had been dismissive, considering them overly speculative despite the mental amusement they offered. But subsequent readings of the article hinted at something deeper. At times, Bering’s writing seemed to be not hypothetical posturing but the ideas of a man who knew of what he was speaking. A man who knew his subject very well. He moved from theories and “research suggests” to making bold statements as if he had firsthand experience.
    Mike combed the