by Dan Dillard
“Not in there. Not in there. No, no, no,” a voice said.
It came from behind him. Sam turned toward the sound and found the man.
He must’ve been standing behind one of the double doors, Sam thought.
An easy enough trick.
“Talk to me,” Sam said. “What do you want?”
The man bounced and conducted, shuffled and shook.
“You need my help. I want to help, help. I want. I want.”
Sam’s belly boiled. Lack of sleep and having his child in the ER was enough. This was too much.
“Who are you?” he said. “Why are you following me?”
“Who am I? Jonas Salk. Peter Falk.”
Sam grimaced. “What?”
“J-Jonas Falk. Falk is my name. My name.”
“Jonas? That’s just great. I’m Sam, Jonas.” Sam took three steps toward the man and growled, “Now, why are you stalking me?”
“Not stalking. Stalking. Not you,” he said. “Stalking the wicked.”
“You don’t make any sense.”
“The wicked. I’m following it. I lost it and now I’m following, following.”
Sam shook his head. “Waste of goddamn time. Shit.”
“The baby boy. The baby. Is it here? It is. It is,” Jonas said.
His face was calm, his words sounded better, not so agitated as he had been the day before. He still danced like a toddler listening to music.
Meds, Sam thought. He’s medicated.
“What makes you think I even have a baby?”
Jonas cocked his head, eyeing Sam. He stepped out of the corner and started to shift back and forth again.
“No need to fear me. Fear me,” he said. “I’m not fear. Not afraid. I can help. Fear the wicked. The wicked.”
His eyes went blank in a distant way. They were old eyes, eyes that had seen too much, gray in color and misted over with experience and cataracts. “Wicked,” he said again.
“You’re not making sense, Mr. Falk. What is it you know about my family?”
Jonas looked at him, his concentration obvious.
“Sam. Sam. Sam. The baby is sick. Sick, yes? Cries. Does he cry for no reason reason?”
Sam felt his jaw hinge go loose, his eyes mist up, and his throat tighten as if he might cry.
“How could you know that?” Sam said.
“It’s my fault,” Jonas said. “Mine mine. Well it was mine. So many of us have them. So many so many.”
He tapped his middle fingers to his thumbs like pincers.
“I got rid of mine. Pushed out my wicked, I did. Away. It’s free to roam, roam…and now it’s with you. I feel it’s there, there at your place, place. Watched it crawl over your house, house. It was looking for a way in. Way in. Found it, I fear. Fear.”
“It? What? What’s looking for a way in?” Sam said.
His patience was thin enough to read through. He regretted stopping Jonas, regretted questioning him, but couldn’t take his eyes off the old man. Couldn’t not listen to him. Couldn’t ignore the tangible fear in the man’s intangible words. In desperation, Sam put his hand on Jonas’s shoulder and gritted his teeth.
“What are you talking about, old man?” Sam said.
In a moment of clarity, his eyes darkening, his hands calm…his rocking ceased, just like before in Sam’s driveway, or earlier that evening in the rain.
“Watching the wicked,” Jonas said. “I’ve been watching it hunt. It wants your baby.”
“Why?”
Jonas shuddered. He looked around as if someone or thing might be listening in.
“Nightmare,” he said. His body, unable to be still any longer, began to dance again. “Night. Night nightmare. Worse.”
The shifting increased, and his hands started to conduct the invisible band once more. Sam shook his head.
“You’re saying my kid has nightmares? This is all nightmares?”
“Hunted hunted,” Jonas said. “Hunted by a night terror terror. A wicked.”
“A wicked?” he said, not believing the words had come from his own mouth.
He felt like he was having a conversation with a child, talking about some twisted fairy tale.
“What does it want?” Sam asked, growing impatient.
“It wants your son son son,” Jonas said.
“Why?”
Jonas calmed again, standing still and staring in that dead-pan way.
“It wants him to become a wicked too.”
Sam shook his head.
“What? Some creature is going to turn my son into a gremlin?”
“A demon,” Jonas said. “Turn him into a demon or drive him mad in the process. Process.”
His ticks were surfacing again.
“Mad like Jonas-Salk-Peter Falk Falk. Peter Falk.”
Sam stared at the man for a long time. He couldn’t wrap his head entirely around the thought, but it still managed to crawl down his spine with icy toes and give him a shiver. He couldn’t speak, didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t understand. Does this all mean something else? Some kind of code you’re speaking? Or are you just nuts?”
Jonas danced and shook his head.
“Not code code. The wicked is real. The danger is real real. Real danger. Your son. Jonas can help help.”
Dancing and hand claps. Sam stared without words.
His pocket started to vibrate and interrupted his daze. There was a text message from Faith.
GOING WITH THE DOC.
HURRY BACK.
“I have to go,” Sam said.
Crazy old bastard. Why am I wasting my time with you?
“Won’t find anything. Not the doc doc doc. Wicked is smart, he hides. Check his eyes. His eyes. Look into Charlie-Bear’s eyes.”
Sam froze.
How could you know Charlie-Bear’s name? I didn’t mention it.
Staring, he stumbled backwards, trying to get away from the crazy Jonas Salk-Peter Falk. Sam had to find something normal and hold onto it.
“Take care,” he said and walked back through the double doors, dropping his coffee into a trashcan as he went. They were the only words he could find.
Jonas Falk walked into the first door, a waiting room for the radiology department. He lay down in the first row of uncomfortable chairs and went to sleep.
*****
The nurse pressed a button that allowed Sam into the triage area. A dozen or more beds were sectioned off with curtains which hung from the ceiling by long snaking tracks. Rolling carts and monitors lined the walls. At the far end, he saw his wife who was to him as he entered
Sam approached and watched as the doctor examined his son. Charlie-Bear smiled at Sam, happy and from a visual standpoint at least, he seemed normal.
“Seems fine to me. I can take blood and run some tests if you like, but I can’t find a thing wrong with him. Colic,” the doctor said, followed by, “You must be Sam?”
“Doctor?” Sam replied.
“Russel. David Russel.”
The men shook hands.
Faith crossed her arms. “I know I’m new to all this, but he was screaming like something was hurting him. Shrieking.”
“Maybe it was a nightmare?” Dr. Russell said.
Sam winced, looking from his son to the doctor.
“Is that common?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Dr. Russell. “We all have them from time to time. Something could be making him anxious, giving him bad dreams. Or it could just be the colic. Gas pains, upset tummy. You breastfeed?”
Faith nodded.
“Could be something in your diet doesn’t agree with him. Have you tried formula?”
She shook her head.
“I will. But he’s only been this way for a couple of weeks,” she said.
Dr. Russell patted Charlie-Bear’s belly and watched Faith for a moment before he let out a laugh.
“Sometimes you just have to let them scream for a few minutes,” he said.
“What about during the day? He doesn’t nap because of these fits,” Faith said and thought for a moment. “Is it sleepwalking?”
“I don’t know about that,” Dr. Russell said.
Sam said, “How many kids have you got, doc?”
The doctor smiled. “That’s a fair question. I have three boys. Two of them were colicky. I know it’s difficult, but I promise you, he’ll grow out of it.”
Sam and Faith looked at each other, and Sam felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment. The doctor noticed. He handed the child to his mother with another chuckle.
“You two are doing fine. This is my job. I get questions just like this from people who have five or six kids. Each baby is different. Don’t be embarrassed, and definitely don’t stop asking questions. If you don’t know, you don’t know.”
“Thanks,” Faith said.
“Anytime. Now, go check out with the desk and try to get some rest,” the doctor said.
Sam nodded his thanks and acknowledgment. Dr. Russell walked them to the exit and pushed the button to open the doors. Sam went to the desk to sign papers.
“Everything all right?” the receptionist said.
“Seems to be. First time parent jitters, I guess,” Sam said.
The woman smiled warmly and shoved a clipboard across the counter to him.
“Sign here and we’ll run the visit through your insurance.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
Faith came and handed Charlie-Bear to his father.
“I have to pee. Back in a sec, can you hold him?”
“Sure. Come here big guy,” he said.
Sam signed, took the baby and put the pen down to look at his boy.
“Is that all that’s bugging you? Upset tummy and some bad dreams?”
Charlie-Bear looked at his dad and a bit of drool fell from his mouth. Sam cradled the child in his left arm and kissed him on the forehead. The baby was smiling, one finger in his mouth. Something shifted in his left eye. It was faint, but it was there.
Sam blinked, blaming it on lack of sleep, stress, and a creepy old man named Jonas Salk-Peter Falk. When he looked closer, he saw the thing shift again—a vision in his mind. The tiny vision looked like big eyes and rows of pointed fangs.
He gasped and carried the boy to a better light source. Sam looked again at his son’s eyes. Eyes that should have been clear as a sunny day, but weren’t. They looked like the eyes of an old man, distant and full of harsh memories. Sam shook his head, forcing the ideas away.
When he looked back, something watched back from Charlie-Bear’s left eye, something with bloodshot eyes of its own and fangs. Its tongue lashed out and doused those eyes with moisture. Then Charlie-Bear blinked and his eyes were normal again, brilliant blue and clear as a Carolina sky.
You’re just tired.
“Exhausted, huh, little buddy? I’m tired too.”
Sam couldn’t help but notice his hands were trembling. He clamped on to his son, hugging him to calm the vibrations. They stopped when Faith joined them and soon after, the three went home.
FIVE---
There was no sleep for Sam Bryant the rest of that night. He paced from Charlie-Bear’s room back to his own room like a sentry checking his post’s perimeter. Both Faith and the baby dozed peacefully, better than either had slept in days, but Sam couldn’t un-see the thing in his boy’s eye. Couldn’t un-hear the words: It wants your baby.
He made his way downstairs and had a couple drinks from a bottle of aged scotch he hadn’t touched in almost a year. Sam wasn’t much of a drinker. When Faith came into the kitchen looking for him, he was sitting at the table, palming an empty highball glass.
“You want some?” he asked.
She shook her head, yawning. “You okay? I missed you up there.” she said.
She sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck, hugging him. Her warm body felt good against his. The first relaxing feeling he’d had in days. He set the glass down and hugged her back.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Tired?”
“I am. Not as tired as you. I don’t know how you do it.”
Faith hummed a laugh. “Me either. I guess it comes with the mommy job. You just do what needs to be done. What scares me is that this probably won’t be the hardest thing we’ll have to deal with.”
Sam hugged her. “I just hope he’s all right.”
“You heard the doctor. Lots of kids deal with it and grow out of it. We’re the ones who will suffer the most. Charlie-Bear probably won’t even remember this in a few months.”
“Sure he will. It’s carving itself into your face. Look at that wrinkle!”
Faith smacked Sam on his arm.
“You going to work? You’ll need to get some sleep if you are,” she said.
“No. No, I’m going to call in. The first time ever. I think you need a day off. Maybe you can go get some coffee with your sister or something.”
Faith smiled. “Bless you, sir. You’ll still need some sleep. I’ll take the morning shift. You go get a nap and I’ll wake you up in a few hours.”
Sam kissed her on the throat, then just under her ear, then on the mouth.
“That’s not a nap, Mister Attorney. You’re leading the witness.”
“Guilty,” he said.
Faith kissed him again, then stood up and pulled him by the hand. Sam followed her up the stairs. They tiptoed past Charlie-Bear’s room, but peeked in to see him sound asleep.
Sam lay down in their bed, and Faith knelt, straddling him. Her lips brushed softly against his. He ran his hand down her back and squeezed, then hugged her close to him as they continued to kiss. In seconds, he was snoring. Faith smiled, defeated, and joined him.
*****
The sound that woke Sam wasn’t crying, nor was it his wife complaining about crying. It was giggling. When he looked at the clock, it was after nine, and there was giggling coming from the hallway, first Faith’s, then the irresistible belly laugh of a baby. Sam grinned. He rolled out of bed and walked to the doorway of his son’s room to see Charlie-Bear standing on the edge of his crib, holding onto the railing for balance, and laughing at his mother, who was kneeling, tickling him through the bars and making silly faces.
“He’s in such a good mood!” Faith said.
“I hear that. Maybe I should stay home more often.”
“Yes, we have unfinished business from this morning as well, sir.”
Sam nodded. “For now, how about some breakfast?”
“That would be wonderful,” Faith said.
She scooped up the smiley little boy and zoomed him over to his father. Sam hesitated before taking the boy in his arms.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’ve got him.”
He wasn’t sure nothing was wrong. He wanted nothing to be wrong. Faith’s face said nothing was wrong. He held Charlie-Bear up and looked at his eyes. They were clear and as bright as a baby’s should be. Faith kissed both of them on the cheek.
“I’m going to go get ready. Charlotte is going to meet me in town for coffee and maybe a little shopping. Thanks, babe. I really need this,” she said.
“I know. Hey, while you’re out, convince her to come watch this little monster so we can go have dinner.”
“A date?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She gave her own lower lip a gentle nibble.
“Once I’m sure he’s feeling better, we’ll do just that.”
He twirled with his son, who had taken to chewing on his own little fist. A string of drool made a wet stain on Sam’s t-shirt. He was still groggy from the late night and short nap, but all seemed better than it had the previous night, the previous week. If Charlie-Bear’s brilliant eyes were any indication, that morning was the start of back to normal.
Faith had left bottles of expressed breast milk in the fridge and instructions on the counter. Baby food jars sat in a line behind the note. Sam fumbled eac
h one to read the label. Charlie-Bear was in his playpen, doing what babies did with soft toys, teething rings and things that stacked—most of it covered in drool.
He was looking at a stuffed duck with wide, almost-crossed eyes when his dad entered the room. The duck stared back with an unflinching and cute grin, even as the boy smacked it on the ground like an otter trying to break open a shellfish.
“I have done this before, right?” he said to the child. “Daddy isn’t as good as mommy, but we’ll survive, won’t we, little man?”
Charlie-Bear clamped his mouth down on the duck’s beak and made a growling sound. It was only a little insulting to Sam that his wife had so little faith in his care-giving ability. He felt, at the very least, he could improvise for a few hours. He’d fed the boy dozens of times, changed diapers and rocked him. In truth, the time he spent with Charlie-Bear was insignificant compared to Faith’s investment.
Sam scooped his son up, carried him into the kitchen and began the task of strapping him into the high chair. Charlie-Bear ate with ferocity and Sam was glad to see his appetite back. He made noises and faces his courtroom opponents would’ve laughed at—all credibility as a prosecuting attorney gone—but at that moment, there were only two people in the world.
After a quick wipe down, lunch was over. Man and baby were on the couch, lying down. Charlie-Bear took to chewing his fist and Sam turned the television on with the volume low. The child’s breathing evened out, and his fist slipped out of his tiny mouth. A few minutes later, both of them snored.
The noise didn’t bother Wicked, who slipped from its human vessel in shadowy drops and rolled across Sam’s chest onto the floor. The foul stench of its presence caused Sam’s nose to twitch, but he didn’t wake. It slid across the floor and over the television, pausing once to peer out from the screen—an alien in the background of a classic college basketball game. Its large eyes surveyed the room and absorbed the surroundings like a sponge.
Seeming satisfied, it stepped out of the television into the living room and stood in the light that streamed in through the window. It licked its eyeballs and danced across the large Persian rug, hissing in rhyme.
“Alone, I see, the Wicked be. Now time to scare the boy.”
Wicked climbed, clawed hands and feet hooking into the couch fabric like a four-legged spider, until it was in the child’s face.
“A fright or two I have for you, behold your favorite toy!”
It held the child’s head gently and whispered into Charlie-Bear’s ear. In his dreaming mind, his toy duck had changed. The cute face was now angry and its smile was made of fangs that dripped a black, viscous, poison. The fuzzy duck body boiled with sores that oozed green pus and it quack was a deep bellowing sound, like belches from hell’s own gullet. Charlie-Bear squirmed on his father’s chest.
