Paranoia

by P. J. Fox

  He rooted through the pile on his floor, finally pulling free a black Megadeth shirt. Holding it to his nose, he reeled back. Nope. Too much, even for a Friday. Ned grabbed another shirt, an olive green Marylyn Manson. This one wasn’t too bad. He pulled it down over his head, grabbed the Febreze from the nightstand, and gave a second shot to each armpit. A quick run-through with the comb, some gel, and he was ready to go.

  Now, if only I could find my backpack.

  He stopped, thinking.

  And then, unwelcome, the thought intruded: he stole it.

  Whoever was doing this to him, and for whatever reasons, had been inside the house at least a dozen times: he’d readjusted the chair, he’d moved the keychain, he’d stolen Ned’s old copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

  And something had been in the room last night.

  He got down on his hands and knees anyway, hoping against hope that maybe it was under the bed. Either he was making it all up in his head, or someone was going through a great deal of trouble to perform a bunch of pointless exercises. He couldn’t decide which option was scarier. Ned squinted; nothing but socks and dust bunnies. As he pushed himself upright, he noticed something disturbing. One of his trolls was missing. He knew it’d been there last night, because he’d fallen asleep staring at its bright green hair.

  “What happened to Oz?” he asked no one in particular.

  The remaining trolls stared, wide-eyed, giving away nothing.

  With a yell, he threw his pillow into the corner and, turning, stormed down the hall and down the stairs and out into the offensively bright late season sunshine.

  Eve was getting in a few quick rounds with Galoshes before school. Galoshes, the stupid seagull she’d rescued on some stupid Girl Scout trip. Well fuck her, and fuck Galoshes. What kind of name was Galoshes, anyway? Eve thought she was so damned twee, calling him Galoshes after his stupid ugly feet. Because they looked like galoshes. Dumb bird.

  He leaned against the hood of the car, folded his arms across his chest, and settled in for a long wait.

  As he watched Galoshes sail down from the roof, his mind wandered. Outlander Point wasn’t exactly a welcoming neighborhood. People could make themselves inconspicuous, but not invisible. Whoever was doing this had to have been around a fair bit: his personal poltergeist had almost certainly dug that pit. There was just no way that a total stranger could’ve been around that much without anyone noticing him or remarking on his activities.

  This was a neighborhood where your neighborly fucking neighbors called the cops on you when they saw you messing around on the porch roof. They had no sense of humor, these rich old people. And rich young people. Everyone was rich here, except Ned; his mother had inherited their house from her mother, and hadn’t moved since.

  No, this person had to be someone he knew.

  Someone who wouldn’t arouse suspicion, walking around. Not William, and not Brad; they were teenagers too and thus immediately suspect of all crimes both esoteric and banal. An adult, then. A neighbor. It had to be a neighbor; anyone else would have attracted attention eventually. Because if even half the break-ins that Ned suspected had actually occurred then this person had visited his house at least half a dozen times.

  Maybe more.

  Anyone who didn’t belong here would have been questioned, and the gossip mill would’ve spun into high gear. Not because anyone cared about Ned’s safety, or would have connected the two events even if he was standing on his own rooftop screaming about it into a megaphone, but because someone would probably be accused of cheating on someone. Who was dinking who was pretty much the only topic of conversation for most of Success.

  He catalogued his neighbors: Dr. Johnson had set his broken ankle when Ned was ten; Jim Hammond had always given him chocolate—the expensive kind—when his mother wasn’t around; Kitty Rose Duhamel had babysat him through uncountable lazy summer afternoons; Diehl Maarten, who everyone called Big Deal, had chased him off the lawn while screaming something about the Constitution. John Murray, who’d drunk his way through three black market livers and was working on a fourth, had gotten Ned his first job.

  It seemed impossible that one of these people was trying to kill him.

  4.

  That afternoon found Ned holed up in the school’s small, ill-stocked and even more ill-funded library. He was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes: researching bizarre psychological disorders. The more bizarre the better, if truth be told. Partly it was morbid curiosity and partly it was the fact that learning about other people’s problems helped him apply some kind of perspective to his own.

  Much the way watching creature features did; he could say, with complete confidence, that while his life might suck at least no one was snacking on his intestines while he watched.

  He liked the library, even if it did smell like mold and old carpet. He liked the fact that no one else came here; this was like his own private domain. He liked, too, the cathedral-like quiet and how the dust motes danced in the light. The smell of books, and the sense of being in a place out of time. No one rushed, here. There were no deadlines. Only the invitation to sit down and lose oneself in a book.

  The little “reading room” that he’d long ago made his own didn’t really deserve its name. It was just an open space created by the careful placement of stacks. An old metal table completed the illusion. He’d left pennies on the table, just to test his theory that no one else had come in here since Eisenhower actually was president. Eventually he’d donated them. Putting them back in his pocket seemed somehow dishonest.

  He shrugged, and turned the page. Oh, well. He was halfway through a book that he’d been enjoying on his free periods now for months: a thousands of pages tome on little researched psychological phenomena.

  Body Integrity Identity Disorder, also known as Amputee Identity Disorder, causes the sufferer to wish to have an otherwise healthy part of his body—usually a limb—amputated. Occasionally, sufferers of this disorder have gone to the extreme step of amputating their own limbs, in an effort to seek relief. He licked his finger and turned the page again.

  Afternoon sun bathed the room; the battered old reading table was hot to the touch.

  In some individual case studies, patients have also expressed sexual fetishes involving amputees.

  It really was nice to be alone.

  Some psychiatrists have actually gone as far as prescribing removal of the offending limb, in an effort to alleviate the patient’s suffering. This course of treatment is, however, highly controversial as, on occasion, patients have recovered from the disorder and mourned the loss. In fact, in one highly publicized case from Kentucky, the patient in question claimed to have been cured by the amputation itself. His lawsuit is still pending.

  Ned’s mind started to wander, to something that had happened earlier that day. He had a bladder roughly the size of a—very undernourished—pea and he’d ducked into the bathroom between first and second period due to the real fear that his bladder might explode if he sat through another lecture on the French Revolution without first emptying it. And that was when he’d seen the graffiti.

  He wouldn’t admit this on pain of death, but he had a thing about urinals. He never used them unless he absolutely had to; had to including those few times when he was accompanied by other men and thus obligated to put on some sort of show. That, you know, he was perfectly okay with wangling his dick in front of perfect strangers. Because that, for some reason, said manly.

  No, not wanting to parade the goods in front of every man in sight was what made you a homo.

  Whatever.

  So, upon discovering that he was in fact alone, he’d ducked into a stall.

  He was fumbling with his fly when he saw it, writ clear across the butter yellow tiles of the first floor men’s room: Ned Wells takes it up the ass from William Hall with a strap on, ’cause Hall is the dick-less wonder. And, directly below it, some other clever person had added, I don’t think anyone’s accused him of
having sex before…except maybe with a golden retriever.

  He’d tried to ignore the thought, as well as his own rather mournful lack of sexual experience, and had ended up staring instead at I had sex in this stall!

  Someone, somewhere, was always having a better time than Ned Wells.

  He kept reading.

  Somatoparaphrenia is a related condition, wherein the sufferer suddenly and inexplicably denies ownership of a limb or, indeed, one entire side of his body. For example, in one classic North Carolina case, the patient came home from his job as an actuary firmly believing that he’d left his right arm at work. All attempts to show him the arm failed; he insisted that it belonged to his doctor.

  Ned leaned back in his chair and sighed. It wasn’t working; he still felt horribly sorry for himself. He began flipping idly through Compendium of Psychiatric Afflictions, 1929 Edition and wondering who was responsible for those comments in the bathroom. The only good news was, it’d upset him so much that he’d almost forgotten about everything else that was going on in his life. Like, you know, the fact that someone was trying to murder him and not only did his junkie mom not care but none of his friends did either.

  Just ’cause I can’t get a date, doesn’t mean I’m gay. He frowned slightly. Ned liked girls; they didn’t like him back.

  In the distance he could just hear the librarian, Ms. Daniels, slamming her stamp down on one banged-up book after another. Dust motes sparkled in the air. The atmosphere was so peaceful, it took Ned a minute to realize what was wrong: stertorous, wet breathing was coming from the other side of the “wall.”

  Somebody was in here with him.

  “Brad,” he commanded, more bravely than he felt, “come out of there.”

  Nothing.

  “Brad, come on, I’m really not in the mood.” He tapped his pen against the scarred tabletop, hoping he sounded annoyed. This was stupid, and getting stupider by the minute. “Brad, or whoever you are, either show yourself or go and masturbate somewhere else.”

  At least, that’s what he assumed the intruder was doing.

  Hoped he was doing.

  The breathing continued.

  It had to be Brad—right? Who else could it be? William was right: his would-be killer, whom William didn’t even agree existed, had used a car. Not an axe. And, barring what he’d now convinced himself was an exceptionally vivid dream the night before, boogeymen didn’t actually come out of closets and attack people. Or Cold War-era library stacks. Especially not in mostly forgotten school libraries. Especially not in podunk towns with names like Success, where nothing ever happened.

  Ned ignored this blatant contradiction in his own mind. Hadn’t he spent the best part of the past few weeks trying to convince people that things did happen here?

  Were happening, and to him?

  “Alright,” he called, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. “Ready or not, here I come!”

  He shoved his chair back and stood up. “Hope you’ve had a chance to zip your fly,” he added, with more of the same false bravado. At least his voice didn’t shake; he was proud of that much. And glad, too, that he’d used the bathroom recently. Otherwise he might embarrass himself. As it was, he could feel his nuts shriveling up and retreating inside him.

  He tiptoed toward the gray metal bookcase on the balls of his feet. He told himself that this would be fun. That he was about to discover Brad, dick in hand, and not the boogeyman.

  “Boo!” He leapt forward into the space between the stacks.

  No one was there.

  Turning, he peered first one direction and then the other. No one. Down at the other end of the aisle, someone had left a book on the floor.

  He tiptoed along the burnt orange carpet, a relic from some government-sponsored remodel in the seventies, glancing right and left. Whoever it was had to be here somewhere; people didn’t just disappear. And certainly not that quickly. He’d just heard the breathing. What—had the guy teleported?

  It was probably that freshman who masturbated with his calculator, he thought crazily. Ned had caught him once, sitting on the floor of the stall with the door open. He’d said he liked the feel of the buttons.

  Why Ned should think of that now, at all times, he didn’t know.

  A sense of the same fear that had gripped him the night before began to worm down into his entrails. Like shards of ice. His heart was thumping, thumping, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

  The stacks were almost preternaturally quiet. Even the ambient noises that usually fill a library—pages turning, highlighters squeaking, pens scratching, chairs moving back and forth—were missing. Ned’s breathing sounded deafening in his own ears.

  As he crept forward, his sense of foreboding grew. Where was this guy, and why was he hiding? And what if it really wasn’t Brad—or Button Boy, or anyone else. What if—

  He didn’t allow himself to complete the thought.

  Boogeymen did not exist. Not in his bedroom, and not on deserted roads, and not in here.

  He swallowed. “Brad,” he asked in a small voice, “is that you?”

  Silence. The small bundle of glands at the base of his brain was shrieking run! It took all of Ned’s will to ignore that voice and force himself forward down the narrow corridor. It smelled of mildew and mothballs and old books, of old people and industrial disinfectant, just like every school library in America. The sheer normality of it should have been comforting. But wasn’t. Ned felt like he’d wandered through a mirror, into an alternate world.

  He heard something behind him.

  A thump.

  He whirled around and—nothing.

  The corridor was empty.

  Whoever it was had gotten behind him.

  Oh, God.

  He heard a cough.

  Warm breath caressed the back of his neck.

  Ned ran.

  He didn’t think about where he was running, or what he was doing, just gave into the impulse to move.

  Only after he’d turned the corner did he realize that he was running back to the reading room.

  5.

  Chest heaving, he doubled over as a stitch bit into his side. His lungs felt like they were on fire. He’d run back to the reading room and then away again, in circles, hoping to find someone. Anyone. He would’ve taken Ms. Daniels, the librarian, at this point.

  Except she wasn’t at her desk. No one was anywhere.

  He straightened up. He’d made it to the lobby, and he was alone. Feeling like he must be dreaming, he did a slow turn. Nothing. The breathing had vanished. His pursuer had vanished. If, he told himself, his pursuer had ever really been there at all. Faced with the fact that no one had caught him and no one was here now, he was beginning to feel supremely stupid. The thought occurred, belatedly, that perhaps the whole thing had been in his mind.

  He had had a pretty tough night.

  He walked back to the reading room.

  His notebook, his pouch of pens, and Compendium of Psychiatric Afflictions, 1929 Edition were all exactly where he’d left them. He might have left a few minutes ago, or the morning before. That strange, timeless quality of the library made it tough to tell.

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  And that was when he noticed the paper.

  It had been ripped from one of those yellow legal pads and wedged, folded, into the spine of his book. He reached forward and, barely breathing, plucked it free. Unfolding it, he read in silence. It didn’t take long; the note was only a line long.

  I can reach you anytime.

  There was no signature.

  Oddly, his first reaction was one of relief. Now they’ll have to believe me. He finally had proof. He wouldn’t have to be crazy paranoid Ned who nobody believed, even when he was telling the truth. Crazy paranoid Ned, whom everyone dismissed with misplaced feelings of sympathy. And not a few suggestions that he visit the school’s counselor.

  He whirled around and ran to get Ms. Daniels.

  The
young, pretty librarian was leaning on the circulation desk, giving Ned’s English teacher a very good view of her chest. Mr. Ware appeared to be appreciating it, too. She was droning on about something or other, and he was nodding attentively and making appropriate noises, but his eyes were vacant. His fists clenched and unclenched.

  Yelling, Ned burst out of the stacks. “Somebody is trying to kill me!”

  Panting and heaving, he leaned heavily on his knees. Both teachers turned to stare at him, gape-mouthed.

  “I was sitting, reading, and I found this book, but that doesn’t matter, and, oh, anyway, someone was breathing, and I thought it was a heavy breather, but when I tried to catch him he wasn’t there! So I tried to find him in the stacks, but I couldn’t, so I went back to grab my stuff, and when I did, I found a note—he’d left it there, on my book.”

  Daniels and Ware both stared at him, slack-jawed.

  Ware composed himself first. “And you say this person tried to kill you?”

  Ned realized he hadn’t gotten to that part of the story, yet. Ware was waiting politely, one eyebrow raised. He was losing his audience. He should’ve waited until he’d calmed down to tell his story. Still, against his better judgment, he pressed forward. Someone had to listen this time. “It’s the note. He left a note—I found it on top of my book.”

  “Where’s the note now?” Ware asked. “What does it say?”

  Good question. Ned realized, too late, that he’d left the note on the table. What an ass. If only he could have produced the thing! Pulled it out with a flourish and said, here! Handwriting experts, do your best! Instead, all he could do was gesture toward the reading room.

  Ware nodded. Ned turned. He led. They followed.

  “Here! See?” He indicated the table with a flourish.

  Silence.

  They must be in shock. A murderer stalking the halls of Eisenhower High: it was pretty shocking. Nobody’s going to believe it. Maybe now they’d feel sorry they’d made fun of him—particularly Ware, the douche. Ned could almost taste that sweet, sweet vindication. He waited. Nothing. Maybe….