Silent Night

by L T Vargus

  Jenna, his high school girlfriend, leading him through the crowded dance floor at their class’s graduation party. His dad had gone all-out, renting out the dance hall across the street from one of the Catholic churches in town, hiring professional decorators, caterers, and a deejay, and stocking an open bar for the adult relatives of the graduates, wink, wink. The place was crammed full, and everybody had a drink in hand. No one would miss them.

  Somebody’s mom went past with a tray full of Jell-O shots, brightly colored little gems catching the variegated flashes from the deejay’s light set-up. He’d already had a few of the alcoholic jigglers, plus a couple beers and some Old Crow, but he snagged two more little plastic cups on the way out.

  He stopped Jenna on the steps outside, and they downed the shots and threw the cups into the bushes lining the hall. The plastic made little plink, plink sounds on the decorative gravel. A smoker came around the corner a second later, still exhaling a cloud of smoke from nose and mouth. Jenna giggled like they’d been caught and jerked him toward her car.

  In the bathroom, he clawed at the wall, trying to rip the movie down, but his hands disappeared into the surfaced like it was made of melted marshmallow. Trails rippled through the picture behind his hands, then it was whole again, chugging forward and unstoppable.

  Now he and Jenna waded into the field by the mountain of wood he and his buddies had piled up earlier. One and two-person tents had been set up in a circle around the future bonfire, just in case any of them were still sober enough to crawl inside before sunrise. No one else had shown up yet. He and Jenna had the place to themselves.

  “I’m hot!” she yelled, giggling some more when her voice echoed back from the tree line.

  Then she turned serious, her dark eyes wide as they locked on his. It was in the high eighties, but she hugged her arms around herself and tucked herself up against him. She looked from the trees to the car like she expected to see someone spying on them.

  “If I take my clothes off, will you do it, too?” she whispered.

  “Yeah, definitely,” he promised. “Whatever you want.”

  She hesitated, chewing her lip.

  To show her he was serious, he whipped off his shirt and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on the woodpile.

  “Fucking burn it, I don’t care,” he said. Then for good measure, he dropped his pants and threw them on the pile, too. “Burn all of it! I don’t need your material goods.”

  That got Jenna laughing again, cupping her hand over her mouth like she was trying to hold it in.

  In the bathroom, he screamed, trying to drown out all sound, but her voice reverberated inside his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  “You dork!” She slapped his arm. “Did you just say ‘material goodth’?”

  His heart stopped. The thirty-four-year-old heart in the bathroom and the eighteen-year-old heart in the field. It felt like his face was getting sunburned, the skin going all hot and tight, and the muscles around his eyes and lips moving in awkward jerks.

  “No.” He laughed way too late to convince her. “You’re—” He couldn’t say just or he might fuck that up, too. “—only drunk and hearing crap.”

  She turned around and leaned her butt into him.

  “Unzip me,” she said, lifting up her hair.

  Her butt was pressed against his crotch, kind of rubbing as she tried to stay in one place, but he hardly noticed it. Silently, he moved his mouth and tongue into the Butterfly Position, the edges of his tongue touching his teeth. Practice T, then explode into the S and hum into a Z. He tapped his tongue against the top of his mouth. T-t-t-t-t-t-t-TSSSzzz.

  “Goodz,” he said, emphasizing the S. “I said material goodz. You heard me wrong.”

  Jenna craned her neck so she could see him over her shoulder. The move put her drunk brain off-balance, and he had to grab her to keep her from pitching forward.

  “Ben.” She spun around to face him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I want to be naked with you. Hurry up before everybody else gets here.”

  “I said goodz.”

  “Earth to dork: I heard you the first billion times.” She leaned her head on his shoulder, close enough that he could feel her lips against his earlobe, tickling with every word. “Come on. Please? Don’t you want to be naked with me?”

  I can’t say ‘sure.’ “Yeah. Duh.”

  He hugged his arms around her waist, pulling her closer, and kissed her neck. She huffed a laugh and leaned her hips into his. Not really grinding, just putting pressure on his dick. He pushed back as he unzipped her, then they were in the tent, and she was giggling some more, and the sleeping bags were hissing over each other as they tried to get situated.

  All of the sensory information was coming in at the fringes, crowded by his racing thoughts. If he had to say sleeping bags, he would just say bag or bags. The less S sounds, the better. If he had to say sex, he would say make love. He had to stay alert, watch every letter.

  Jenna scooted on her back until she was underneath him. One hand reached up and touched his cheek, the fingers bending around his jaw, almost grabbing, but not quite.

  “Come down here with me,” she whispered, pulling down a little with her fingers.

  He laid down beside her, propped on his elbow, then they were making out. Making out was the right phrase there. Kissing was too dangerous.

  She pulled away, making their lips make that wet sound. “Is something wrong?”

  “What? No.”

  “You’re just… quiet. Are you mad at me?”

  “No. Nothing—” He swallowed the S. He couldn’t trust his tongue right then. “…wrong. Are… are you mad?”

  She smiled, her teeth shining in the silver-blue moonlight coming through the tent material.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

  “I’m not,” he snapped.

  She blinked.

  “There’s nothing wrong,” he said carefully. To convince her he meant it, he kissed her. “Really.”

  “OK,” she said, dragging the word out. In an exaggerated slow voice, she teased him, “Why are you talking so slow?”

  He gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t push away from her. Then she would know something was wrong with him. Instead he kissed her again, this time with a lot more force. Putting his frustration into each movement.

  She sighed and kissed him back, leaning into the pressure. One of her hands slid down from his back and into the waistband of his boxers. She squeezed and kneaded and stroked.

  If she kept talking, he would think of something to say, then hurry up and say it. It would sound normal, but have no S sounds. If he hurried up and thought it out ahead of time, he could do it.

  Her hand stopped moving. “Um, shouldn’t it…” She squeezed harder. “…like, be getting…”

  He froze.

  Oh no. No, no, no. The hot, tight feeling of the sunburn on his face came back, but this time it covered his body. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He could feel her hand, feel the sensation of every whorl and line rubbing against him, but nothing was happening.

  Say something.

  It was like he lifted out of his body. Looking down on this horror scene from above. He watched his mouth move from the opposite corner of the tent, but no words came out. The sound thing that came to mind was T-t-t-t-t-TSSSzzz.

  Underneath him, Jenna was giving him this shitty pitying smile. “You just had too much to drink. I read that if a guy drinks too much alcohol, it can be hard for him to… you know…”

  Sure, she read it. More like she probably found it out by sleeping with every other guy in town. And now she was stacking him up against every single one of them and realizing what a loser he was.

  “We could just make out and cuddle,” she suggested. “I’m having fun just making out.”

  In the bathroom, his shoulders shivered a little, eyes still glued to the screen. He watched as she wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him down on
top of her, still kissing him and making those little noises that were supposed to mean she loved it, but he could tell it was bullshit. She knew. And by tomorrow, everyone else in town would know. She was just sticking with the act now because if she walked out, then she would know that he knew it was an act. So now they were both pretending. Fucking great.

  In the bathroom, he slammed a fist into the image projected onto the flesh wall, tried to shatter the image of the teenagers there, tried to kill this memory. The wall bowed inward, stretching like gum around his fist, then sprung his hand back out.

  He had to get out of this place. It was the bathroom that kept dredging these memories up. Somehow they were trapped in here, assaulting him because there was no window or vent for them to escape through. There was a crack under the door, but memories rose like heat. They couldn’t get down there to flow out.

  Yes. Out. He needed to get out of here. There wouldn’t be any memories in the bedroom. And if there were, he could just open the window.

  He turned his body toward the door, keeping his eyes on the face in the mirror, daring it to follow him. When he reached for the knob, though, his hand scraped off flat wall. He looked.

  The door was gone. Erased somehow. The flesh wall had spread to cover it, consume it. He was trapped in the bathroom with the memories.

  Chapter 30

  Frank and Vince sat in the idling Buick, listening to the conversation taking place in the Fed’s room. They had tried it with the speakerphone on for a little while, both of them huddled around Vince’s cell, but that was like trying to watch a ballgame while squinting. You got the gist, but you missed out on the details. As a solution, they had used the line-in jack to hook the phone up to the car’s audio system. Which, as it turned out, was pretty damn good for a ghetto cruiser old enough to buy its own beer.

  The Fed’s voice came over the radio. “The palm print didn’t match.”

  A clapping sound like someone had slapped their hands together in victory.

  “Take that, Millhouse,” the smooth baritone of the reporter said.

  Night had come down hard and fast, and the streetlights cast an orangey glow over Vince’s face. He was leaning toward the phone as if they were watching an engrossing show and his mother had never told him he’d ruin his eyes if he sat that close to the screen.

  “Would’ve been better if the Fed had turned out to be gay,” Vince said.

  As soon as they’d heard the Fed let the reporter into his room, the knucklehead had immediately decided they were there for teabagging and blowjobs. Now that they were talking instead of screwing, he sounded disappointed.

  “That would’ve been a funny twist.”

  “I told you he wasn’t. This Spinks guy was mentioned as part of the job, but only if we have no choice but to take him out, too.” Frank reached over to turn up the radio. “Now shut your mouth. We bugged the room so we could hear them, not you.”

  The sound quality was so good that they could hear someone pacing. Must’ve been the reporter, the way his voice kept getting closer and farther away from the mic.

  “So, what do we do now?” the reporter asked. “The car’s a bust, and that was the one lead we had. Our palm print could help ID the killer, but that won’t do us any good until we actually find the guy — which’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack the size of Chicago. It won’t actually help us narrow it down in the meantime.”

  “The security cams from the parking garage and the area around it have to turn up something,” the Fed was saying. “This guy can’t have an endless supply of beater cars to keep ditching.”

  There was a tired-sounding exhale.

  “At least, I hope not,” the Fed added.

  Vince shook his head. “They need to find something solid before he pulls this shit again. Shoots up a kindergarten or something, the sick fuck.”

  Frank rolled his eyes.

  Back in the hotel room, the Fed said, “They’re working on the traffic cam and security footage from in and around the parking garage, logging all the plates coming and going. If he switched to his real car — or even another one he’s planning to abandon—”

  “We don’t know what he looks like,” the reporter interrupted. “So, even if they see him walk across an intersection and into his house, they won’t know it’s him.”

  “Wait,” the Fed said.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion on the radio. Something rattled on the desk the bug was attached to, the sound transferred through the wood unnaturally loud.

  “Who’re you calling?” the reporter asked.

  In the car, Frank said, “Ghostbusters,” then chuckled to himself.

  Vince didn’t look like he got it.

  “Are you seriously too young for that one?” Frank asked.

  “For what?”

  “Never mind.”

  On the radio, the Fed was saying, “I’m going to get the bureaucratic machine in motion. I think I’ve got a plan.”

  When the Fed didn’t say anything else, Frank shook his head.

  “And then he’s not going to say anything until he gets to the station or some shit.” He threw up his hands, disgusted, and raised his voice to the radio. “We want to know your plan now, numbnuts.”

  “My dad used to yell at the TV like that,” Vince said. “Didn’t bother him that nobody on it was listening.”

  “I’m venting my frustration,” Frank said. “And it’s a lot healthier than opening up a fully automatic on a crowd of post-holiday shoppers.”

  “That sick fuck,” Vince muttered, mirroring Frank’s head shake. He pulled the forgotten bag of Funyuns from the back seat and opened them. “You ever hear of radiant heating?”

  Frank blinked. “What?”

  Vince selected a ring and popped it in his mouth.

  “I watched a segment about it on This Old House,” he said, chewing away. “It’s like tubes of hot water all snaked under your floor. Incredible. With your standard forced air furnace, you’ve got dust and spores and nastiness kicking around your house, and it gets dry as hell, too. No such problem with radiant floors. Just toasty comfort bubbling up from below.”

  Frank stared at him. In the background, he could hear the Fed talking on the phone. He must’ve moved into the hall or bathroom to make the call though, because the bug wasn’t picking up anything more than a murmur.

  “Sometimes I don’t believe the things coming outta your mouth, Vince. Radiant heating? We’re on a stakeout and you’re talking about how to keep a house warm.”

  “I been thinking about it is all,” Vince said, shrugging. “It’s more cost-effective than you would think. When we’re done with all this, man, I’m gonna buy me a house with the proceeds, and it’s gonna have radiant heating. A nice place. Somewhere peaceful, you know. Like Jersey.”

  Chapter 31

  He had to get out, get away from the memories. The doorknob was gone, but if he could dig through the wall, maybe he could escape this nightmare.

  He clawed at the sheetrock, fingers sinking deep. The walls had gone warm, moist and fleshy. Slick with some unknown wetness. They flexed, a slow in and out motion, as if he were inside the lungs of some huge beast. And there was this smell. Like raw oysters and a fish tank that had never been cleaned. He gagged.

  Part of him knew it couldn’t be real. It was just a bathroom. Drywall with layers of hallucination on top. Dark visions projected on top of reality just like that Emma Stone movie on the screen.

  But he knew what he felt, what he saw. And the smell. Warped or not, the sensory perceptions were too intense to ignore.

  So, he dug at the walls, dry retching as he tore into the breathing, meaty flesh. It came apart in his hands, wet, heavy chunks that didn’t stop breathing, even though he’d torn them from the body at large. No matter how many he tore out, though, they always grew back. Regenerating like a salamander tail in fast forward.

  He was never going to get out. They would find his skeleton here someday years from now, tr
apped in his own bathroom. A fucking loser. A nobody.

  And they would know. They would smell it on him. Just like his dad had. Just like every bully had. Pheromones. His essence. Something was wrong with him. He was destined to be unwanted. Apart. Less than.

  He slumped to the floor, his fingernails still scraping at the wall. The warmth had left the meat now. It felt cold and mushy, like clawing at the inside of an overripe cantaloupe. He was getting nowhere.

  No matter what he did, he would always be trapped here. Trapped in this self. No escape.

  Now he remembered where the smell came from. A tank with a little crowd of neon tetras. He was a lazy kid, so he never cleaned it, and he fed them more than the food can said to. The filter got dirty and eventually stopped working, but he didn’t replace it and still didn’t want to clean the tank, though by then he realized it needed to be done. One by one, the fish died off, but he didn’t tell anyone. Just left them. After a few months, the smell was overwhelming and the water had become more of a gel suspension, almost as thick as oatmeal in places.

  When the smell got bad enough, their housekeeper finally broke Ben’s rule about never coming into his room. She threw up while she was trying to carry the tank out, so his dad made him dump it. Some of the murky, lumpy liquid inside splashed up onto his cheek while he was pouring it into the toilet, and for months afterward, he could smell the stink of it every time he walked into the bathroom.

  His clawing had slowed down, fingers just barely digging into the cold melon flesh of the walls. The urgency to escape was slipping away.

  What was he doing? It was just the drugs. Just the movies in his head, and that was all in the past. Those things couldn’t touch him. Not anymore.

  He stood up and turned back to the mirror. He thought he’d smashed it earlier, but it was all in one piece now.

  His eyes locked on their matched pair in the glass, gazing into the depths. Pupils swollen and huge.

  He brought his hands up to cover his face as if he could erase himself. Block it out so it wasn’t real anymore. Avoid seeing the movies.