Sleep Disorders

by Mark Lukens

  When I got to the street, I looked up and down, still scared I would spot a dark sedan parked a block away, two men inside, just the bright red dots of the cigarettes they smoked. Or maybe even the black SUV I’d seen driving away the other day. But there were no vehicles parked along the side of the road for as far as I could see. The sky above was clear with stars everywhere and a nearly full moon, which helped me see well enough even without the flashlight. There was barely a hot breeze.

  I walked up to the front of the house, walking through the much drier front yard, the bottom of my sneakers crunching the dried weeds and mixed wild grasses. My footsteps sounded so loud, my breathing, my heartbeat.

  The one-story house had a narrow front porch that led off from the carport area. A rotted wooden railing seemed to barely hold back the overgrown hedges that pushed against it. I walked to one of the front windows and stopped in front of it, staring at it. I couldn’t see much because a set of blinds inside was pulled down. I cupped my hands to the sides of my face, trying to peek in between the closed blinds. It was way too dark to see inside. I thought about shining the flashlight at the window, but I knew the glass would just reflect the light right back to me.

  I went to the front door and stood in front of it for a moment. For those few seconds I wasn’t sure what to do. I hadn’t thought this out too well. Should I knock? Try the doorhandle?

  I did both. I knocked first. Not a pounding, open-up-it’s-the-police knock, but loud enough for someone inside to hear me. I glanced around after knocking, like the sound might echo down the street and alert the neighbors a few blocks away around the bend. I waited for a moment and then knocked again.

  There was no answer, no noises from inside the house.

  I touched the doorknob, just a plain metal doorknob. I grasped it firmly and then tried gently turning it. There was no give. As soon as I let go of the knob, I realized that I probably should have worn some gloves. But again, why bother? I’d obviously been over here at least once, at least tonight, so maybe my fingerprints and DNA were all over the place already.

  The door was locked.

  What had I come over here to do?

  I walked down the narrow porch area and walked under the carport roof, feeling better once I was hidden in the deeper shadows. There was the storage area at the end of the carport, the area—if what I’d seen in my dreams was correct—had a door that led to the interior of the house.

  The dreams.

  In the dreams I’d gone into the back yard where the mist was, where something waited in the mist, breathing and snorting, watching me. In the dreams the back door was open, a light from within shining out.

  I walked across the concrete drive under the awning that was really part of the house’s roof. I entered the side yard, stepping back out into the milky moonlight, walking toward the wood fence that was built off of the back corner of the house. The gate was about eight feet down, a double gate big enough for a riding lawn mower to drive through.

  Just like in the dream there was no padlock on the gate’s clasp. I opened the gate, swinging the one door open. I stepped inside the back yard, hidden by the fence’s night shadow. I closed the gate almost all the way and looked toward the house, expecting to see the fog and the light coming from an open doorway.

  But there was no fog and no light coming from the doorway.

  Because this isn’t the dream. The dream was only a dream. It wasn’t real.

  I was back here now, and I wanted to keep going. Everything inside of me told me to turn around and go back. I’d come over here and looked around. Maybe I could come back in the daylight.

  But I needed to keep going. I knew I had come back here for something in particular, and I needed to see what it was or it was going to drive me crazy.

  I walked across the back yard, keeping close to the fence. I still hadn’t turned on the flashlight yet, not really needing it in the moonlight. I got to the door at the back of the storage room. The door was closed, not open and waiting for me to enter like in the dream.

  Just try the doorknob. If it’s locked, then go home. Just go back home.

  The doorknob was unlocked, turning easily in my hand. I pushed the door open and stood there in the dark doorway.

  “Hello?” I said, my voice higher than usual and jittery.

  I waited for a moment, hoping no one would answer. I stood there for a moment longer, trying to think of an excuse of why I was there if someone showed up. I fumbled through my mind with something like I’d seen a light and thought someone was trying to break into this house.

  After another deep breath I turned on my flashlight and shined it into the storage room. I stepped closer to the doorway as I swept the light around. The room was about the size of my office, maybe a little bigger. It was empty.

  (just like my dream)

  It smelled faintly of old oil and decay. There were trash and papers all over the place, some kind of grime built up along the base of the walls. A collection of something was nestled in the far corner, perhaps some kind of animal’s nest. Cobwebs hung from the corners of the ceilings.

  I stepped inside and shined the flashlight along the walls, looking for the graffiti and the series of numbers I’d seen in my dream. But there was nothing written on the gray walls.

  Letting out a sigh of relief—a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding—I smiled. There was no writing on the walls, no numbers. That had just been the dream, and the dream wasn’t true. I hadn’t followed Michelle over here. I hadn’t choked her. None of that was real.

  Feeling a little better, I thought about turning around and going back home. But something still tugged at me. I knew I needed to see the inside of the home. In tonight’s dream I’d gone inside the house for the first time. I needed to prove to myself that the images I’d seen were just nightmares.

  I tested the knob on the door that led inside, hoping that it was going to be locked, but knowing it wasn’t. It turned easily. I opened the door, the creaking hinges so loud in the silence. I shined the light in through the doorway, guiding my way inside. I heard something skittering around, but not big enough to be rats, maybe cockroaches. I shined the light down at the cracked linoleum underneath my sneakers, hoping I wouldn’t see a sea of cockroaches all around my feet.

  If there were bugs, they had scattered away from the light.

  The smell inside was musty with just the hint of wood rot and decay, but not overpowering. I was in the kitchen. I shined the light along a countertop, cabinets, and spaces where appliances used to be. There were blinds over the windows that looked out onto the back yard; the blinds were the only thing in the house that looked newer and somewhat clean. There was no furniture in the kitchen, nothing left behind. Some of the cabinet doors were open, revealing bare shelves.

  I panned the flashlight beam from the cabinets to the wall with an archway that led to a dining area, and then I froze.

  On the wall was graffiti, the same stuff I’d seen in my dreams: vulgar phrases, swastikas, crude drawings, racist slurs. But the thing that disturbed me the most were the series of numbers written neatly in black marker, the numbers big enough for me to see them from where I stood.

  Just like the dream.

  I had to keep going. I knew there were going to be more numbers in the dining room and the living room. I had to see.

  A moment later I was in the archway, and then in the dining area. I panned the flashlight into the living room, toward the windows and the front door that led out to the front porch and front yard.

  I froze again, my hand trembling as I shined a light on a woman hanging by a noose from the ceiling.

  It was Michelle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Michelle. I saw her long brown hair tumbling down the back of her beige coat, her arms hanging down loosely at her sides. Her blue jeans were tucked down into a pair of black leather boots, the same boots where I’d found the bank statements and notecards stuffed inside.

  Tears stu
ng my eyes as I shined the light on Michelle, panning up to a rope that was tied around an exposed rafter where the ceiling had been torn away.

  I wanted to call out to her. Images of my hands around her neck came back to me, her eyes bulging as I choked the life out of her. But the dreams weren’t quite correct, it hadn’t been my hands but a rope that had crushed her windpipe and killed her.

  “Oh God, no,” I whispered.

  And then I was running to her, my arms out like I was going to catch her, like I could do something to save her now.

  As I ran, in those few seconds, I knew there was something wrong about all of this. Something wrong about Michelle’s clothes, about the tilt of her head, about the heels of her boots on the concrete floor. She wasn’t hanging there, she was standing there.

  I bumped into her when I got to her back and heard a hollow thump, felt the hardness beneath her clothes, the lightness of her body, almost like she was a hard husk now, a shell of what she once was.

  “Michelle,” I whispered, tears already blurring my eyes as I circled around to the front of her.

  It wasn’t Michelle. It was the face of a mannequin.

  I stepped back as a wave of disbelief washed over me, other emotions competing: relief, incomprehension, and fear—the fear was still there. I thought I felt something touch my leg, and I whirled around toward the front window of the living room right behind me, shining my flashlight down at the darkness, at whatever had just brushed by my leg, but I didn’t see anything.

  I turned and shined my flashlight beam back at the mannequin, breathing hard as I studied it, my wife’s clothes on it like a giant doll. The blank eyes of the mannequin stared back at me, the arms down by the sides.

  Why was this here? Why was it dressed in Michelle’s clothes?

  Had I done this?

  I stood there for another moment, wondering about the clothes, specifically the pair of boots. Those boots were in my house a few days ago because I’d found the bank deposit statements and notecards stuffed down in one of them. How did the boots get here in this house? Had I brought them here on one of my sleepwalking trips? Had I taken the boots and clothes across the street in the middle of the night and dressed this mannequin as my wife? Had I then taken a rope and mimicked hanging her?

  That sense of disbelief washed over me, and for just a second I was afraid of fainting here in this house, passing out on the floor with the rat droppings and dead bugs.

  I needed to get out.

  I hurried back through the house, into the kitchen, then the storage area, closing the door behind me, but not locking it, leaving everything just as I had found it.

  When I was outside in the back yard, it felt like I could breathe again. I wanted to bask in the moonlight and breathe in the humid air, feel the warm breeze on my sweaty skin, but I ran to the gate and peeked out at the street before emerging into the side lawn. Everything seemed clear; I didn’t hear any strange noises. I crept out through the gap in the gate and then closed it.

  I darted across the street, looking up and down the street as I hurried back to my house. I still didn’t see any cars or trucks parked anywhere, I didn’t see any headlights flashing on or police lights exploding in the night.

  A moment later I was back inside my house, inside the foyer, closing and locking my front door. I kept the front porch light on so I would be able to see the front porch from the camera out there that Stan had installed.

  I hurried into my bedroom, then to my wife’s closet, flipping on the light. I stared down at the line of shoes and boots. I knew right away that the pair of boots was gone. I was sure that a pair of jeans and her beige coat would be missing, too. When had I taken the clothing across the street? And where had I gotten the mannequin from? The wig? The rope for the noose?

  Feeling queasy, I had to leave the bedroom.

  I went into the kitchen and looked at the clock over the stove. It was getting close to dawn, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. This was getting serious. I needed help. I needed to talk to Dr. Valentine.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I didn’t go back to sleep. I didn’t even go lie back down in bed. I took a long shower just before dawn and shaved. I dressed in a nice shirt and jeans. I wanted to look presentable—I didn’t want to look like a crazy man when I burst into Dr. Valentine’s office, demanding to see her.

  But it was still too early to go. I made coffee and tried to eat a little something, some kind of frozen breakfast sandwich I’d heated up in the microwave, but my stomach practically heaved after a few bites, and I was sure I was going to throw it back up again.

  I still had some time before I needed to leave. As usual, I checked for any texts on the phone, voicemails, or emails from Michelle—but there was nothing. Next, I called Stan, hoping to catch him as he was leaving the shop for his first stop of the day.

  “Hey, Zach,” Stan said.

  “Stan, is there any way you could come by after work?”

  He was quiet for just a second. “You got something on film?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  “It would be easier if I showed you.”

  “Come on, man. What is it?”

  “I just need you to come by.” I hesitated for a moment. “I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”

  “Okay,” Stan said. “I’ll try to get done as quick as I can.”

  “Alright.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m about ready to get out of here.”

  “Okay. Hey, Stan. Thanks.”

  “No problem, man.” He paused for a moment. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Stan didn’t bother asking again if everything was okay. I thought about telling him not to cut corners on his lawns so he could get off early, but at this point I didn’t really care about the lawns anymore, or anything about work.

  After hanging up, I paced around the house with my cordless phone in my hand. I had the TV on in the living room, some twenty-four-hour news station. They were talking about a possible terrorist attack from last night in Milwaukee, Wisconsin—a man had driven a van into a crowd of people on a city street. And only a week ago there had been another school shooting. These terrible acts seemed to be commonplace now. I thought about changing the channel, but I didn’t.

  I wanted to make another phone call. I was worried that the two detectives were going to come by for another round of harassment, and I didn’t want them to see the cameras that Stan had installed inside my house. I’m sure they wouldn’t be too suspicious about the camera mounted near the ceiling on my front porch, but if they came inside and saw the cameras in the different rooms, I’m sure it would pique their interest. And if I declined to allow them inside, I’m sure that would only rile them up enough to try to get some kind of search warrant.

  My brilliant idea was to call Detective Hartwell before they came out to my house. I didn’t want to call him, but I felt like I needed to.

  I had the detective’s business card in my hand a moment later and I dialed his number. I expected to hear a message on his voicemail, but he answered on the second ring. “Detective Hartwell speaking.”

  “Hi, detective. It’s Zach Hughes.” I thought of reminding him who I was: You know, the guy with the missing wife.

  “Mr. Hughes,” Detective Hartwell said; he seemed insistent on calling me Mr. Hughes.

  “I was just wondering if you’d gotten anything yet.”

  “Gotten anything yet?” he said like he was purposely mimicking me.

  “Yeah. Any kind of news about my wife.”

  “No, nothing yet,” he said. His words were clipped. I imagined him gripping his cell phone tightly and staring into it, or motioning with his eyes at his partner to start recording this phone call.

  “It’s been four days now,” I said, trying to sound angry, trying to sound like I was supposed to. But I felt like an imposter, and I swore Detective Hartwell could tell that I was putting
on an act.

  I realized now that this was a bad idea.

  “We’re still investigating,” Detective Hartwell said. “We’ll let you know if we find anything. You can believe that.”

  “Okay,” I said, not sure what else to say. I didn’t want to slip up and reveal too much. “I just wanted to touch base with you.”

  “Good to know. Base has been touched.”

  We hung up, and I wondered if my phone call had just alerted some kind of suspicion in Detective Hartwell. But I figured if I didn’t call them and bug them, then that might be even more suspicious. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I couldn’t worry about it now. I had made the phone call, and it was done.

  Right now I was going to Dr. Valentine’s office, and I wasn’t going to leave until she saw me, even if it was for only a few minutes.

  *

  I knew something was wrong when I pulled up in front of Dr. Valentine’s office. Her office was in a medical center across the street from the hospital, a maze of plazas with clay-tiled roofs, stucco exterior walls, and tropical landscaping. Her office was near the end of one of the lines of offices, in between a dermatologist and a foot doctor.

  But her office wasn’t there anymore.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I sat there in my truck for a moment, the motor still running. I stared at the dark windows and the glass door that led inside. All the lettering that had been on the windows and door—Dr. Valentine’s name, phone number, hours of operation—was gone, not a trace of it left behind.

  “What the hell?” I whispered as I sat there.

  Was I in the wrong place? I didn’t think so. I’d been coming to see Dr. Valentine for almost two years now, once every few months. I knew this was where her office was.

  I put my truck in reverse and drove around the other offices, driving from parking lot to parking lot, searching for her office. Maybe I had misremembered where it was; I’d been under a lot of stress lately. But after several trips around the lines of offices, I was sure that she was gone.