Sleep Revised

by Wright, Michael

  She nodded. “It’ll be in the morning. Father Capaldi has a wedding to do as well that day, so we’re gonna be kinda quick about it.” A shrug, “Not that there will be all that many people there anyway.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was the way he liked it.” She glanced at his couch again. “How well did you know Jon?”

  He froze, and chewed on the question a moment. It was what he had been asking himself the past few days—part of the reason why he had waited so long to call her. How do you contact and talk to the family of a man you feel you barely knew yourself? Did it assume too much? “I like to think I knew him pretty well, Ms. Morgan. He was a very smart, kind, authentic young man. I met and talked with him for over two years about some pretty…deep stuff that you and he went through as a child, and in that time, I honestly think I never got to know another patient quite that well.”

  “But he was still just a patient to you?”

  Now who’s asking the questions? “To a point I had to. You can only get so close to your work before it starts seeping into your being, and in my line of work that’s dangerous. To me and to the patients.”

  “Has that ever happened before?”

  Past a dagger of ice that slithered within him, “Yes,” he said.

  Her eyes held him hostage, the clarity of the sea and depth of the sky. But he felt there was a darkness there as well, looking out at him from an abyss that he could only begin to fathom. “But not with Jon?”

  “No.”

  She paused, unfurling her arms and running the flats of her palms against the worn knees. “I know that seems kind of random, but I just want to know who really knew Jon. Who he was really good friends with, and why he was alone that night. You know…to understand.”

  There it is. “It’s nobody’s fault here, Samantha.”

  Her eyes sharpened.

  “What happened to your brother was an accident, and I am really, truly sorry for what happened. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to him, or to you, but we can’t run around assigning blame to people.” He spread his hands, “I’m his therapist and I had no clue that he was in such a state of mind that he would be so distracted. Or maybe that wasn’t it, maybe he just made a mistake that night. Maybe he just forgot to look both ways because of the rain, but it’s not anyone’s fault here. Not yours, especially.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re feeling that way?” Leaning forward on the desk he said, “I can imagine what’s going on in your head right now, and I know it’s not pretty. To lose what you have lost is very painful, but before you let that fester too deep, you need to remember it’s not your fault.”

  She stood quickly. “Look, I know you mean well, Dr. Bell, but right now, I came to invite you to my brother’s funeral. He counted you important enough to put you on the emergency contact list and you identified his body, so obviously you were important to him. I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed. I came here to invite you to memorialize my brother. If you want to come, go ahead and come, but honestly I have heard more than enough people tell me that they’re sorry right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “No you don’t!” Her voice went up, from the slightly husky to the almost frantic. “Just keep that out of the discussion for now.”

  He stood with her, and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She reached for her bag. “Okay.” Slung it over her shoulder, “I guess I’ll see you soon, then. Be well, doctor.” The door remained open for her to leave and he heard the office door shut tightly behind her, back into the reception area.

  Clark stared at the door for a long moment, before he reached for his coffee. “See you then, Samantha.” He whispered.

  2

  The second knock on his door that day caught him awake.

  Cold coffee sloshed down his throat and he waved his hand toward him, setting down the cup on the coaster. “Come on in, Amanda.”

  A box walked ahead of her considerable girth. It was standard brown, taped with clear tape all the way across from one side to the other, providing support all the way around. The corners were frayed, as if it had been thrown around by the mail handlers, which he knew was most likely. She set the box on his chair. “Got a package for you,” then tilted her head sideways, “I think this one is a little later than it was supposed to be, but it was just dropped off at the front door.”

  “Who’s it from?” He opened an email on his laptop.

  “It says it’s from ‘Jon Morgan’—”

  Clark’s spine straightened.

  “—isn’t that one of your patients?”

  “Um. Yeah, it was.” He realized that he stood up. “I’m afraid he just passed away a couple days ago.”

  Her face crinkled, “Oh my gosh! I’m sorry, Dr. Bell.”

  “It’s okay, Amanda.” He looked at the box. It was bigger than it had first appeared when it was carried through the door. He could see a few different post office markings on it. As if it had come from somewhere out of town. As if he wanted to delay it’s delivery.

  What have you done now, Jon?

  “Are you okay? I can leave it in the lobby for awhile if you want.” She lifted the box again, her chubby arms wrapping around it.

  He waved a hand, “No, no. It’s okay, Amanda. I just…it’s a little bit like seeing a ghost, you know.”

  “So you want me to leave it here?”

  “Yes.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes, Amanda. Thank you.”

  “Are you sure?” She persisted, “You look a little bit on the pale side, doc. You should probably sit down and get a breath or something.”

  “I’m fine. Like I said, just a bit of a surprise, is all. Would you mind giving me a little bit of privacy, maybe shut the door and screen my calls for…I don’t know, about an hour?” The air around him felt thick, as if there were suddenly vapor that his lungs were trying to sift.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to bother you.” Her glasses slid down her nose a bit.

  “It’s okay, no problem at all.”

  She shuffled out of the room, he could hear her flip flops drag on the carpet in a way that seemed designed to maximize friction, until they started to squeak and patter against the tile of the hallway. She pulled the wooden door behind her, letting it fall closed, which sounded more akin to a prison cell shutting than the office of a therapist. He stood frozen for a moment, staring at the box, spotting the all too familiar handwriting that was scribbled on the address label of the box. Written in crude Sharpie marker. Just a black splotch, but splattered out into loose shapes.

  What in the world have you done, Jon?

  Two strides across the office brought him close enough to pull down the blind on the glass window of the door, and he turned quickly around to look at the package, in the back of his mind he could have sworn that it moved when he had turned his back.

  Clark walked over to the chair, leaning over it, and stared at the various labels again. Trying to piece together the various stampings that had been hastily pounded into the soft surface, marking it’s trip across the roads before it finally arrived at his office. He traced a finger along the line of the oldest looking one. “Manteo.” He whispered. A good two and a half hours away. Close to the home of the late great Andy Griffith, who probably never could have imagined the idea of something so morbid being sent from that place.

  A long way from Mayberry.

  He picked it up, and realized that it probably weighed close to ten pounds. The contents shuffled like papers, and he set it onto the desk. Scooted away the book he had been glancing through, and nearly sent the tape recorder careening toward the edge yet again. He felt it settle, and something hard knocked against the side.

  From the drawer closest he pulled a pair of scissors, short and stubby, and opened them to place the cutting edge against the tape on the box, which parted as the blade scraped across the surface. It drew the air from the office into the sealed
container inside, a breath into the mustiness.

  He tossed the scissors to the side and tore the rest of the tape apart at the ends and pulled the flaps open, letting them flex as he let go before bending them back again. On top of the box was a pile of packing peanuts. They crinkled against his hand as he dug through them and he was again struck by how un-peanut like they really were. His fingers fished until they caught an envelope. He pulled it out of the mass and leaned back into his chair as he pulled it up out of the fold.

  Dr. Bell. It read on the front. He flipped it around and saw a small note scribbled on the rear flap: Open this first.

  His thumb slid across the paper, cleaving it in uneven, torn chunks, like teeth carefully being pulled out of the gum leaving horrendous bleeding gaps. He felt inside was a sheet of plain college-ruled notebook paper, much like the one that he had seen only a couple days ago with Morrison, and when he slid it out of the confines, it crinkled against his touch. On the corner he could see a date, written carefully in pencil.

  It was only five days old.

  Dr. Bell,

  You’re reading this after I have left this world. By now, you know that, I guess. First, let me say that I’m sorry. This was something that I think in one way or another we both knew was coming—it was inevitable. But I do want you to know that it was not your fault and there was nothing you could have done. What is happening is much bigger than both of us, and my death is an inconsequential matter in the grand scheme of things. I just poked around in the wrong places.

  Second, I don’t want you to think that I gave up. My death was not of my own choice, and even though the reality that I took the time to package this and write this letter before the fact seems to fly in the face of that, as you follow the clues that I have left you, you will come to understand. I did not give up, I did not give in. I faced the darkness with your help and I am forever grateful to you. I never would have made it this far without you.

  Clark set the letter down a moment. Dread settled in the back of his mind, like a deep storm cloud, strangling his thoughts. He could not look at the letter for a moment, sure that it would unleash either a fit of rage or sorrow, maybe both. In two paragraphs every dark thought that had danced at the edge of his consciousness since he had seen the crooked-jawed corpse had re-emerged like cockroaches seeping out of the shadowy corners and cupboards of his subconscious. “Dear God…” He whispered, but found the rest of the sentence smothered.

  Why Jon? Why are you doing this?

  He continued reading.

  My death was part of something that is going to continue unless somehow it is stopped. I have sent you everything I know, inside you will find some of the info I’ve collected.

  The dreams, Dr. Bell, I’m not the only one. The dreams mean something. They have continued and they will continue until the coming. Other people are having them, and they all agree that they are getting closer. The Ones in the dream are getting closer.

  I know I sound like a rambling madman, and maybe I am. Truth is, I don’t care anymore. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I pray to God that you do, because someone has to stop them. Someone has to help. They have found me, they’re close and they’re going to do me in. I started hearing them now. I see them now. They breached the dream world, and they are hunting me, every corner, every shadow. Don’t let them find you. Don’t let them take you.

  Stay away, and be careful. But please, for the love of God stop them.

  The door is coming open.

  It ended abruptly, and Clark re-read the last few paragraphs carefully. Unable to believe that Jon had gotten that bad before the end. He had not reported any of that to him, and he had never even spoke of the voices and the shadows, all key signs that could have—should have—been managed. In his mind he saw Samantha standing there, staring him down, accusing him, wondering why he had left Jon alone to die. Gradually, he began to wonder the same thing and cursed himself for it.

  But in the long run what did it change? Jon was still dead, and he did not do it to himself, technically. He died from a disease that somehow had rooted so deeply in his brain and melded so tightly with his personality it had become invisible until the end. But the end was the time it had needed to be seen, and he had failed miserably As a doctor he had failed to see the illness taking hold, like a cancer that was eating away at the man’s mind and clawing so deep, but he had not been able to stop it. But did that really change what happened? Hadn’t he done everything he could? Or was he just as much to blame as anyone for not helping the man when he had a chance—if he had been more strict, if he had been more aware of what was going on in those dreams, in those sessions…

  But how do you see something so well hidden? How could it be so well hidden? If he was showing signs of it then wouldn’t they have been obvious? Would he have seen him addressing voices or shadows that were not really there?

  What was he going to do? God knew the answer to that.

  I have sent you everything I know.

  He looked at the box. Filled with papers, photos and heaven knew what else. In it he knew was probably everything but the answer that he really needed. He would learn everything he never wanted to know but not a whit as to what he really needed. Inside were not the answers that would satisfy Samantha, Morrison, or those cruel voices that whispered to him as he laid back at night and tried to sleep—the same ones that whispered from the framed photo on the kitchen counter.

  Clark tossed the letter on the desk again, next to the box. The same feeling that washed over him when he had seen the corpse began to rain down from above, as if God Himself were forcing him to look into the black mirror of helplessness and disgust. He saw nothing but the loose jaw and filthy purple bruises sitting on soft skin of what had once been a handsome face of a kind, if not disturbed, young man who had the world sitting at his feet. God made him stare at the face, and remember that he had not made any difference at all in that young man’s life—but he was just as much to blame as the car that had hit him, or perhaps the voices that had haunted his every waking moment, unaided by proper treatment.

  He turned to his trash can, and vomited.

  3

  The church was quiet. To the sides of the nave, pillars sat. Gently ornamented with old statues of angels who looked calm but at the same time ready for war. Clark sat on a rickety pew, the kneeler in front of him shifted when he bumped it with his foot. In front of him was a very small cluster of people, most who looked like parishoners of the small congregation, and Samantha, who was off to the side in a sleeveless black dress.

  Father Capaldi, he assumed, was at the front, preparing the lectern. His footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, barely dulled by the rich red carpet that ran down the center of the aisle, worn in front of the pews where some would stop to genuflect before approaching the table during the usual Eucharist service.

  Clark saw the casket to the front, open, and surrounded by off-white flowers, each one seeming to have been touched by the death that surrounded the occasion, browning around the edges. A picture of Jon, taken sometime in the past year was framed and set on a small table to the side. On it was a candle, representing something he knew that he probably understand the meaning of.

  His eyes drifted again toward Samantha. She had not met his gaze, her eyes seemed cold and distant. Due to the sleeveless dress he could see that her left arm had a swirl of tattoos running down it, bright and colorful like a garden—flowers twisting this way and that. On her other arm were only a couple, the main work was focused on her left arm. He saw a dragon, colorful and actually playful looking, swirling through the vines down to her forearm.

  The priest approached the lectern and he tore his attention away and focused on looking straight ahead. “The service will begin after the final guests have arrived. We dare not start without them.” He stopped and coughed harshly to the side. “After all, they are the reason we are here.” A grin, revealing his bottom line of teeth to be a light pink.

  Wh
at is that supposed to mean? Clark looked around the room again, glancing back to the doors that separated the foyer from the rest of the room, and saw nothing.

  Something brushed past his foot and he looked down in time to see a tail wriggle away under the pew, the familiar scratching of claws on tile much like a cat or dog sounded. He stood and turned around to see a rat running through the building as fast as it could toward the door.

  Another joined him from a far corner, and yet another rushed past him down the center aisle.

  He heard a creaking from the front of the room and turned to see the other side of the coffin wide open, and whoever was inside was sitting up straight. Not another soul had moved, but the man-body-corpse slowly began to turn his head toward the back of the building.

  Clark felt ice crawl down his spine as if it the chill were one of the rats fleeing the back of the building.

  The priest smiled and began to chuckle softly.

  None of the parishoners moved. Samantha stayed stationary.

  The corpse turned all the way around and Jon, with crooked jaw hanging, stared at him. In a black suit with a rotting tie, mold spots standing out against his white shirt stared with crossed and jelly eyes, the agape jaw falling open further as he slowly lifted an arm.

  Clark looked again at the priest, who was still laughing, blood seeping in black and crimson streams from his mouth, falling onto his surplice, covering it in crimson streaks. He raised his hands as if mocking the adoration that occurs in the Eucharist and lifted his voice loudly, laughing: “Let the Elder Ones come back again! The door will open!”

  Jon lifted his arm fully and pointed to the back of the building, turning his attention away from Clark, and held a crooked, broken finger in that direction, his glazed eyes burned with demented terror as he stared. From his mouth cockroaches wriggled out and crawled into hiding holes in the suit.