Sleep Revised

by Wright, Michael

  “But it goes farther than that.” He reached into the folder, and pulled out a couple of prints. Crime-scene photos. They were dated for over nine months ago, Clark could see. “These photos are pretty graphic, but I think you’ll understand a little better if you see them for yourself. Me describing them doesn’t do it justice, exactly.” He huffed, “If we can even pretend to use the word ‘justice’ about any of this anymore.”

  Clark took the pictures, and braced himself for the worst. He was not disappointed.

  7

  The graffiti below her stared up, peering past the narrow alley that surrounded it and into the window two stories up in the air. It’s gaze chilled her. She felt a sinister shadow snake it’s way up her spine, slithering through her vertebra, pausing for a moment to hiss through her stomach. She let go of a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and from the corner of her eye spotted a smear on the window, and with a second glance noticed that it was a crudely shaped cross, obviously drawn with a finger. It was foggy and smudged, as if it was drawn in haste.

  She glanced at the eye again and pulled herself away from the window, trying to ease away from the grip of the snake that was slowly coiling it’s way around her body, raising the hairs on her arms and tingling down her back. She fought the feeling of someone breathing down her neck and rubbed her forearm absentmindedly, her fingers scraped up the jacket and ran across the tattooed surface. The curtain fell closed in front of her, carried by it’s own weight, and she felt herself take another step backwards.

  The apartment faded further into darkness again as the curtain fell closed. She turned around to face it again, trying her best to ignore the tall black figure in the far corner close to the bathroom door that had greeted her when she first arrived. It stood and stared at her with ferocious malevolence. It was making her more uneasy as she stayed in the apartment with it.

  How did Jon stay in the same room with that thing? She wondered.

  Sam took a step forward and stopped, she saw something behind the couch. It was sticking out just a little past the corner of the chair and was obviously short enough that she had missed it when she first walked in.

  She approached it and saw the edges of a palette and she picked it up. It was smeared with heavy darks and reds, there was a few spots where green paint had been placed, but barely used. It was mingled with streams of black, spidery tendrils of dark colors that hid deep inside the forest-like tint to the entire color. It looked like black blood leaking into the green of new life.

  She set it on the back of the couch and bent down to pick up the black bag that was leaned against the couch, pulling it up with some struggle. It was a large portfolio bag, and from what she could feel it was full of canvas, possibly painted on.

  The bag flopped against the back of the couch as she reached around and grabbed the zipper, slicing it open with the sound of the small fasteners disconnecting. To her it sounded like they were snickering at her. Inside she could hear the rustle of canvas and reached inside and pulled the top one out. It was thick, and high quality.

  She had known Jon always had an interest in sketching, just like she did. Their artistic bent maybe found different expressions, and she wondered why he had never mentioned painting to her. It seemed like something he had done enough of. The black figure on the wall was enough to testify to that. But the fact that he seemed to have an entire bag of canvas sketches, a wide selection of colors, and an honestly good mastery of form and shape made her wonder what it was that had kept him from sharing it with her. Did Clark know? Was this some part of his therapy?

  The top canvas pulled out in her hand, and she saw instantly it was a portrait, carefully drawn of this dark and shadowy figure. There was a mixture of dark green and almost yellow light behind him, mingled with unbreakable shadow. There was the outline of his head and shoulders, done vaguely, what was in the light was a dark gray suit with a white shirt. The white was mottled and grainy, the gray seemed to be tinted with a strange off-light, and the black tie that sliced it down the middle mixed in with the shadows over the face.

  Below it she saw a script drawn in with what appeared to be something that was like white chalk: “Providence”.

  Sam pulled another picture from the pile. It was darker than the last one around the edges, and she could vaguely make out a few small details of it, and felt the breath leave her quickly when she did. The snake slithered out of it’s hole and began to climb again.

  A sick feeling overtook her and she set the canvas down, taking it in full view and took in a sharp breath, trying to get more air into her lungs.

  From the canvas, she saw herself staring back, with deep black eyes and a large void where her mouth belonged. The picture depicted her as naked, with long tentacle-like arms wrapping around her, covering her breasts and groin, one reached up from between her legs and curled around mid stomach. Around her there were people, but the people were smaller somehow, as if she were a giant that dwarfed them. Her skin was paler, and but her features were undeniable, it was her, staring out of a black abyss.

  8

  The warning that was given had been minimal and not prepared Clark for what they contained. He was used to seeing some pretty brutal things after treating people with particularly violent pasts for a few years—but the visceral disturbing nature of the photos that were in front of him were some of the worst he had seen. Perhaps it was because he saw the picture of the girl before, and he was only used to picking up the pieces after something had happened, not knowing what had come before, making it easier to disassociate. Perhaps it was because what he saw was just plain evil.

  “Dear God in heaven…” He whispered, only vaguely aware he was saying it. He looked at Morrison.

  Morrison said nothing, only nodded.

  There was a black stain that he knew was blood. It was all over the tile floor, terribly crusted against the white that would never again be spotless. Off to the side was a pile of towels and a vague shape on top, he thought he knew what it was, but he didn’t want to think about it.

  He flipped over to the next photo, it was the nude corpse of a young girl, the niece, he could tell from the facial features, who was covered in cuts and bruises. Her face was horrified and twisted in agony. He also saw her legs were missing from mid-thigh down, raw and leaking stumps that were covering the floor with the brown-black-red blood.

  There was a bathtub in the next one, water turned gruesomely pink. He turned back to the girl and saw that there was one vertical slash across her left arm, what had probably turned the water pink. It was normally a mark of suicide, but it looked nothing like that in the other pictures.

  A horrifying possibility settled over him and he pushed down the bile that trickled up his throat.

  The final print was two pictures, the first of the tile wall behind the bathtub. There was only a single word that was painted across the tile, smeared in the thickness of the blood he knew, it said simply: “Open”.

  He looked down at the second picture, and saw this was a picture of the corpse again, only of her back. In the soft area just above her buttocks, there was a thick carving, in the shape of an eye. A hellish tramp stamp that marked her forever. The eye was carved there deeply, and it seemed more scarred than the other wounds she bore. It had been put there before her demise. He didn’t dare think how soon before.

  “Dear God in heaven,” he said again, “I wish I could still finish a prayer.” He looked up to Morrison. “I know that’s more your thing these days though.” He shook his head and set the last print down on top of the other photos. “These were from a crime scene?”

  “Yes.” Morrison said.

  “Then how can you show them to me?”

  “The case is considered closed. But it’s not closed to me.” His voice was heavy, thick with emotion.

  Clark stared down at the photos, saw the picture of the girl’s corpse, covered in blood, severed at the thighs. “How could it possibly be closed?” Blood had smeared her jaw,
dripping crookedly downward in a sadistic and waiting smile.

  “It was ruled a suicide.”

  Clark felt that dull gray feeling creep back into his stomach.

  He pointed to the pile of towels in the corner of one photo, “We found a small, crude hacksaw in that pile. She used it to cut off her own legs before she died. How she managed more than one is beyond us. The slash on her arm was not deep, from a razor blade. It’s like she started then changed her mind and went to the hacksaw. I guess one way wasn’t violent enough for her.”

  Clark swore under his breath.

  “It gets worse.”

  How is that even possible?

  “Her body was examined thoroughly, and there was something that happened to her before this. They ruled it a suicide because of what they found. That scar on her back? That was part of it.”

  Clark leaned in.

  He thought of the pictures he had seen in Jon’s file, and the stories. They were pretty light compared to what he was looking at now. He thought of the pictures on the eye and the research he was doing, and wondered how he had missed the story.

  Morrison glanced to the kitchen. “Can I maybe get a cup of that coffee?”

  Clark looked over and saw the pot had finished brewing. “Yeah, sure.” He said, looking once again at the pile of pictures that had been set on the desk, His stomach shifted again when he did, and he pushed down the chill that tingled on his arms.

  Morrison cleared his throat, and nodded. “Thanks.”

  Clark walked into the kitchen and reached for a couple of mugs, deciding to forsake the coffee he had previously been drinking. “Do you have to go in to the office today?” He tried to pull the detective away from the subject for a moment, not sure if that was a good idea or a poor one.

  “Not for a few more hours.”

  Clark nodded, noting the clock. It was just at eight in the morning, he had a couple hours before the office opened and three until his first session, though the week had been pretty clear. He didn’t know how focused he would be able to be with the images that would be stained in his brain. As he grabbed the pot and poured the black brew into the white mug, the blood that had stained the tile flashed in his mind.

  “She was raped.”

  Clark turned. Morrison was staring down at his hands.

  “She was gang raped. They ran the kit on her, she was raped and sodomized. Then they cut that thing into her back. Before they did that they used the knife to abuse her. From what they could tell it was a long hunting knife, or something like that. It pierced her cervix. They don’t know who the people were, or why she was there.”

  Clark finished pouring the cups and brought one over to Morrison.

  “I was there when she was born. I was there when she was baptized, I was there a whole lot of times. And I never expected…I never could have dreamed that something like this could happen. She was my god-daughter, you know? Hell of a godparent I am.” He reached for the cup.

  “I’m sorry.” Clark said.

  Morrison grunted, “You and me both.” He sucked down a hard, hot gulp.

  “Did the parents know something was wrong?”

  “She didn’t tell them. They didn’t know she was home, and they went out when she finished it.” He rubbed his forehead with a burly hand. “They were the ones who found her, all chopped up like that. They thought someone had killed her. My brother searched the house with his revolver in hand, and almost shot his wife when he rounded a corner. Can you imagine that?”

  Clark didn’t want to admit that he could in some small degree, the amount of people who had accidental deaths due to guns was astounding, and he couldn’t recall how many he had actually counseled himself.

  “There was a note. There was a long note, actually. It was left on her computer and open. It explained the rape, it apologized. I don’t know. It was your general suicide note, almost like she downloaded a template online or something. But it doesn’t explain it. It doesn’t do this part justice.” He gestured to the pictures. “All I can think of when I look at this is that eye. I’ve seen that eye so many times since then. Even when I sleep. It’s always there, waiting for me.”

  “What do you mean?” Clark asked.

  “I dream about it. There are all these shadowy figures, and a door.”

  Clark set his coffee cup back down.

  “She’s there in the room, and I’m struggling against them,”

  Don’t fight them.

  “But I can’t get them away, and I can hear her screaming. I see a leg fly up in the air as they wave it, just like the one at the crime scene, and I scream at them but they keep coming.”

  “Then what?”

  “I see the big doors, and I wake up.”

  Clark took another sip of his coffee. It burned his lips, but he ignored it, he just began to let it pour down his throat. His tongue protested but he poured it down, taking in the bitterness to pull his mind away from the thoughts that haunted him, trying to push it as far out of his mind as he could.

  “You okay?” Morrison asked from miles away.

  Clark continued to guzzle the drink.

  The door will open! The door will open!

  “Clark?”

  The Elder Ones will waken us!

  Morrison grabbed his hand and pulled it down, coffee spilled out on his chin. “Clark!”

  He looked at the detective. “A door?”

  The detective nodded. “A big wooden one.”

  The Elder Ones will subdue us!

  “You okay, man?”

  Clark shook his head. “No.” He looked down at the pictures, the death that they held. He felt it coming through the print to him, flowing like a sick stream. It was like a virus that was infecting everyone it touched, bringing nothing but violence and death.

  “What’s wrong?” He looked at the photos, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown you these…”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what’s up? Morrison leaned in a little bit. “I’m listening.”

  Clark sighed, leaning forward, barely able to register the coffee that was spilled across the front of his shirt. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug in front of him, swallowing against his burned throat. “If Jon was right, then none of us are ever going to be okay again.”

  The Elder Ones will feast on our flesh!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1

  Clark knew he was being followed through the long hallway.

  Every doorway he passed had no door, just a stone room, lit dimly by a candle. He passed by one, glancing inside and saw a shadow. It had hands wrapped around the back of a young woman, who was moaning as the hands slid down. She was naked and covered in sweat and blood. Her face turned, eyes closed, one of them swollen shut and the other one voluntarily closed. Her nose was certainly broken, and blood poured down her face and onto her chest, she moved the hand of the shadow to that spot, and began to sigh. The shadow looked up at him, it had no eyes, but he could feel the stare fixed on him, holding tightly to his gaze.

  Clark broke away from the doorway and went a few more steps, noting the shadows behind him, following closely. They did not speak, or make any threatening motion toward him, but he could feel their presence, as if they were leading him onward—or making sure he would continue to move forward.

  He passed another doorway, and saw two people in that one, with a shadow standing in the corner. It was an old man with a very young woman, barely a teenager, and he had a knife, running it across the loose fabric robe she wore. The soft blade made a hissing sound on the fabric and the man whispered. On his arm was a brand, in the shape of an eye.

  Clark continued on. He heard a scream, then it faded into soft whispers.

  The black brick of the hallway was viscous and left trails in his hand. The liquid was clear and seemed to come from the bricks, as if the walls were bleeding a clear jelly like substance onto his hands. He let go of the wall and wiped the substance on his jeans. He looked behin
d him, and saw the shadows shifting again. His eyes hurt to look at them, and he found it hard to look directly at them. They seemed to disappear in his vision every time he did, but when he forced himself to look at it he could barely make out the dim shapes that were never really still, as if the light around them could not contain their form. Like a bad signal on a television, constantly crackling and breaking up.

  He heard whispering begin toward the end of the hallway. The only thing he could make out was his own name.

  “Hello?” He called.

  No answer. The whispering continued, mutedly. It was only broken by a soft, distant thudding. He stepped past another doorway, seeing it empty, and glanced at the door on the other side of the hallway. There were many shadows inside that one, all with their hands on a woman, her head bowed low, and a knife in her hands. She had it raised, ready to strike herself, her eyes looked over the blade in an insane and hungry fashion. He felt sick looking at it, and forced his eyes to shift away.

  There was a wet thud behind him, and he dared not look, in his mind he could see a dagger drifting down quickly, cutting deep into the soft flesh of her stomach, wriggling around till it found the intestines. It would continue digging through the entrails to find a point it could catch on and string them out like thread on a spool.

  In front of him, he saw a shadow walk through a doorway. It paused to look at him, he could feel the eyes staring at him, breaking through the darkness in the dim light from the candles of each room and into his soul. It turned away from him and into another room, when he entered, there was a scream that was cut off halfway through.

  “Hello?” He called out again into the darkness. There was no echo to his voice. It was as if the voice was being swallowed up by the shadows around him, and that even the cold and cruel stone around him was unable to echo his voice back to him, possibly due to the viscous substance. Or was it due to the shadows not wanting it to echo?