Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  "But you still remember your first episode? The one in college?"

  "Oh, yeah," Trey whispered. "Yeah, I remember that one all too clearly."

  His first psychotic break. First real one. He'd walked into the dorm cafeteria and found himself in a circus. The people around him juggled their food, their faces painted with makeup. Rabbits danced on the trays behind the sneeze guards. He had laughed and laughed right up until they called the health center to come pick him up.

  Her pen scratched against the notebook. "So your long-term memory is still okay," she said to herself. "Was this delusion like that one?"

  Trey shrugged. He shifted his legs, his jeans rubbing together. "I. Don't. Know. I, well, I didn't enjoy this one, that's for sure."

  Kinkaid pushed her glasses up on her nose. Her fiery red hair was still in its tight bun. It was early enough that it hadn't begun to free itself. Trey knew from experience that as the day wound on, more and more hair would struggle loose from the bobby pins.

  "Trey? I'm talking about the feeling surrounding the delusion. Was this as real or more real than the first one."

  "Much more. I actually felt breath. I smelled. I--" His voice trailed off. He struggled to find the words. "I felt it. Cold. Stone. Bone. It was real," he said.

  She frowned. "Do you still think it was real?"

  Trey shook his head. "The bed wasn't torn to ribbons. I didn't have any marks on my skin." Other than the ones Carolyn put there last night, he thought to himself. "So it couldn't have been real."

  "What about the ice cream van?"

  "If I accept," he said after a moment, "that last night was a delusion, then I guess I have to convince myself the ice cream van was too. One can't be real without the other."

  "Well," Kinkaid replied, "I wouldn't go that far. In this case, however, I agree with you."

  A tingle of fear crawled up his spine. "What do you mean 'in this case?'" he asked.

  She tapped the pen against the notebook again. "Minds like yours are very susceptible to suggestion. Yes?" He nodded. "So if you see something on television or in a movie, especially if it really fires up that right brain of yours, then your brain may try and recreate it later. Do you watch horror movies?"

  Trey shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  "They feel too real to me. I just-- I don't enjoy being frightened."

  Kinkaid chuckled. "Okay, what about science fiction?"

  "I don't watch many movies or much television," Trey admitted.

  "Right. But you do read?" He nodded. "And you read non-fiction and technical books, right?" He nodded again. "Why?"

  Trey shrugged. "I don't know. Something about the logic in them calms me, I guess."

  "Sure. This is sort of what I mean. You drown your right brain in facts, figures, and history. Scientific concepts and even philosophy take the right brain to visualize, but the left brain to analyze. You always talk about your brain being loosely wired."

  "Yeah, I think of it as a malfunctioning motherboard. It's got some blown capacitors."

  She waved a hand. "Whatever. The wires that hold the right brain from overtaking the left are a bit frayed in places. Every once in a while, something fires in your right brain that your left can't make sense of, or stop. You experience hallucinations. You suffer from delusions that things are real that aren't even there." She paused, watching the realization on his face.

  "So my brain is taking in the real world, but putting...visitors in it?"

  "Yes, and no. What I'm saying is that your brain processes informa- tion out of sequence sometimes. So when you see something you don't necessarily understand, your right brain captures the information and then will reprocess it later. Sometimes they come out as waking dreams."

  Trey nodded to himself and stared down at the floor. "So what do we do about it?"

  "We change your meds, Trey."

  He shook his head.

  "I know you hate the drugs. And it took us a long time to find something that didn't make you impotent or sick. But we're just going to have to hunt down something else."

  "Fuck," he muttered. "The last time we did this, I could barely function for three months."

  "I know," Kinkaid said softly. "This is not an exact science, Trey. Never was." She looked at her watch. "What time is your wife coming back?"

  "About twenty minutes or so."

  "Good. I want to spend a little time researching something. Then I'll come give you your scrip, okay?"

  Trey nodded and stood. "I should--"

  "You should call me immediately if you have another...episode. And I mean immediately. You're going to have to wean yourself from your current medication while you switch over to the new stuff."

  "So take less of the former and more of the newer?"

  "Right," she said with a smile. "Until you get to a low enough dosage to just stop the old stuff." She rose from her seat and offered her hand. He shook it. "We'll figure it out, Trey. Go wait for me and I'll be there in a few minutes."

  "Thanks, Doc." He returned her smile and walked into the waiting room.

  Chapter 17

  Trey sat in front of the computer. The monitor was filled with lines of code. His Pidgin IM icon blinked to let him know he had new messages. He ignored it. The code on the screen, the email client with its 15 new messages, and the IM notifications barely crossed his consciousness.

  The house was empty again.

  Kinkaid had called the pharmacy for him, placing the prescription order. By the time Carolyn drove him to it, the scrip was ready. He and Carolyn had barely spoken until they reached the pick-up window.

  Once the pharmacist handed over the small bag with the new meds and Carolyn had closed the window, she turned to him. "We'll find it again, you know. We'll find something that works"

  Trey looked at her. "I don't want to go back to the hospital." He swallowed hard. "But I will. If I can't-- If I can't get over this."

  She reached over, placed her hand atop his. "We're not going to let that happen."

  He smiled at her. "You must be as crazy as I am," he said softly.

  "I--" A car behind them leaned on its horn, causing them both to jump. Carolyn flushed crimson, turned around and waved at the driver behind them. The driver responded with the middle finger salute and Carolyn laughed. "Okay, let's get you home."

  Trey re-adjusted himself in his seat. New meds. Empty house. Alan was at school. He couldn't focus. He took a deep breath and drank from his warm can of soda.

  Kinkaid had tried to put his mind at ease. Carolyn tried to do the same.

  Trey stared at the pharmacy bag on the desk. He ripped it open, read the side effect clauses with some disinterest, and then popped the child-proof cap. Ninety small, yellow hexagons stared back at him.

  He took his normal meds three times a day. In an hour or so, he'd skip his normal med, and swallow a hexagon. "It'll be a few days before the meds really start doing their job," Kinkaid had said. Yeah, Trey was well aware of that. Psych meds always took a while to hit the system. Up to thirty days in many cases. But Kinkaid seemed to think he'd start to feel the effects sooner. Trey doubted it.

  The ghoul. That thing in his bed. Trey shuddered. "Christ, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep again?" Carolyn's naked body flashed in his mind. He smiled. "Oh yeah," he thought, "that worked." Trey tittered to himself and opened the IM window.

  There were at least a dozen messages from Bangalore. They were pissed about his code refactor. Trey sighed. He wasn't going to respond to them. He'd increased the performance and already written more test cases than they'd dreamed of. In short, he was kicking their ass. He wondered how long it would be before Isometrics Inc. just dumped the Indian outsourcing firm altogether and hired him full time.

  He closed the chat windows, changed his status to "away from desk," and opened his email client. A couple of spam messages had managed to get past the filter. Sighing, he selected them and sent them to data heaven. Then he found an email from Dick. The subj
ect line said "Ice Cream Van."

  He frowned. Dick normally sent him jokes and images from 4chan. In fact, Trey couldn't remember ever having received a serious email from his neighbor.

  Trey opened it. The email had only a single line of text in it. "Want to have lunch?" He stared at the email for a moment, considering. Dick would want to talk about the incident. He'd want to know how Trey was doing. But Trey knew what Dick would really be asking: are you crazy?

  Trey clicked the reply button. "Not today. Maybe later in the week." He clicked send.

  Five hours until he'd meet Alan at school. Five hours. Trey yawned. The new meds. They were already throwing off his schedule. Trey cursed and stood from his chair. He put the linux box to sleep and raised his hands toward the ceiling, feeling the tension in his back release as his spine popped.

  A nap. He'd need that. He was already well ahead on his work assignment-- he could afford a little time for himself. Besides, the meds would more than likely keep him up all night anyway. Trey yawned again and walked to the couch. He lay down, closed his eyes, and was asleep a moment later.

  Chapter 18

  "Scooby-dooby-doo, where are you?" a phantom voice growls into song. "We got some work to do now." There is no light here, only the damp, the cold, the stench of shit and piss and fear. "Scooby-dooby-doo--"

  A whimper in the dark. A child's last reserve of sound from a strained and broken throat. Syllables mouthed, but not heard. There is nothing left to give voice to them. The constant cries for Mommy still echo in the child's mind, but they are so far away.

  There is no sleep here--only the continual nightmare of the dark, the scratching sounds outside the door, and the fear that when the door once again opens and fills the space with light, the bad man will be there again. Green eyes staring down with malice and confusion.

  "Scooby-dooby-doo--" The constant droning growl cuts off and the child's breath catches in his throat. Scratch. Scritch, scratch. The child shuffles back in the dark until he hits the wall. He can feel the slick texture of his own shit as it slides against his skin.

  He has to get away from the door, because the bad man--

  Scritch. Click. The boy tries to scream, but nothing comes out but a hiss of air.

  Creak. Metal sliding. Click. A vertical sliver of light that stings his eyes. The scream finally finds vocal cords and the world explodes as the sliver detonates into light.

  Chapter 19

  The daylight coming through the windows had softened. Afternoon was giving way to the winter darkness as the sun descended toward the horizon. Trey opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His phone alarm bonged three times. He glanced at it. It was 1630.

  "Oh, fuck," he said in a sleep choked whimper.

  He jumped up from the couch, grabbing the phone as he headed to the stairs.

  "Alan?" he called up the staircase.

  No response.

  His heart skipped a beat and then became a thrash metal rhythm. He was late. An hour late to walk Alan home.

  "ALAN!" he yelled.

  No response save for the house heater.

  Trey scooped up his keys from the credenza and ran to the front door. His hand struggled with the dead-bolt and he cursed. His fingers finally managed to unclench enough to swivel it open. He opened the front door, stepped out, and locked it behind him.

  A mile. A mile to make it to the school. Trey didn't bother looking at the small children playing in their yards. He didn't see Dick sitting in a chair on his patio reading a book. He didn't notice the concerned look on other adults' faces as his legs pumped him forward through the block and to the T leading to the main road. He didn't realize he was talking to himself either.

  "Alan," he said with each chuffing breath. "Alan."

  In the distance, he heard the ice cream van's music. A pang of fear rippled up his spine, leaving him shaking despite the burning in his lungs and legs. Sweat poured off him, staining his sweatshirt and further chilling him in the cold air. He pumped harder, each step pounding into the concrete.

  He reached the cross-roads. He could either run through the vacant lots and take the back way to the school, or run through the path he and Alan always took.

  "Have to get there," he mumbled through ragged breaths.

  He headed for the lots, running as fast as he possibly could.

  Alan. Alan would be standing in the playground, leaning against a tree with his backpack on the ground. He'd be kicking at a pinecone, or maybe playing with a stick. Alan would have his pack open, running through his homework, and wondering where Daddy was.

  Or maybe the ice cream man had been there. Maybe the ice cream man had seen him, alone and waiting. Vulnerable. The adults and other children would be long gone, heading home for dinner, homework, and evening activities.

  Alan would have no more of that. Alan would be in the ice cream van, his broken, eviscerated body stuffed into one of the refrigerator cases. Huge hunks of meat would already be missing from his bloodless body. The thing in the driver seat would laugh, chewing on a piece of fat from his baby boy. Or maybe picking gristles of flesh from between its teeth with a severed finger.

  Trey ran through the vacant lot, his shoes sinking into the dirt with each step, brambles ripping at his jeans. He was completely oblivious to the scratches and tears and the trickles of blood seeping through the denim. He could see the side of the school now. He knew he should slow down. His heart hammered in his chest so hard, he heard nothing else.

  The school. He could see the school. Another 50 yards and the play- ground would be in view.

  Without thinking he turned and ran a diagonal path past the last house near the school. He nearly tripped over a four-year old playing in the yard, but kept going; he hadn't even seen the small child.

  The playground was just ahead. He could just make out the wooden jungle gym. Another 25 yards and he'd be able to see the entire playground. He ran across the street, not noticing the squeal of tires or the high pitched honk of a car. His feet stumbled over the curb, but he managed to keep his balance. Suddenly, the entire playground came into view.

  "No," Trey said as he slowed his pace and finally stopped. "No," he said again, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.

  The shrieking bells of the ice cream van in the distance, were a constant soundtrack to the triphammer of his heart and ragged breathing. Every part of his body burned, but he only felt the deep black starting to take him over.

  "ALAN!" he screamed across the vacant playground.

  Nothing.

  Bells. He turned his head. Bells. Already the truck would be heading toward his house. Trey pumped his aching legs, heading for the main street leading to his block. Another car horn; a frustrated driver rolled down a window to scream at him.

  Trey kept moving, his long dark hair bouncing in a tangled mess. Sweat drenched his shirt in the cold air. He wanted to scream Alan's name again, but couldn't find his voice.

  He imagined the thing in the van munching on a wet, muscled femur as it drove with one sticky, blood soaked claw. The thing. The ghoul. It was humming to itself in the gore streaked van cabin, its gravelly voice turning a child's rhyme into something obscene and odious.

  Trey could see the back of the van now. It rambled down the street.

  "STOP!" Trey managed to scream. The sound was as broken and ragged as his breathing. Each footstep brought him closer to the van, and the darkness in his soul threatened to collapse him.

  Alan was in there. Alan was dead. Alan was nothing more than a gutted human husk hanging from a hook, bloody juices dripping into a puddle on the floor. Alan's face would be frozen in a scream of confusion and terror.

  Trey was getting closer, but his steps were slowing. He had pushed himself close to collapse and his vision was fading in and out. He stumbled, but managed to keep upright. With each footstep, his body screamed in pain.

  The van was so close now. He saw a face in its side mirror. Blood streaked across the hollow cheekbone of a
half grinning face. Eyes glowed yellow, those crimson swirls glaring at him. It laughed.

  The van stopped. Trey slowed his pace as its door opened and the thing climbed out.

  Its once white uniform was streaked with gore and gray matter. It opened its mouth in greeting.

  "Your son was exquisite," it growled.

  Trey screamed again, lost his balance and fell to the concrete.

  Chapter 20

  The hospital smelled of Pinesol. Trey sat in the bed, a blanket wrapped around him. He'd gone into shock in the ER, and they'd admitted him immediately. Carolyn had given the doctor Trey's somewhat formidable list of medications and it had taken a while for them to come to the conclusion there was very little pain medication they could give him other than Advil.

  He'd nearly passed out while they took x-rays of his broken arm and dug the gravel from his face. They set and cast his arm and he had blacked out.

  Trey woke in the hospital bed, Carolyn at his side in a plastic chair, Alan fast asleep in her lap.

  "You should go," he whispered.

  She looked up at him and smiled. "How do you feel?"

  Trey blinked and then winced. His arm still hurt like hell, but at least the bones no longer clicked together. "Like I'm broken."

  She nodded. "I didn't want to leave until you woke up. I--" She swallowed. "I left you alone last time, and I'm not going to do that again."

  He smiled, wishing he could hold out his hand to her, feel her fingers entwined in his. But the thought of moving the arm brought fresh stabs of pain.

  "I know I'm not alone, Carolyn," he whispered. "Why don't you take Alan home?"

  A tear welled up in her eye and she nodded. "You're going to be okay here?"

  "I'm going to be okay. I'm sure Kinkaid will be here soon."

  Carolyn sniffed back a sob. Alan twitched in her arms. "I'll come by tomorrow?"

  "Call me," Trey said. "You have Kinkaid's number too?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  Alan murmured something and his arms tightened around her neck.