Summon the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  The kitchen. Try the lighter in the kitchen.

  Nodding, she lunged for the door and ripped it open. She stepped over the broken artwork and antiquities that the shadow had shattered in its rage, but she didn’t fear another encounter, because the shadow was inside her now. It had gripped her head and held her eyelids open while it poured itself into her mouth and nose. And once it was inside, she realized it wasn’t really a shadow at all, but millions of spiders moving as one.

  She paused beside the baby’s room, surprised that her daughter was no longer crying. Digging her nails into her neck, she pushed the door open and glanced toward the crib, hoping to find a tiny corpse. It was her fault, after all. Somehow, the baby had summoned the spiders to do her bidding.

  What she found didn’t make any sense. There was a man, broad-shouldered and handsome, holding the baby and rocking her in his arms. And his face glowed with intricate patterns of yellow and pink which swirled together then floated apart like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. The baby reached out and touched the man’s face, fascinated by the colors and movement. Her eyes, which always seemed to blink too much, were wide with amazement.

  There was no time for questions, for the spiders still skittered through her veins. She shut the door and stumbled onward, then tripped over a rug that the shadow had shredded from end to end. Cursing, she got to her feet and used the wall to steady herself. After taking a few deep breaths, she regained her equilibrium and strode to the kitchen. She opened the cabinet next to the stove, reached inside, and grabbed a plastic butane lighter.

  Grinning maniacally, she turned it around in her hands and held it close to her face. But her smile began to fade as she thumbed the top, trying to spin the flint wheel.

  Someone had removed the sparker.

  Tossing the lighter aside, she ripped open the closest drawer. If she couldn’t burn the spiders out, she would cut them out. She rifled through spoons and spatulas, searching for a blade but finding none. She searched the utensil drawer. Nothing, not even a table knife. The knife-block was similarly empty, as was the drawer where her husband kept his pocket knives.

  A tickle ran from her elbow toward her wrist. She clutched the meat of her forearm and squeezed, digging in her thumbnail until blood began to ooze, and still the spiders ran.

  Sucking in deep breaths, she screamed until her throat went raw, then screamed some more.

  The baby shifted in Jarrod’s arms, unsettled by the screams of her mother.

  “Shh,” Jarrod said soothingly. “Everything will be alright. You’re going to be spending more time with your father soon, but that’s a good thing, I promise.” He set her in the crib and backed away, continuing to flush pink and yellow pigments through his skin until he reached the hallway and closed the door. Then, with a single thought, he manipulated the liquid-metal armor on his chest, sending tendrils up his neck until his head was covered. Unleashing a second pulse of electricity through his neurons, he rotated millions of orbs in the armor so they caught and refracted light, rendering him invisible.

  He jogged to the kitchen without making a sound and stopped directly behind the woman. The armor on his right index finger stretched into a glassy needle, and he inserted it into her spinal cord, just below the lowest thoracic vertebra. She twitched and scratched at her back, then began screaming again.

  The “spiders” she had been so vocal about were nothing more than tingling nerves, which he had carefully stimulated with the precision of an acupuncturist. But the trauma he’d inflicted went much deeper. He had fed millions of microscopic machines into her brain and directed them to her frontal lobe, where they wreaked havoc for nearly a minute before returning to his body. The nerve damage would be with her the rest of her life and, if all went according to plan, so would the psychosis.

  “The knives,” he whispered, “You must find the knives.”

  She dug her fingernails into her thigh and held them there as if pinning a subdermal parasite in place. “They have to be around here somewhere,” she moaned.

  Jarrod allowed her to roam from room to room, though he watched to make sure she didn’t enter the nursery. The knives were in the nursery closet, pinning the baby’s stuffed animals to the wall. They would provide additional leverage to social workers—ensuring the woman spent the rest of her life in an institution, far away from her only child.

  When the woman entered the living room and began tossing aside seat cushions, Jarrod leaned in close and said, “The carpet. What if they’ve hidden them under the carpet?”

  He watched with detached interest. Jarrod’s mission was nearly complete—the husband had arrived and would soon witness his wife’s shattered mental state.

  The garage door rumbled open, and a luxury sedan pulled inside. Moments later, a man in his thirties stepped into the kitchen and stopped short.

  “Honey? Is everything okay?”

  “I'm in here,” the woman shouted in response.

  Jarrod knelt beside her, shimmering like waves of heat above summer blacktop. “Use your teeth, it will be faster that way. You must get to the knives.”

  The woman gave a tiny nod, then smashed her face against the carpet. She snarled and shook her head like a dog trying to tear meat away from bone. Her incisors buckled under the strain, then snapped at the roots. But she didn’t relent. With blood pouring down her chin, she placed her cheek against the carpet so she could grip it with her rear teeth.

  “Joanna?” the man gasped as he stepped into the living room. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “The knives,” she grunted, still gripping the carpet. “I need the knives.”

  He rushed to her side and placed a gentle hand on her back. “Joanna, what’s happened to you?”

  She sat back and studied him with wild eyes, then she shoved her hands into his front pockets.

  He recoiled, shocked by her appearance. “You’re a mess.” His brow furrowed, and he added, “Where’s Gemma?”

  “A knife,” Joanna murmured. “I need a knife? Do you have one?”

  He got to his feet and stepped back, then repeated his question. “Where is Gemma?”

  “Selfish baby. Selfish, selfish baby. Always crying.”

  The man’s eyes widened. He lunged forward and grabbed his wife’s face. “Joanna, what have you done?”

  She twisted away and scratched her forearms until her skin turned pink, but didn’t offer a word in response.

  Seeming to come to a clear decision, the man turned on his heel and strode toward the nursery. As he went, he took out his phone and dialed emergency services. “Hello? Yes, this is Arsenio Kent at—he peeked into the nursery, and his shoulders sagged with relief. He rattled off his address, hesitated, then said. “Something’s wrong with my wife. No, I don’t know what it is. She’s biting the carpet and scratching herself, and it looks like she pulled out her hair.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded. “Yes, I can stay on the line.”

  Jarrod waited near the doorway until the paramedics arrived, then slipped outside, unseen. The sun was beginning to set, and he was eager to get home, so he aimed himself toward the edge of the city and broke into a sprint. He reached his father’s comfortable home ten minutes later and allowed his armor to return to inky black. After pulling on a pair of ragged jeans and a sweatshirt that he had stowed in the garden shed, he let himself in through the back door.

  He passed through a mudroom that doubled as the laundry room and wiped his feet on a doormat with the words “Come as you are” printed on the tightly woven fibers. The living room was filled from edge to edge with comfortable, if dated, furniture. Unlike most homes in the modern era, the Hawkins’ residence boasted neither a television nor a computer, although radios of varying sizes could be found in every room. The living room radio, a Bose with an attached soundbar, sat atop a cherry wood table and murmured the words of a public radio host. Jarrod passed it by and turned down a hallway that had been lined with hundreds of framed photographs.

&nbs
p; The names of the children in the photos flashed through Jarrod’s mind, though they triggered no emotion. It wasn’t until he saw Deedee, her face framed with straight black hair, and her arm draped on the shoulder of a younger version of himself, that he felt the sting of sadness. He felt no shame for the results of his most recent mission, but he feared the consequences. He feared that his actions against the abusive woman might be what separated him from Deedee forever.

  As he twisted the brass doorknob to his father’s room, the side-effects of his emotional struggle heightened. His hands shook the way they did when he ran for hours without food. His breathing became shallow, and his heart thrummed a rhythm far faster than usual.

  “Jarrod, you’re back!” The voice was high, angelic.

  He spread his arms, welcoming Deedee into a hug. In the weeks since he came home, he had relearned the appropriate amount of pressure to apply for a “good hug,” triggering positive neurochemical releases in his sister’s brain. “I can’t stay away; not when I know you’re here.”

  She smiled as she released her grip. Then she nodded at the bed. “Papa’s feeling better. He was wondering where you were.”

  Adam Hawkins lay on his bed, propped up by a pair of goose-feather pillows. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was pale, but he looked better than he had in the mall parking lot. He smiled, but Jarrod knew it was forced. The man reeked of stress hormones, and micro-expressions on his face betrayed hidden disappointment.

  “Deedee, do you mind giving me and your brother a few minutes of privacy? I’d like to discuss some things with him.”

  Deedee recognized the serious tone in her father’s voice. She gave Adam a quick hug, then patted Jarrod on the back before leaving the room.

  Silence fell. Every few seconds, Adam’s breathing paused as if he was readying himself to speak, but it took him a long time to form his thoughts. Finally, he asked the most direct question he could think of: “Did you go to that woman’s house?”

  Jarrod crossed his hands in front of his waist. “Yes.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  This time, Jarrod didn’t bother differentiating between physical damage and mental trauma, for he had inflicted both. “Yes.”

  Adam studied the quilt covering his lap, unwilling to look his son in the eyes. “Do you feel guilty about what you did?”

  Jarrod inhaled deeply. It would be so easy to lie, but something deep inside forbade him from doing so. Not to his family. Not to his father. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then, what are you feeling right now?”

  Jarrod glanced at his hands, which still quivered uncontrollably. “I feel…damaged.”

  Adam nodded. “And why do you feel that way, do you think?”

  “Because I know what you are going to say. I know the consequences of what I have done, and I wish things could be different. I wish I could feel the guilt and shame that would change your mind, but I can’t.”

  Tears pooled in Adam’s eyes, and he lowered his head. “That’s good. Because I don’t have the strength to say it. It feels like I’m throwing away the gift God gave me when he brought you back.”

  “I’m not back. Not really. And I never will be. I came here because I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I can see I was wrong.”

  Instead of retreating to the door, Jarrod crossed the room and stood by the window. “Thank you for taking care of her. I will be nearby, but I will obey your wishes. You will not see me again.” He raised the window, popped the screen loose, and set it aside. “I would never ask you to lie for me, but please, don’t tell her about the monster I have become.”

  Adam sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist. “You’re not a monster, Jarrod. It’s as you said—you’re damaged. Just like the rest of us.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Goodbye, son.”

  14

  Holy Mountain

  Moffat County, Colorado

  “Fear not, for I am the Lord, and I am with you.”

  Byron Doyl interlaced his fingers behind the small of his back and paced the grand stage, his face warmed by the orange sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows. “Remember, it is only normal to fear the enemy. But to worry in the presence of the Almighty is a sin. I know the gunfire and shouts this morning were unsettling to many of you, but you must forgive our officers for being…jumpy. It has been many months since we have had an outsider among us,” he held an open hand toward the man in the second row. “Hasn’t it, Obadiah?”

  A wave of chuckles rose and fell among the audience.

  “But as it was with our last visitor, so it is with our newest arrival. He is being cared for by Martha herself, and she is introducing him to our faith. Please pray for this young man, that his heart will be softened, and that he will join the blessed Adherents.” Byron studied the faces in the audience for a few moments. “But if he decides to continue on his own path, we will send him with our love and as many provisions as he needs. There is no reason to loathe the lost, for they do not know their sins. Remember, all of you were once lost yourselves.” Byron began pointing at members of the congregation. “Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, Atheist, Catholic, Taoist, Jewish, Protestant, and Mormon. You all followed me in your own ways, but you were not united. You were prisoners of your own guilt, anxieties, and fear. But now I am with you. You have experienced the greatest joys and pleasures that can be had in this world. And under my teachings, you look forward to godhood in the next.”

  Nearly one thousand heads in the crowd bobbed in unison, and a few Adherents murmured, “Amen.”

  “Judge not, and fear not, for you have been chosen to be the first to ascend. As for the lost…one day, we will all be together in heaven.” He touched his thumb to his forehead. “Listen to my voice, children, and be at peace. Do not forsake me, and I will protect you; love me, and I will watch over you.”

  When he had finished, the entire audience boomed in unison, “Thanks be to Wisdom, blessed Son of God.”

  Byron took a deep breath, exhaled, and smiled. “Now, it is the hour of jubilation. As always, there are snacks and beverages in the back, and pastor Dwight will lead you in a few songs. Eat, drink, dance, and be merry, my children.”

  A man with dreadlocks and a distant look in his eyes joined Byron on the stage. He strummed an upbeat rhythm on a guitar, approached the microphone, and began to sing.

  Byron backed through a door at the edge of the stage, then pressed it shut until it clicked. He descended a small stairway, and instead of turning left to join the festivities as he normally did, he turned right and broke into a trot. He passed a pair of classrooms and climbed a wide staircase to reach the Rollins’ living quarters. Though small compared to his palatial penthouse, the Rollins residence was vast and stately in its own right. Martha Rollins was one of his earliest followers, and she knew him better than anyone. Her loyalty was beyond question—she had given birth to seven beautiful children, and three of them were his betrothed. Even when one of the Rollins girls died during a miscarriage with his child, Martha had not held it against him. She had blamed the deaths on her daughter’s sinfulness. The girl had resisted Byron’s advances, even after their wedding, and she stubbornly refused to show any affection to her husband and King. She had listened to the Voice of Evil, and it had led to her demise.

  Secretly, Byron hoped the fatal miscarriage would make the younger sisters more subservient. Superstition ran through Holy Mountain like a wildfire, and he regularly stoked the flames if it suited his purposes.

  The back end of the Rollins home was adjacent to the city clinic, where Martha spent most of her time. Byron entered the sterile white hallway and turned sharply. He paused in front of a steel door, typed a code into the cipher lock, then strode into a hallway with no windows. On either side of the hallway were small, comfortable rooms which were also windowless.

  He smiled. These quarters held a special place in his heart,
for they were the foundation of his city. Here, the nurses instructed the children about the joys of sexual liberation. And on the luxurious sofas or king-sized beds, the young men of Holy Mountain would experience Apotheosis, a sacred ritual to instill the fullness of carnal knowledge.

  It was ingenious, really. The age of consent in Colorado was seventeen, but an exemption in the law allowed anyone under the age of fifteen to engage in sexual congress with someone less than four years older. Byron and the elder Adherents used this exemption to familiarize young girls with sex—legally—during the Apotheosis. Later, when the girls reached puberty, they could be given as brides to one of the men in the city, and their sexual maturity greatly reduced the risk of statutory rape lawsuits. When the wedding night finally arrived, the young ladies would be as comfortable with sex as they were with knitting or cooking.

  In the fifteen years since Byron had moved to Colorado, he had taken more than twenty budding brides for himself. The ritual of Apotheosis was flawless and integrated into every aspect of their religion, which filled him with pride. One of his granddaughters would be participating in the Apotheosis this very week if Cameron Rollins learned to cooperate.

  The cult leader snorted. Cameron was the most stubborn boy Byron had ever known. Stubborn and self-righteous. But he would learn to obey…they all did eventually. After another twelve hours in the Punishment Room, the boy would beg for mercy and do everything he was told.

  And if he didn’t, then maybe it was time to reinstate the tradition of using eunuchs to guard the king’s harem.

  Upon reaching the end of the hallway, Byron depressed the buttons on another cipher lock and pushed through the door. The operating room was less comfortable than the others, but it was clean, organized, and quiet. The walls had been soundproofed so that a patient having a broken bone reset or an abscess cut open wouldn’t disturb the liberation classes or Apotheoses taking place in the other rooms. The private ward had occasionally been used as an interrogation chamber, as it was today with Holy Mountain’s newest and most foolhardy intruder.