The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  She initially thought she was ill, passing out. When she mentioned her blackouts, her friends and family, even her father and mother, changed the subject, ignored her, laughed it off. She was stuck in some sort of cyclic torment and had only herself to rely on. So she did.

  When the blackness would come, she fought it, struggled to stay where she was, in her world, until she finally slipped away. With each episode, she watched, learned, and remembered.

  Things were not as they seemed.

  Yet something followed her from the darkness. A shadow man, a figure cut from the very reality around her, as if someone had taken a knife and sliced away the world, leaving a blank shape of a person, black and empty.

  He—it—was always there now, chasing her, coming for her. To drag her back to this place. Forever.

  She wouldn’t let that happen. She would run and hide, and all the while the people she knew around her were oblivious to his presence, as if she were the only person who could see him. She’d watched. Learned. Explored her boundaries. And remembered. She wasn’t sick. She was Connie, just a name. And that’s all she was.

  Until she’d seen the other. In his world, not hers.

  She wasn’t alone, after all. There was someone else out there, fighting against the darkness. He didn’t understand what was going on yet. But he would, with her help.

  His name was Brody.

  Brody Quail.

  PART III

  MERGE

  Chapter 18

  BRODY52

  Joshua, Maine

  Friday, October 25, 1974

  He found himself standing in his office doorway. Just standing there, leaning against the doorjamb, with no idea why, or when, he’d gotten up from his desk. The house was dark. None of the lights was on in his office or the hallway, so he was bathed in shadows.

  He could hear the steady ticking of his office clock, time inexorably moving forward, further and further away from what used to be his life.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  Tick.

  He used to have moments like this before: periods of time that were nothing but a blank, a lost chunk of life never to be remembered. But he was a drunk then, a worthless, pathetic human being (and maybe still was). He hadn’t touched a bottle since the last time he’d passed out. That night.

  He carefully walked to his desk and flipped the switch on the small lamp sitting on the left corner. He was surprised to see the bottle. Scotch. Half-empty. Resting on his desktop in exactly the spot where he would have placed it.

  He’d ordered Felix to remove all the alcohol from the house, could remember the moment clearly, but for some reason, it was all still here. Even downstairs in the study. In the kitchen. Everywhere he looked, there it was. His old demon, mocking him from within the glass.

  I’ll have to have a word with Felix, he thought sternly, but then again, how many times had he had that exact conversation with the man? Was Felix doing it on purpose? Maybe as a way to punish him for allowing the woman they both loved to be taken from them?

  No. That wasn’t Felix. The man didn’t have a spiteful bone in him.

  But.

  The amber liquid called to him, gently, so tranquil and still in the muted lamplight. Brody could feel the pull, the need, growing stronger by the second. He looked away, rubbing the stubble around his mouth with his palm.

  He’d blacked out apparently, waking to find himself standing in the doorway. He didn’t feel drunk, but then again, most alcoholics don’t recognize when the alcohol has taken control.

  “Felix!” he yelled, stepping once again to the office door. “Felix!” No answer. He walked down the hall a few steps toward the stairs and reached for the hallway light switch, then paused. Unseen eyes swept across his back. He turned abruptly, startled by the eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone upstairs, as he’d thought.

  But there was no one there.

  Just an open door.

  He stood and stared at the entrance to his wife’s bedroom (he had ceased seeing it as his bedroom, by choice), expecting to see Felix walk out. But there was no one. Just the darkness inside.

  “Felix, are you in there?” Brody called, knowing deep down that there would be no answer. And there wasn’t.

  He slowly walked down the hall, the wooden floor creaking slightly with each step and sounding unnaturally loud in the silent house. He passed by his office door, resisting the urge to glance at the bottle on his desk and thus admit he’d somehow returned to a dark place he’d sworn never to enter again. For now, he’d pretend the bottle wasn’t there. He’d pretend he hadn’t experienced another blackout. He’d deal with the demon later. Or have Felix do it, properly supervised this time. If he’d actually touched the bottle again and couldn’t remember doing so, then he would personally ensure that every ounce of liquor in the house went down the drain and command Felix to never again allow another drop through the front door.

  As he approached the bedroom door, he wondered if he would be able to glance inside. Thankfully, it was dark, and he wouldn’t see much anyway, but he knew exactly what was in the room and how everything was arranged.

  He couldn’t look inside.

  Brody turned his head and fumbled for the doorknob, wishing he’d held his breath, too. He caught a tiny bit of her scent, a memory floating through the air. He paused, breathed deeply, and caught the sob that was building in his throat.

  He gently shut the door, dropped his hand from the knob, and wiped a tear from his cheek. Her scent lingered as he stood outside the door, awash in a flood of memories that soothed and cut.

  The hand on his shoulder startled him.

  He turned, and it was her.

  The shock of seeing her again, so close, caused his knees to buckle. His back thudded against the closed bedroom door. The tears came, so sudden and free-flowing, as the joy of seeing his beloved Reba again overpowered self-control. “Reba,” he breathed, fighting to say her name, because even though the sight of her brought him more happiness than he’d felt in—Months? How long had it been?—she was nothing more than a vision, a trick of the mind prompted by the scent of her perfume.

  He was dreaming.

  Still passed out on his desk.

  “You know me, don’t you,” she said.

  Brody looked into her eyes and saw someone else. She looked so much like Reba, but something was wrong, as if an entirely different person were staring through his wife’s eyes directly into his. Brody was frightened, and he pressed his back harder against the door.

  “I look like someone you knew, don’t I?” she said, nodding slightly. “Reba. Was that her name?”

  Brody nodded involuntarily, then caught himself. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and stood straighter. If this were only a dream, then he had nothing to fear. “You’re not her,” he said, surprised at the despair and disappointment in his own voice.

  “No. I’m not her,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She looked down at her dress, as if noticing it for the first time. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I can’t control—” She stopped, then said, “I can tell you loved her very much.”

  They both jumped at the sound of a knock on the front door.

  Brody knew he had to go downstairs.

  one shall pass

  He moved to go around the woman, feeling a little odd stepping away at the moment, but he had to answer the door.

  “Wait,” the woman said, placing her hand on his arm. “You don’t have to go down there.”

  Her touch was warm, so real, so unlike a dream. Brody wanted to pull away from her touch, but let her hand linger.

  “Think, okay?” she said. “I want you to tell me who is at the door.”

  The police.

  Brody didn’t have to think. He knew what they were going to tell him.

  “One shall pass,” he said quietly, his voice strangely level, even to his own ears. Then, to the woman he said, “It’s my son. He’s dead.”

  “Your son?”


  Brody nodded, surprised at how nonchalantly he’d accepted the fact that one of his children, Raymond, had died. At least he thought Raymond had died, or knew he had, or . . .

  “This isn’t right.” Brody began to shake, felt his hands trembling and his knees growing weak. The woman reached out to steady him, and as before, he didn’t shrink away from her touch.

  Her hands were warm, her grip firm yet gentle as she helped him regain his balance. She was dressed like Reba and at first glance had looked so much like the Reba in his pictures, but she definitely wasn’t her. What was going on? Where did she come from, and why was she here? None of it made any sense, unless . . .

  “No, this is a dream,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging her hands away from his body. “It’s not real, you’re not real.” I’m in my office, asleep in my chair. I’m not drunk, just asleep. Just asleep.

  The woman took a step back, then turned toward the top of the stairs as the knocking on the door resumed. “Go answer it,” she said, motioning down the hallway with an outstretched hand. “I won’t stop you.”

  “Why should I? If this is a dream, what difference does it make?”

  The woman’s face brightened for a second, then she smiled. “Tell me about your dreams, then.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me. All about them. What do you dream about?”

  More knocking at the door, louder this time.

  Answer the door. You have to answer the door!

  Brody moved, but the woman blocked his path. “If this is a dream, why do you want to answer the door so badly?” she asked him. “You just told me it didn’t matter.”

  answer the door answer the door answer

  “It—It doesn’t,” Brody replied, trying desperately to stifle the growing urge he felt to run down the stairs and throw open the front door.

  “Then tell me about your other dreams!” the woman said. “Tell me!”

  “Get out of my way!” Brody pushed her aside and strode forcefully down the hall. He would answer his goddamned front door, dream or no dream. There would be two uniformed officers there waiting for him. They would tell him his son Raymond had been killed in a car accident, and he would fight the urge to take another drink.

  Another drink.

  Brody stopped at the top of the stairs, dumbstruck.

  He knew exactly what was going to happen. Every detail, including what the officers were going to say.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but it’s your son. Raymond.”

  one shall pass

  one shall pass

  “We were notified earlier this evening that your son was severely injured in an automobile accident, sir. Again, I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

  And how he was going to feel. What he would do.

  He would sit at his desk, open the bottle.

  He would sit at his desk, fight the urge.

  He would take out the gun from the drawer, then put it back.

  He would put it in his mouth. Pull the trigger.

  Brody gripped his head as the visions tumbled through his mind, each so real and detailed; each one a separate memory, each one different from the next, all swirling around a single event.

  He heard more pounding on the door, much louder now.

  He would always answer the door. His son would always be dead.

  He turned toward the woman, half expecting her to be gone. If he were losing his mind then she was nothing more than another fragment of his twisted consciousness, not real.

  But she was still there. Standing, staring at him. He saw compassion in her eyes, a knowing look tinged with pity.

  “I know what you’re going through,” she said, stepping toward him. “You’re confused and scared, and you have no idea what’s happening.”

  “I don’t understand what—who—” Brody fell to his knees, a sudden sharp pain shooting through his skull. He grimaced and through squinting eyes saw the woman kneel down beside him. She gripped his shoulders, turned his body to face her.

  “I know what you’re feeling,” she said. “It happens to me, too.”

  The world around Brody swirled, and he felt he was losing consciousness. He struggled to speak, to ask the woman what was happening to him, but the words wouldn’t come. He stared into her eyes, so green and deep (and so much like his Reba’s, but still, she wasn’t there), and struggled to stay awake. But his vision grew dark and her face began to fade away.

  Before the day ended for fifty-two-year-old Brody Quail, he heard the woman speak again.

  “My name is Connie. Connie. Please, remember me.”

  Blackness then.

  Chapter 19

  BRODY10

  Culver, Ohio

  Thursday, May 15, 1975

  The sky is wrong.

  Brody opened his eyes, staring straight up. He was outside, lying on his back. He blinked, trying to focus. Maybe he’d bonked his head pretty hard playing Smear the Queer (Annihilation when Mrs. Carlisle was around, don’t forget), but he felt okay. His head didn’t hurt. He raised one hand, held it in front of his face: four fingers and a thumb, clear as a bell. His eyes were fine, so why did the sky look so funny?

  Brody sat up, looked around. Like he thought, he was in the field, but he was alone. There was no one else anywhere on the playground, as a matter of fact. “God, I missed the bell,” he said, but why would everyone just leave him lying out in the middle of the field like this?

  He stood, brushed the grass from his sleeves.

  Not only did the sky look weird, but it was a darker, slate-blue color, as if some of the brighter hues had been sucked away, but everything looked wrong, the shadows deep and dark, and the colors lifeless. The grass was green but didn’t look real. Brody looked up at the sky again. There were no clouds, either, just a slate-blue dome stretching across the sky.

  And no sun.

  He wheeled around, searching the sky for the sun—he couldn’t see it. Anywhere. But if the sun had set, it would be pitch-black, right? And why would he be out here at night? Chills suddenly snaked up Brody’s arms and legs, and he felt a twinge of pain at the back of his head.

  Maybe he had hit his head. He couldn’t feel any bumps or lumps and wasn’t bleeding or anything, so that was good.

  Maybe the impact had given him super night-vision. It really was pitch-black outside, and he was seeing things like a cat would, or something like that. Maybe he was invisible, too. No one brought him inside because they couldn’t see him anymore. He’d just disappeared from the playground—poof! And if he was invisible, boy, could he have a lot of fun, sneaking around all over the place (even places where he wasn’t supposed to be), and no one would ever know!

  His mother was probably worried sick. Maybe Debbie Wilson was worried, too. It would be awesome if Debbie was worried about him. Maybe they’d put his picture on a milk carton or something.

  No, this is wrong.

  He didn’t have super cat-vision. He wasn’t invisible. He was alone, completely alone, and nothing looked right. Brody started walking toward the school, as it seemed like the most logical place to go. He suddenly didn’t like being out in the middle of the field all by himself. He glanced around, looking into the shadows behind the trees on the far end of the little-kid playground equipment, and imagined something there, watching him. Eyes, following his every move as he walked toward the school building, out in the open, defenseless.

  Brody ran.

  The feeling of being watched suddenly seemed very real, not a figment of his imagination. He sensed eyes on him, from the shadows. Something was there, getting ready to burst from the trees and chase him down.

  Something black, empty.

  Brody sprinted the last few yards to the school entrance and grabbed the door handle, hoping it was unlocked.

  It was.

  He slipped inside and watched the door swing close, the latch engaging with an unnaturally loud click. He stood still for a second, peering through t
he door’s rectangular glass panels, expecting to see something running across the playground, following him. Wanting to come inside. He stepped closer to the door, closer to the glass, and searched the parts of the playground he could still see for any movement. Each breath fogged the glass.

  He was scared. Really scared. The feeling of being watched had been so strong when he was in the field that he was certain he wouldn’t make it to the building without getting chased by—

  black, empty, in the shape of a man

  Brody jumped back from the door, taking three, four, five steps back. He had no way to lock the door. He felt the urge to hide, get away from the door, because if it (the shadow man) wanted in, it could open the door, just as he had done.

  Brody turned, looked down the main hall. The overhead fluorescents were on, but just like outside, the light was somehow wrong, dim and muted. The end of the hallway stretched into shadow. The gym was down there, but it was dark. His classroom was nearby, down the first hall to the left. He walked slowly and steadily, trying to be as quiet as possible, listening, hoping to hear someone talking . . . his classmates, teachers, anyone.

  The building was silent, with only the buzz from the overhead lights keeping Brody company.

  Alone.

  As he walked toward the hallway that would lead to his classroom, he kept his eyes fixed on the gym, staring into the darkness at the end of the hallway. His eyes played tricks on him, and his heart jumped into his throat when he thought he saw something move, but there was nothing.

  Brody turned the corner, relieved to be away from the main hallway and the open maw of the gym, and heard the playground door open. He heard the catch release, heard the door’s hinges squeak.

  Someone, some thing, was coming inside.

  black, empty, in the shape of a man the shadow man

  Brody ran, covering the distance to his classroom as quickly as he could, his eyes bright with fear. He skidded to a stop by the door, his tennis shoes squeaking against the tile floor. Too loud! He gently turned the handle, slipped inside, and closed the door, wincing as it clicked shut. He wheeled around and looked for a place to hide. The rows of little desks wouldn’t do him any good, but maybe he could crawl under the teacher’s desk. Nobody could see him under there, as the front was solid. He walked down the nearest row of desks, passing his own.