Sylvia frowned as Dr. Quota pressed a button, and the memories from the night before began to play. At the end of the video, the scientists, doctors and investors cheered and clapped. Dr. Quota’s assistant passed around glasses of champagne, as the celebrations began. Sylvia left the lab, unable to stand what Dr. Quota made her say to poor Trisha. She went to Trisha’s office and found it empty.
Meanwhile, the monitor linked to Owen flickered to life as new thoughts were recorded. The doctors, in their mindless celebrating, didn’t notice the visions on the screen.
TRISHA WOKE UP AT ONE-thirty, groggy from deep sleep. She looked in the mirror and found her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Her skin felt tight and stretched.
“I look like shit ran over twice.” She turned on the cold water, splashed some on her face, then went to the kitchen for coffee.
After she showered and refreshed her makeup, she gave herself a last once-over, grimaced at her splotchy cheeks and puffy eyelids, and left for work.
The sky, overcast and ominous, threatened rain. Trisha sighed as she pulled into the parking lot. She got out and went to the front door and scanned her key card. The front door swung open. She stepped inside and paused. The hallway was dark.
The lights were on a motion sensor system. When people moved through the halls, they stayed on. Once movement ceased, like at the end of the work day, they turned off. Trisha checked her watch. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Where was everyone?
Something didn’t feel right. She shivered as a chill tiptoed up her spine.
“Hello?” She called down the vacant hall. A light flickered near the end, near the sleep lab. She dropped her bag and took a tentative step forward. “Is anyone here?” she called out. Then to herself, she said, “Did I sleep through the rest of the week? What the hell is going on?”
A loud clatter followed by a snapping crackle came down the hall. Trisha jumped and clutched at the wall. Her heart beat in her throat as she swallowed.
“Hello?” Her voice lost its strength. Taking a few more steps, her breath quickened as the flicker of a fluorescent light made her think of the other day when Owen just barely twitched in anger at Dr. Quota’s irate voice.
“Owen?” The name came out as a whisper as she neared the doorway to the lab. “Sylvia?” Cold sweat broke out under Trisha’s arms.
She reached the corridor to the lab and stopped. The door bulged out. A massive dent created a gap. The windows were shattered. The lab beyond the busted doors was dark.
Trisha pushed the door open and cringed against the long, low moan the warped hinges made. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then made her way further inside. The door swung shut behind her, banging against the frame. She jumped and let loose a shriek, then steadied herself and looked around.
Trays of medicine and surgical tools lay toppled over. An unidentified liquid created a sheen on the tile. A gurney sat on its side on top of documents strewn about the room. Trisha scanned the area, and gasped when her eyes came to Owen’s enclosure. Owen was gone.
The wires, hanging down, frayed where they had been torn at, ripped at, and finally ripped out, dripped blood onto the floor. Those needles were deep inside Owen’s head, inside his brain. Trisha took a deep breath.
“Owen,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. She turned and a scream caught in her chest. With gagging force, she wretched onto the floor.
Dr. Quota lay in a heap, dead. His arms jutted at odd angles from his body, and blood trickled from his gaping mouth. His assistant and the other doctor were similarly mangled.
When Trisha turned her head to see if Sylvia was somewhere nearby, too, she had to reach out to steady herself. Her vision blurred. Then, she saw it.
A sparkling diamond ring caught the flickering light from outside the door.
“Sylvia, no,” Trisha moaned. She ran to the doctor who had shown her so much sympathy and understanding, who’d known her all the years Trisha worked with Owen, who understood Trisha more than anyone else in the lab. She fell to her knees and gripped Sylvia’s hand. Her eyes shifted to Trisha, and a gurgle came from her throat. Blood spilled from her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. The life left her eyes.
“Oh, God,” Trisha whispered, covering her mouth again. “Owen, what have you done?”
She heard a grunt from somewhere deeper in the lab. A soft, friendly grunt. A grunt she’d heard so many times . . . but not for a long time. She stood and sidled to the room full of medical supplies, retrieved a needle of Telazol, and put it in her pocket. It was the same drug she used on the rats with rabies.
“Owen?” She said, leaving the supply room. It was supposed to be a loud, steady shout, but it came out a pinched whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again.
Another grunt came from the shadows. Owen’s form lumbered slowly into view. A spark of electricity popped in front of him. He reached up and pulled a light fixture out of the ceiling. Sheet rock and ceiling tiles rained onto his head and around him. He growled and swung his arms. The debris settled. Owen calmed.
Though he could not see, he could scent, and he sniffed at the air, searching for Trisha. She stood still, afraid to move.
Owen came closer, his hulking form so much larger than any orangutan Trisha had ever worked with. When he was an arm’s length away, she took a deep breath.
“There’s my boy,” she said with a tear-filled voice. Owen’s strong arms encircled her. He snorted against her head, breathing in her scent. He made happy sounds and pawed at her. He signed, “mom,” and Trisha let out a sob.
“Owen, what have you done?” She asked, petting him, stroking his coarse fur. Tears slithered down her cheeks as she smoothed the fur over the wounds on the top of his head, his blood staining her sleeves and smearing onto her hands. She didn’t care. This was the Owen she missed and loved.
She sniffled hard and couldn’t stop the forceful sobs. She rested her cheek against his. His arms tightened around her, but not to harm her. He grunted and sighed, leaning more of his weight against her. “I can’t hold you up, buddy. You’re way too big now,” Trisha said through her tears. “Everything will be alright.”
Pulling from his tight embrace, she gripped his hand and led him out of the lab, down the hall to a safe and calm room. A room where toys littered the floor: Large balls sat in the corner, and stuffed animals claimed shelves on every wall. A younger Owen loved this room.
He sniffed around. His milky eyes brightened. Trisha laughed, but began to cry again as she thought about the things he did to the scientists. Part of her felt him right for killing them. They got what they deserved. Karma and all, right? But not Sylvia.
She thought about taking him away to a zoo, a place where he could finally be at peace with others of his kind . . . but he was a danger to himself and the more so to others.
As Owen moved slowly around the room, picking up toys and smelling them, then discarding them, she pulled the syringe from her pocket. Owen reached a shelf of stuffed animals and pulled a stuffed monkey from the group of bears. He cradled it in his arms, carried it around as his mother might have done.
“Owen,” Trisha said. Owen stopped moving and turned. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry any of this had to happen to you,” she understood him now. Understood the ever-present nightmares running through his mind, reminding him of his awful past, of his life of testing. Of loss.
Owen grunted and dropped the monkey. He moved toward Trisha and reached for her hand. When he felt the syringe, he lifted her hand to his nose. His breathing quickened, and short, guttural noises came from his throat. She held her hand to his cheek.
“It’s okay,” she told him. “You’ll be safe forever.” She gasped as new tears drizzled from her eyes. Owen touched her face, her tears dripping onto his thick fingers. “I love you.”
She slid the needle into his neck. He growled in pain, but let the drug take him with little struggle. As Owen weakened, Trisha helped him lay do
wn on a pile of bean bag chairs. She stroked his face and held her hands close, so he could smell her. He held one of her hands against his cheek as he slowly slipped away.
Seven Nights of Fright
SEVEN NIGHTS OF FRIGHT aired the entire week of Halloween, ending on October 31st with the top ten scariest movies of all time.
“I’ve never even heard of any of these,” Sara said to her husband, Jordan, while she perused the listings. “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Ghost? Come on.” She scoffed. “Oh, this one’s good. The Night of the Zombies. What is that? Some Living Dead knock-off?”
Jordan, who loved scary movies the most between them, smiled at her. “We’ll give ‘em a chance, yeah?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, fine. But if they suck, we’re watching Buffy.”
“Deal.” Jordan left the living room and came back with a bowl of popcorn. He sat on the couch. Sara joined him.
“Porch light’s off, right?” She asked.
Jordan nodded and stuffed a fist full of popcorn into his mouth. She laughed and plucked one piece at a time from the bowl. Sara didn’t love scary movies the way Jordan did. They gave her nightmares of the worst kind. Back when they’d had a dog, she could manage through them, sure, but ever since Bumpkin died, she always felt a little more ill at ease when awaking from a fright. She watched the movies for him, because this man would do anything for her, and did.
A scream issued from the surround sound. Sara jumped and almost knocked the bowl of popcorn off Jordan’s lap. He steadied the bowl and put his arm around her, laughing quietly. The scream was the intro to the Seven Nights of Fright program.
“You’d think I’d be used to that by now,” Sara said. She slid onto the floor to clean up the mess.
“Leave it. The movie’s starting.” Jordan patted the cushion next to him, and Sara rejoined him. “This one’s based on true events,” he whispered as the credits in red drippy text appeared and crumbled on a black background. Spooky music crept from the speakers. Electronic sounds with low-budget crackling. Sara pushed closer to Jordan and tucked her bare feet under the edge of a blanket.
WHEN THE MOVIE ENDED, Sara and Jordan stared at the screen, mouths slightly ajar. Though it was only a thirty-minute movie, it had them both trembling.
“That was based on actual events?” Sara asked, breathless.
Jordan licked his lips. “Yeah.”
She turned to him. His face was pale. He swallowed hard and looked back at her.
“Where did it take place?” Sara’s voice came out small and quiet.
“You don’t want to know,” Jordan said. His eyes glistened, and for a second, Sara thought he might cry. She’d never seen him cry. Not even after Bumpkin passed. Jordan had always been her rock, and though he was trying to protect her right now, she had to know.
“Tell me,” she whispered. Jordan flicked his eyes to the screen, then back to her.
“Here. In this town.”
SARA TOSSED AND TURNED all night, unable to shake the chilly grip the movie had on her organs. Every noise of the house settling jerked her awake. Jordan snored gently beside her, apparently unfazed. She lifted herself onto her elbow and watched him sleep, both soothed and angered by his ability to so fearlessly drift into slumber.
If Bumpkin were still here . . .
A loud bang from the kitchen brought her upright. She strained to listen. If Bumpkin were still here she could sleep. He’d let her know if the noises were her imagination or not. She could look down at him, sleeping by her side of the bed. If he was still, all was well. But Bumpkin was three months gone. Sara had to console herself now.
It was nothing.
She turned back to Jordan and gasped. His eyes were wide open. So wide the whites showed all around, even in the dim moonlit room.
“Jordan?” Her voice came out a squeak.
He let out a loud boo. Sara screamed, then shoved him.
“You ass. Scared me half to death.”
“Can’t you sleep?” He asked. “You’ve been thrashing around all night.”
“Just wide awake, I guess.” She didn’t want to tell him the movie scared her more than any other scary movie they’d seen. If what happened to the couple in the movie happened to them—she couldn’t even think like that.
WHEN SARA WOKE THE next morning, sleep clung to her whole body. She rolled over, but Jordan was gone. She sat up and tore back the covers. Thoughts of the movie roiled in her mind. She stumbled to the bedroom door, down the hall, pin-balling from wall to wall, doorway to doorway.
“Jordan?” Her voice came out rasping as if she’d been screaming all night. “Jordan?” Panic gripped her heart and stomach, smashing them together to create one organ—a hear-mach or a stom-art. She searched every room of their small split-level and ended in the kitchen where she shrieked his name.
He wasn’t home. The coffee pot was half empty. She glanced at the clock. Noon? Jordan would be at work, of course. Noon. She hadn’t slept that late in who knew how many years.
Sara grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter, where she charged it each night and called Jordan. When he answered, she gasped and held back a relieved sob.
“Hello? Sara? You there?”
“Yes,” she managed to choke out.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She took a deep, trembling breath. “I didn’t know where you were,” she said.
“Did you just get up?” He asked.
Sara nodded. “Yes.” Her voice seemed thick, now. Like the words had to ooze through her vocal cords. She cleared her throat.
“You must’ve slept like shit if you just got up. It’s lunchtime.”
“I know,” she said, but the words stuck in her throat. She cleared it again.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “I can come home.”
“No, I’m fine. Really,” she said. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.” Jordan hung up.
Sara sagged to the floor and gulped air. Jordan was fine. He was safe at work. He was in the city, not in this town where the bad thing happened. She stood and peeked out the window where birds flitted in the sunshine. Nothing bad could happened if the sun shone so bright. She poured herself a cup of coffee, heated it in the microwave, and sat at the kitchen table. Her hands still shook, but at least her heart and stomach were no longer trying to merge.
The newspaper sat on the table, still rolled up inside the little orange sleeve the paper boy used to fling it at the door. Actually it was a paper man in a creepy brown sedan of some kind. A town car. But Sara liked to imagine it was a kid on a bike, wheeling around slinging papers to make a buck or two for the arcade. Did kids play in the arcade anymore? She suddenly felt old, even though she’d only just turned forty last week.
She tugged at the bottom of the orange bag and the paper slid out. Free from confinement, it unrolled on its own. Sara dropped her coffee mug. It hit the table, splattered coffee all over her nightgown, then tumbled to the floor where it smashed, spraying the tile with brown liquid. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of shattering ceramic. Her eyes were locked on the front page where Jordan’s face stared up at her.
The headline spoke of a brutal murder. Sara stumbled backward, knocked over her chair, turned and grabbed her phone. She hit the phone icon next to Jordan’s name and turned back around.
The picture had changed. Now it was a pic of the three winners of the local Halloween costume contest last night.
Sara hit the end button and stared at the page. No. It had been Jordan’s face, speckled with blood, dead eyes staring at nothing.
She pinched the bottom corner of the newsprint and turned the page, then the next, searching for the photo. But there was no mention of a gruesome murder within the tight print.
JORDAN SAT AT HIS DESK, phone to his ear. Sara called again, but he’d missed her, and she didn’t leave a message. Poor thing was scared to death. He should know better than to su
bject her to those types of movies. Every year he gave her an out, but she never took it. After this, perhaps next year she would. Hell, next year he’d give himself an out.
His coworker, George, knocked on the edge of his cubicle.
“Lunch?” George asked with raised eyebrows.
Jordan accepted by standing and grabbing his jacket.
“Did you catch the top scariest movie last night?” Jordan asked as they made their way to the front doors and out into the cool afternoon.
“Yeah,” George said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe The Grudge won first place.”
Jordan stopped walking. “The Grudge?” Jordan said. “Are you sure?” He didn’t recall that movie even being in the top ten. Maybe they watched a different lineup.
“Yeah. Stupidest movie ever.”
“Channel twelve, right?” Jordan asked.
“Yeah,” George said. “Come on. I gotta get back in an hour for a meeting.”
Jordan’s stomach lurched. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He closed his eyes and images from the movie flashed through his mind. Only, instead of the actors from the film, it was him and Sara.
“I’m not so hungry, actually,” Jordan said. He ran back inside to the bathroom and hurled. Coffee on an empty stomach maybe? Sara would get the I-told-you-so on that one. She always harassed him for not eating breakfast. Sara. He had to see her. He had to make sure she was okay. After her call that morning—
Jordan grabbed his stuff and went home.
When he got there, Sara was vacuuming with ear buds in. She bobbed her head and swished her hips in time with the music. He took a moment to observe her tight butt in her jean shorts.
There was no graceful way to greet someone zoned out to white noise and music, so he stepped into the room and tapped her shoulder.
LUMP Page 10
