Deep in the Darkness

by Michael Laimo

  I leaned over and closed up the first-aid case.

  I saw something move.

  In my peripheral vision, an elongated, lopsided shadow splayed across the tiled wall; it looked like a sea-serpent's head. I jerked away in a startled reaction, leaning into the shower curtain then grabbing it to prevent me from falling into the tub. Three plastic rings popped from the shower rod and clattered on the floor; the rest held just fine, long enough until I regained my balance. But the noise had jarred the silence, a more than sufficient clamor to wake Mrs. Deighton. Unless, of course, the shadow itself had belonged to the unsightly woman, now arisen from her slumber to investigate the odd noises in her bathroom. I wondered what she would think finding a strange man in her bathroom, barefoot and clutching her shower curtain. It'd scare the bejesus out of her.

  Better give her some fair warning.

  I stepped toward the door, and cringed back at the same time, at first keeping my eyes on the wavering shadow then at the open door leading into the bedroom.

  "Hello?" I called, half whispering.

  No reply. Might be hard of hearing too.

  I called out again, this time louder. "Hello? Mrs. Deighton? Your husband told me I could use the bathroom."

  I stepped out of the room.

  Mrs. Deighton was awake all right, out of bed and standing beside the lone window in the room. Wearing only a nightgown, she was faced in a way, thankfully, so I wouldn't be compelled to have to visually spelunk the cavern in her face. Her eyes were pointed out the window, and the ball of flesh that was her mouth quivered as if tiny jolts of electricity were lancing through. Her body swayed slowly back and forth, as though she were under the influence of some potent spirits.

  She turned toward me in an ungraceful totter, eyes muddy yet still piercing in their focus. She didn't scream, didn't make a move. It was as if my presence had been expected, or perhaps unnoticed. Her jaw still quivered, except now I could see that dark open half of her face, and the dangle of loose skin that joggled from it like a turkey's wattle. For the first time in my career I was playing with the fact that this woman might not be human after all, as ludicrous as that sounded. I felt no more civil than one of those terrified Englishmen that had chased the Elephant Man John Joseph Merrick down in that fated London Subway over a century ago.

  Our eyes locked, and the first thing that came to me was that they were different, somehow devoid of emotion, as though they'd seen terrible horrors beyond the unacceptable rigors of cancer. Then I saw...there were additional horrors, those of which seeped into my world at once and staggered my breath, sending adrenaline racing through my weakening muscles. Her right hand...it was gone. Somewhere between the elbow and forearm was a gnarled mass of knotty scar tissue amassed in an explicit stump. Half the bicep on the same arm was missing which formed a glaring u-shape. Those were the more obvious injuries. All over her exposed skin, on her arms, neck, shins, and feet, were tiny masses of white scars, some more prominent than others but each as startling as the next.

  This was no cancer. It didn't take a doctor to come to this conclusion. No. This woman had been viciously attacked by an animal. Animals.

  I wanted to be away from her. I had no business being here in the first place. I wondered why in God's name Phillip Deighton had sent me through their bedroom when there was probably another bathroom somewhere else in the house.

  Has to be another bathroom, Michael. Your new home has three of them. Hey, you said it before yourself. Good 'ol Phil Deighton wanted to give you a little fair warning, wanted to give you a taste of what to expect when you open your doors to the public.

  I blew out a nervous breath. I had to say something, break the alarming silence. "Mrs. Deighton? I'm Michael Cayle, the new doc—"

  "You can't help me," she interrupted, but her injury-induced dialect made it come out like: Ooo cand elp me. A dollop of saliva pooled out of the bottom of her mouth-hole and wavered down to the floor in a long, swaying string.

  I took a step forward. The woman staggered sideways and faced back out the window, bumping her shoulder against the pane. She brought her only hand up and dragged two-inch yellow nails across the glass, producing a harsh squeaking sound.

  "Mrs. Deighton..." I said, feeling on the defensive. "I'll try my best, I—"

  "They'll come for you, just like they did for me, just like they did for Dr Farris, like they will for everyone else in this God-forsaken town!" Her voice had started quietly but rose in volume with each staggering word, and by the time she came to the end of her bizarre remark, her voice was a virtually indecipherable bark.

  My breathing had increased, was exploding from my lungs in clutches. I wanted to console the woman, perhaps usher her back into bed...but I couldn't bring myself to touch her! My body crawled with revulsion, my teeth clamped down in what I realized was an instinctive effort to hold back a scream. I was afraid of her. And it wasn't just the woman herself—I've seen similar injuries, many fresher than this—it was the look in her eyes, that coupled with the swilling dark void in her face. It made me crazy. It made me fearful of what had happened to her.

  They'll come for you, just like they did for me, just like they did for Dr Farris...

  Suddenly I asked, "Wasn't Dr Farris attacked by a dog?" Her injures, and then the story about Farris, had me thinking.

  She remained unanswering, staring out the window, thick yellow nails tapping-tapping-tapping against the window pane.

  Of course he was, I thought. That's why I'm here. He was savagely killed in a horrific accident and now I'm moving into his home and taking over his job. Christ, the whole situation, which began as a Godsend, was looking more and more morbid by the minute. Perhaps he'd been the fortunate one, I thought, unlike Mrs. Deighton who'd survived her own dog attack and was now living life permanently blanketed in her injuries. I pulled my sights away from her, then paced from the room, taking long slow deep breaths in a struggle to soothe my dizziness. My fear-response system was working rigorously, and I needed to massage it into retreat mode.

  Once in the hallway, I stopped and leaned against the wall, my thoughts waging battle. Why on earth had I been so damn afraid in there? Was it the anxiety of the move that had me all bundled up in knots? When I first heard about the jarring circumstances concerning Neil Farris's death, I'd been shaken and a bit uncomfortable having to assume his revered position in this township of daily handshakes and hellos. Now, Mrs. Deighton, my new neighbor...she'd suffered a similar burden, and the discomfort blooming in me seemed to fall under the lens of a microscope.

  Were there wild dogs running loose in Ashborough?

  I shook the unpleasant thought from my head, but made a mental note to make some checks once we were all settled in. I walked to the top of the stairs, then detoured to the first door across the hall, to the right.

  Bathroom. Full. With a tub.

  5

  Phillip had traded in his cigar for a pipe, and was packing it when I arrived back downstairs. I feared that someone might've heard his wife barking at me, but apparently her shouts weren't loud enough to travel all the way downstairs. He was busy folding up the rectangular package of tobacco, and when that was done he placed it alongside the pipe on the table; apparently this was a pleasure he'd planned to savor after we left.

  "Yep," he said, taking a sip of iced tea. "Neil was a dear friend. Real crying shame what'd happened to him." Three glasses half-filled with tea sat on the red gingham-checked cloth that covered the kitchen table. On the gas stove behind them was a clear pitcher filled halfway with green tea and lemons. A jar of honey in the shape of a bear was nestled alongside it like a clinging baby. There were hero sandwiches on the table (well, heroes if you're from New Yawk; subs if you're a New Hampshire-ite); Christine had a half-eaten sandwich before her, and even Jessica nibbled on a piece of bread. My stomach immediately protested its hunger, so I sat down in the open seat and helped myself to half a turkey and cheese sub. Christine and Phillip discussed the local amenities As
hborough had to offer, like the shops in town square and the sprawling grasses of Beaumont Park. I stayed mostly silent, keeping to my sandwich, and started to feel a bit better now that I had some food in me. Amazing how hunger can set irrationality into a man. Once sated, my confrontation with Mrs. Deighton didn't seem so scary after all. Still, I wasn't all that thrilled being in the same house with her—much less having to make another house-call someday, appointment or not.

  "You take care of that foot, Michael?" Deighton asked.

  I nodded. "I don't think we'll need to amputate."

  Deighton broke out in laughter. Christine had heard me use that one a few dozen times, so she just rolled her eyes. Jessica sipped the green tea (it was a brightly odd color for tea) and offered up a long winey Daaaad! She didn't think it was funny either. The joke was meant for Phillip anyway.

  Phillip kept his eyes on his glass, then poked back and forth between Jessica and Christine. I'd hoped to lock gazes with him, to see if I could catch a bit of accountability in his eyes for sending me the wrong way at the head of the stairs. But he kept purposefully stoic, then went right on talking about Neil Farris.

  "The Farris family lived here long before we came to town, and this is going back now twenty-seven years. He'd been there for over forty years, and from what I understand, he replaced the last physician who'd also lived at 17 Harlan Road, and that one had been there for a good number of years as well. So you see, there's a long history of physicians in that house, at least a hundred years worth. I reckon that if you look even beyond that, you might even find some more doctors that used to live there, but that's just a guess. Emily Farris was a good woman, a close and dear friend to Rosy. She used to come by here every other day just to say hello and check in to see how Rosy was coming along. Needless to say, Rosy is quite upset with the sudden and rather disconcerting change of events. The moment Neil Farris checked into that old folks' home in the sky, she not only lost a neighbor in Emily, but lost her only friend."

  "Your wife..." I inquired.

  For the first time, Deighton looked me right in the eyes.

  "Rosy...that's her name?" I asked.

  "Yep, named after her grandmother. Short for Rosalia."

  I nodded then said, "You mentioned earlier that she was looking forward to meeting me."

  "Yep, she sure is...but she's sleeping now." He said this in a curt, almost insinuating tone, as if accusing me of secretly slipping into the sanctuary of their bedroom to investigate his wife's whereabouts.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, a rare occurrence given the fact that both Jessica and Page were in the room. Finally I said, "Well, as her new physician, I too am looking forward to meeting her." Such a liar.

  Deighton smiled, a rather forced grin I thought. He then said, "I do need to get her medication to her."

  That was our cue. Or our green light, depending how you looked at it. "And we need to get back to the house," I added, looking over at Christine. "There's probably boxes all over the place, and we need to tell the movers where to put the furniture."

  With half-eaten sandwiches and half-filled glasses before us, we stood and shuffled about the table so we could say goodbye to Phillip.

  "You'll love it here," Deighton said, walking us to the front door. "Like I said, we've been here for twenty-seven years. I met my wife in Boston, married her then moved up here a year later. Got a job at the plant on the other side of town, put in twenty-five before taking an early retirement three years ago. Rosy needed someone to take care of her." He shrugged his shoulders.

  "And that someone was you," I said.

  "Yep. What was I gonna do?"

  Jessica and Page were on the porch, and Christine was holding the door open for me when I said, "You never told me what was wrong with her." I always felt it was improper to ask someone a question regarding a family medical issue, especially outside of the office, but as her doctor in waiting, I figured I had the right to ask.

  "Cancer."

  He was lying. I didn't need to look into his eyes to know that.

  "Anyways, you folks hurry along. Get yourselves all settled. We're here all day, up late at night, and Rosy's usually her best around about dinnertime, so you all feel free to stop on by at your convenience. There's always some cold tea brewing in the fridge, and Rosy's one helluva cook." He winked playfully at Jessica, who still looked a little pale to me. "And if Page gets hungry, he's always welcome to stop by for a snack too."

  "Page is always hungry," Jessica said.

  "We definitely will, Phillip," I said, lying again. Lunch was good for all of us, but I had no desire to race back for second helpings. I still felt the man's foremost intention was for me to give Rosy a once-over, and that soured my taste a bit. We walked down the porch to the minivan.

  "Nice meeting you, Doctor Cayle," he added. There was something sharp and glowing in his eyes that made me believe he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  I smiled. "Likewise, Phillip."

  We piled into the minivan, and as I pulled away I watched him walk back into his house with the sudden pain-filled stagger of a man of eighty.

  6

  We spent most of the day shifting boxes around the house and directing the movers, who'd arrived while we were at Phillip's. We'd toured the house only once before, so we were still a bit uncertain as to where everything should go. In the end, however, we got it all figured out. Christine and I took the largest bedroom upstairs, Jessica picked the one right next to ours, and even Jimmy Page got his own room, down the hall next to the bathroom.

  The movers pulled out around ten-thirty. By then Jessica felt better and was sleeping in her new room, Page nestled alongside her on the bare mattress, snoring quietly. Mountains of boxes surrounded them; inside were Jessica's things, countless dolls and toys and books and clothes and other childhood necessities that would become giveaways in a year or two.

  Throughout the day Christine had been in charge of opening boxes and sliding tables and chairs around, as well as placing knickknacks here and there and everywhere while I complained that her desire to decorate had kicked in a bit too early. I'd argued—we'd spent a good fifteen minutes of every hour bickering—that we needed to be more organized and settle on the locations of big things like furniture and televisions before potholders and trivets were hung on the walls. Of course I lost this battle, so she did her thing and I did mine, with us crossing paths every now and then on the more hazy matters, like where to put the beer cooler full of Page's toys.

  When fatigue got the best of us, I convinced Christine that a glass of wine might be a good way to end the day, so we uncorked the bottle of Merlot we'd brought along, dug back into the crackers and cheese we had for dinner, and clinked our glasses in a toast, sitting across from one another at the kitchen table.

  "To our new home," I said, taking a sip.

  "To our new home." Christine smiled and I noticed a worn look about her, eyes red and drooping, brown hair slipping from her bun. She was tired.

  "Sure looks like you could use some shut-eye."

  "I look that bad?"

  "I didn't say you looked bad..."

  "Well, you don't look so hot yourself." She smiled thinly, then added, "You should heed your own advice, doc."

  "I don't think I'm gonna be able to sleep. Too much going on."

  Christine started laughing out loud. A bit of wine spilled from her lips and she used a napkin to dab at it.

  "What? What's so funny?"

  "I just got a visual of you standing out on the front lawn in your underwear trying to act all pleasant and nice for the new neighbor." She laughed again.

  I laughed too. It must've been a sight, me semi-naked and smelling pukey in front of the unassuming Phillip Deighton. "His timing was less than perfect, huh?"

  Christine laughed. "I'd say so."

  "And then he finds it in himself to invite us over even though Jess is puking and I'm in my wears."

  Christine said, "You know, at fir
st I got the impression that he was aiming to have you look at his wife."

  I agreed, and even though I really wasn't in the mood to discuss the matter, I told Christine what'd happened upstairs with Rosy Deighton, and how I thought Phillip may have purposely misled me.

  "I'm sure that if he really wanted you to see his wife, he would have come right out and asked you. He doesn't strike me as the type to play games. It was probably an accident, or maybe you just didn't hear him correctly."

  "No, he definitely said to make a left at the top of the stairs."

  "Maybe the bathroom off the hall was broken, or dirty. Could be any number of explainable reasons why he didn't want you to use it."

  I shrugged my shoulders. Perhaps I was over analyzing the situation. Being presumptuous, as Christine had said earlier. Then, I thought of something else. "Remember that he said his wife had cancer?"

  "I heard that. Terrible..."

  "What I saw on Rosy Deighton wasn't caused by cancer. I thought so at first, but when I saw her entire body...without question she was mauled by some kind of vicious animal. A dog probably, and more than just one if you want my professional opinion."

  "You sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Kind of scary, considering what happened to Farris."

  "Exactly."

  Christine downed the rest of her wine. There was a bit of silence that seemed to end the troubling topic of conversation. "That's it for me," she said. "I'm bed-bound. You coming?"

  "No...I think I'm going to poke around in the office for a bit. Haven't stepped foot in there yet."