Hands of Lucifer

by John Tigges

  “Maybe you imagined it,” he said. “Living alone can do strange things to a person. Pretty soon you start hearing things. Then it’s somebody talking to you. ‘Fore you know it, you’re answering them and they come haul you off to the puzzle factory.”

  “I’m not hearing things,” Nicole snapped.

  “Neither am I,” he said, snorting a guffaw.

  “I’m serious, Mr. Astin,” she said curtly.

  “I … I’m sorry.” His voice puled when he apologized. “I just enjoy a good joke every once in a while. If you want, I can tell the exterminator the next time he comes. It’ll cost you but you’ll get rid of the rats.”

  “Rats? I don’t think they’re rats.”

  “Rats. Mice. What difference? He’ll get rid of them if you got them.”

  “Don’t bother. If I hear them again, I’ll let you know. Then, the exterminator can try.”

  “Okay by me, lady,” Astin said, moving to the door. “You … ah … you ain’t got anything else that needs ah … attention, do you?”

  “Thank you,” Nicole said icily, “but no.”

  Fifteen minutes after Fred Astin left, the scratching sounds began again and Nicole turned on the stereo to drown them out.

  Monday, September 29, 1986 12:49 A.M.

  Nicole rolled and tossed in bed. Her nude body, swathed in sweat, reacted to the chilled night air as she threw the covers off. Flat on her back, her eyes undulated rapidly as scenes played before her sleeping consciousness. Facial muscles worked jerkily as she fought to cry out. After several long minutes, her mouth opened and she began mumbling one word, over and over. Slowly gaining in strength and volume, her voice rose higher until she screamed out, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  The sound of her own voice awakened her, bringing her out of the dream-like state. Shivering from the cool air on her damp nakedness, she fumbled with the covers for a moment before pulling them up around her.

  What was wrong? What had she been dreaming? What had she been yelling when she awoke? Something … The word yes had been screaming in her head. Had she been shouting it or dreaming that she had been yelling? Whichever, what did it mean? To what was she agreeing? She felt she was agreeing with someone about something or giving someone permission to do something.

  What had she been dreaming? Why couldn’t she recall it now that she was awake? Most of the time, she could. But this time, she found she couldn’t get a thread of a notion as to what she had been experiencing while asleep.

  She shuddered again and reached for her robe. Slipping into it, she tied it tightly around her small waist, accentuating her large breasts at the same time. Once she was on her feet, she paused. What time was it? How long had she slept? Turning, she found the digital clock displaying one oh one. Good God! Had she slept only an hour? But she felt as if she had slept for ages. Would she be able to get back to sleep? Maybe a glass of wine would help.

  Padding to the kitchen in her bare feet, she pulled down a bottle of Rhine wine and poured a tumbler half full. She replaced the bottle in the cupboard and dropped an ice cube into the clear liquid before going to the living room. Sipping from her glass, she turned on the TV set and found a late night horror movie and a religious talk show after flipping the dial. Nothing else caught her attention and she switched it off. She downed the remaining wine and went back to the kitchen where she filled the glass this time.

  Time swept by as Nicole drank several more glasses of wine before finally surrendering her exhausted body and slightly drunken spirit to bed. When she lay on her back and her breathing slowed to a steady, even rhythm, the scratching began. The room grew chilly. And the stereo in the living room turned on, filling the quiet void with soft music.

  While Nicole served out her remaining time at the art store training the new salesperson, the same dream began frequenting her sleep every night. Little by little, she accepted the phenomenon and was able to roll over and return to sleep, not worrying or wondering too much as to what, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” meant.

  Monday, October 13, 1986 9:30 AM.

  Rose Tunic, whom Nicole had met the day of her interview, stared at her through thick lenses. Nicole had thought nothing about the woman at all, even after Rob Lanstrom had given such a pointed description. Overweight by at least forty pounds, Rose was not the type to be too concerned how her dresses appeared, preferring to believe that each one, although two sizes too small, fit her as if it had been tailor-made. Rose had been friendly enough the first time Nicole had talked with her, but now for some reason, the office manager was sending out signals that warned the newcomer to stand clear.

  “I just want to say one thing, Nicole,” Rose said sharply from the doorway of Nicole’s office. “There are those who work here who think that I should have been given this job. After all, I’ve worked here for six and a half years. I know everyone. I know what the aims of the clinic are. I know just exactly what this job entails, even though it has just been created. Just watch your step or …”

  “I’m really happy to know that, Rose,” Nicole said, her voice purring, ” ‘cause if I ever need any help, I’ll know exactly who to ask. Thank you so much for telling me.”

  Her face flushing a deep crimson, Rose glared at Nicole for a long minute before turning to leave. When she reached the door, she said, “That’s not what I meant. I’ll just as soon …” Without finishing, she left, slamming the door.

  Nicole had everything she could do to control a loud laugh but couldn’t suppress a smile. Standing, she moved around her desk and went to the closet where a full length mirror hung, concealed on the inside facing of the door. She opened the dark compartment and checked her appearance. Picturing Rose Tunic in her mind, she nodded. The woman was frustrated with life, her appearance, her personality, her apparent failure in society. But was someone like that even aware of herself? She remembered what Rob had said about Rose coming to the clinic on weekends, poking through files and keeping a finger on everything that transpired within the confines of each office. Mentally noting to lock her desk and anything else that might hold something she wouldn’t want the nosy office manager to find, she returned to her desk. She had a meeting with Doctor Claypool in half an hour to discuss the first steps in building the clinic’s image.

  10:45 P.M.

  That evening, Nicole drank more wine than usual and ate little. The whole time was spent reading several books that Doctor Claypool had given her, sipping wine and making notes. By eleven, she closed the last book and turned on the television set. It was time for Myles to give the news. That was something she hadn’t missed too many times since he had left. Each night she sat opposite the set, drinking in his electronic image—remembering, reliving, rejoicing in the more vivid memories of their time together.

  She fixed her attention on his mouth. That mouth had given her so much pleasure with his witty sayings and his tender caressing love-making. That mouth hid his tongue, the tongue that had explored every square inch of her body, sending delicious shivers down her spine.

  An uncontrollable sob broke through her composure and she murmured, “Why, Myles? Why?”

  During a commercial, she hurried to the kitchen to refill her glass, returning to curse the weatherman for taking over with his portion of the news broadcast. Myles would be back, but for only an instant before the idiot sportscaster showed up to rave about the latest football poll or the Sunday games in the NFL. At least Myles would have the tube to himself during the last news story, usually a short, upbeat item about something that might make the viewer forget the awful items he had reported on earlier.

  Then, the late movie was beginning. She turned off the set, saying goodnight to Myles who was no longer visible anywhere except in her mind and in the small portrait photo on the shelf above the TV. Making her way to the bedroom she put the empty glass on the dresser and slipped from her clothes. Her body ached. She was more than ready for bed and slid between the cool sheets and beneath the light blanket.

  Her wine-drenched mind
quickly succumbed and in seconds she was sleeping.

  In an instant, the dream began and Nicole found herself in a large ballroom filled with people dressed in the most outlandish costumes. If had to be a masquerade ball. Angels and pirates danced together. Knights in shining armor whisked scantily clad nymphets across the floor. Off in the distance, she could hear the strains of a dance band playing some slow, seductive love ballad, and she felt herself swept away by the scene— swept away by powerful arms that lifted her until her feet barely touched the floor.

  Opening her eyes, she looked up at her partner, into the face of what appeared to be an animal. She was dancing with a goat of all things. Fighting to keep from smiling or laughing, she soared across the floor. She inhaled deeply, catching the smoky essence of aftershave lotion. Who wore cologne like that? Someone who …

  MYLES!

  She was dancing with Myles Lawrence and everything was fine. She felt fantastic. The way he held her—so intimate, so suggestive, so arousing. She could feel one hand slipping beneath her arm from the back to teasingly caress her breast. On one turn of the dance, he released his tight hold and she floated away from him to arm’s length and she looked down to see how she was dressed. The urge to scream rose within her, accompanying the rushing flush of embarrassment. She was nude. She had nothing on but shoes. Embarrassing—and yet, she didn’t really care.

  Her goat-faced partner pulled her back, and just as the music stopped, a clock began tolling the hour. Purposefully counting the gongs, Nicole counted three and the clock stopped. Three o’clock.

  “It’s time to unmask,” her partner said.

  “I know,” she said, anticipating the appearance of Myles’ longed-for countenance.

  “Shall we unmask, then?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  She reached up to find she had no mask on either. Accepting the fact, she watched her partner take his off, only to reveal another, identical mask.

  “Shall we unmask, then?” he asked again.

  “Yes.” And the process was repeated.

  “Shall we unmask, then?”

  “Yes,” she answered, more than a note of irritation rising in her voice.

  “Shall we unmask, then?”

  “Yes! Yes! YES!” she screamed at each question.

  Nicole bolted upright in bed, her body dripping wet. What did that dream mean? Would she wind up confiding in Doctor Claypool or one of his associates about it? Why did Myles have a series of goat masks on? That made no sense whatsoever. None of it made sense. Was it even Myles with whom she had been dancing?

  She lay back on the bed, falling asleep in minutes.

  On the dresser, the Little Orphan Annie doll turned to face a Shirley Temple doll and one that Nicole had gotten for Christmas when she had been nine years old—her very own high fashion miniature mannikin. The Little Orphan Annie doll nodded solemnly and a smile crossed her painted face. The Shirley Temple doll returned the acknowledgment, nodding herself and smiling, with her molded lips. The high fashion mannikin bowed from the waist and the rest of the collection turned to watch Nicole sleep.

  And the scratching came louder in the walls.

  5

  Tuesday, October 14, 1986 7:00 P.M.

  Myles stared at the ceiling of Eunice Brooks’ bedroom. Unconcerned by what his bed-partner was doing to his lower body, he tried concentrating on the evening’s upcoming activities. He’d leave soon for the station to present the late news. Because Eunice was more interested in anything other than coherent conversation, Myles had found himself staying at the television station after his duties there had been finished. At least there he had his fellow newscasters, the weatherman and the sports director, all who could carry on ideas beyond their own domain, although the latter, Scott McReady, usually worked the conversation around to the latest deal in athletic trades or the most recent football game.

  If he faced the truth, Myles had to admit that he did not relish the idea of coming back to Eunice’s apartment for anything other than sex—and he was slowly becoming bored even with that. He tilted his head, surveying the bobbing head of Eunice Brooks—sex machine. The one thing he could not deny was the fact that she was terrific in bed—but that did not a marriage make and he knew it.

  Marriage?

  Why had that idea entered his head? The reason he had walked out on Nicole had been his failure to make a commitment—or the desire to make one at this stage in his life. Sure, he had wanted to have a little more freedom than he felt he had with Nicole, but why would the idea of marriage suddenly invade his thoughts while Eunice was attempting to withdraw every drop of bodily juices he possessed?

  He looked down again. No way could he ever envision being married to someone of Eunice’s ilk. She was nice enough, pleasant enough. She certainly was interested enough in sex to satisfy even the most lust-filled person. It seemed to Myles that the woman even bordered on the perverted side of sex—not that there was anything wrong with that between two consenting adults. He had learned much from her that he would retain for the rest of his life. Whether or not he would be able to convince someone—like Nicole—to partake in these practices was another question.

  Gasping at the amount of pressure she exerted on his throbbing penis, he closed his eyes while she drained him. The sensation of his legs turning to jelly increased until he felt that he would collapse if required to stand anytime in the next five or ten minutes. This weakened sensation crept up his legs, to his spasmodically jerking member, past it to his flat stomach, to his hairy chest, to his arms and head. He closed his eyes, feeling as if he would sink into the mattress, filtering through it until he came out beneath the bed.

  Eunice stayed in place, her head resting on his lower abdomen. Her own afterglow remained constant as she traced esoteric lines along his legs, inner thighs and up to his crotch. He didn’t care. He felt exhausted. She could do anything she wanted. Right now he would not argue the issue. But soon, very soon, he would walk out of her life and be done with her.

  “Are you sleeping?” she asked, breaking the silence to invade his thoughts.

  “No.” How could she think that someone could sleep through one of her performances?

  She sat up, bouncing to his side before lying down next to him. Resting her head on his chest, she said, “You know, Myles, I’ve been thinking.”

  Myles restrained himself from commenting on her mental capabilities and remained silent.

  “Aren’t you curious?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “About what I’ve been thinking.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She fell silent.

  Myles waited. Was she thinking about what she was going to say or was she thinking about his own statement? In either case, he’d wait, since he felt he wouldn’t be able to get up and leave even if he wanted.

  “Why don’t you and I get married?” she said suddenly, as if the idea had just formulated, taking root in her mind.

  “What?” Myles cried, sitting up and dumping her to the side.

  “Get married. You know. You ‘n’ me.”

  Myles struggled to get off the bed. That fried it. Now, she was broaching the subject of marriage. Next thing, she’d formally propose. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t even entertain the thought for more than a split second. Married to Eunice Brooks? The fuck machine?

  “What brought this on?” he asked, biding for time.

  “Well, we’ve been dating for several weeks now and I don’t know about you but I really dig the sex we have together. Don’t you?”

  Myles shrugged. “It’s been fine,” he managed weakly. Dating? She considered his sleeping over as dating? They had gone out to dinner twice, since he had left Nicole.

  Nicole. Her face materialized in his mind. Why had he left her? She was a nice person to be with. She never pushed. She never suggested outlandish things. She was so level headed, so pure in her logical reasoning. Why had he left her?

  “Fine?” Eun
ice blurted. “Fine? Is that all you can say? Fine?”

  “All right, then,” he countered. “It’s been great. You are really something else when it comes to performing in bed.”

  A self-satisfied smile crossed her heart-shaped face. “So why don’t we get married and make it all legal?” She snickered at the suggestion.

  “A lot of reasons.”

  “Name some.”

  All of a sudden, Eunice Brooks was becoming a debater. A philosophical debater. A pushing, argumentative, philosophical debater. He didn’t need that. None of it.

  “First of all,” he began, “I’m not ready to settle down and get married. If you were aware of what’s going on in the world like I am, you wouldn’t even consider an idea that might result in children.”

  Eunice stared at Myles, her face blank, devoid of any understanding. “What … what do you mean?” she asked, her lower lip pouting.

  “Watch the news. Read the newspapers. Listen to the radio. Would you want to bring a child into this rotten world? I wouldn’t. I’m not certain I’ll ever get married. And if I do, there’ll be a firm agreement that we will not have children.”

  Eunice’s face brightened. “I agree. No children. Is that all that’s bothering you? I don’t think I could handle snotty-nosed kids who crap in their pants. Do you know what I mean?”

  Myles turned away. Christ! She thought he was laying out conditions. Now what? Now what could he do? “I … I …” he began lamely, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  But he had, hadn’t he? He had hurt Nicole who had not asked for anything other than his love and his presence. No strings. All she had wanted to give him was her love and her presence in return. He had been a fool.

  “Who are you going to hurt?” she asked, a whimpering defeat in her voice.

  Myles shook his head. “Look, Eunice, you’re a nice enough person, but I did not come into this arrangement with the idea of getting married. I … “