Nightingale Songs

by Strantzas, Simon

  "By now, word of my presence has no doubt spread right across New Hamburg. Everyone wants a peek at the local-boy-turned-killer. Coming here was probably the worst decision I've made so far, but after being aimless for so very long I needed someplace that felt like home."

  "Well, I don't like it, nor do I like their chattering. That droning mumble is making my head throb." I looked back at a pair of still figures watching us in the distance. "We'll take a more discrete route to the house. Maybe we can escape them." And we did, for the most part, but that didn't stop Alistair's neck from remaining in motion, twisting and craning as he searched for spectators -- and specters, I imagine. It tired me just watching him, but I said nothing.

  I had lived in the same brownstone since I was a child, though I'd remodeled since then, replacing the front windows with a larger set to allow more light through. I regretted that somewhat when I brought Alistair inside and the first thing he did was head straight for the window and draw the curtains. The room fell dark instantly, and once more I felt cold. His shadow then asked, "Where would you like me?"

  "I have a guest room upstairs," I said, motioning with one hand while I reached for a lamp with the other. "It's never used, but I have it aired out and turned down once a month, so you should be quite comfortable."

  The two of us sat down on the couches in my living room, and Alistair took the opportunity to light a cigarette as we both tried to forget the day that had come before us. I could see that he had already relaxed somewhat being in my home, safe in what was no doubt the first familiar place he'd been in months. In no time at all his exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a twitching sleep right where he was seated.

  At first, the faint mumbling I heard I mistook for the sound of gentle snoring. It filled the room, and when I realized it didn't come from Alistair I stood and listened closer. It was faint, like the rustling of autumn leaves in the wind, and it seemed to be everywhere. Then, through the drawn curtain, I saw the briefest pair of shadows move across the silk, and the voices became louder, though I still could not put my finger on what it was they said. Alistair was slumped on the couch and breathing slowly, unaware of what was happening around him. I stood and went to the window, then drew back the curtain slightly to peer out unnoticed.

  On the walk before my house, a group of the day's patients and some of my neighbors had collected to point and whisper amongst themselves. Some stayed for a few moments before leaving, others were permanently planted, but none could take their eyes from my home. There was Mr. Windershill, standing with Mrs. Ostin and her now quiet twins, and beside them Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford, both of whom merely stared. Obviously, word of where Alistair was staying had spread faster than either of us had hoped, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit feeling saddened by the sight of so many good men and women succumbing to such tawdriness. Part of me wanted to step outside and shoo them away, but I knew the damage had been done, and I would have to face their stares as long as I offered sanctuary to my old school friend.

  A sharp scream from Alistair turned my blood to ice, and when I turned I saw him on the couch, his hair plastered by sweat to his colorless face. He swallowed hard, and then stood and, trembling, brushed himself off as though he could convince me nothing were the matter.

  "Sorry. I thought. . . . For a moment --" He shook his head. "No, it's impossible."

  "What was it? Tell me, Alistair."

  "I thought I had woken in a pitch dark room, but before I could call for you I heard whispers all around me -- familiar, though I could not place the sound. I wanted to stand but I couldn't move, and then it seemed as though all the air were disappearing, and as I struggled the whispering increased until I heard a single word creak out, a low drawn-out word I knew at once, even in my struggle. It was my name, Reggie. And the voice speaking it was Melinda's."

  I nodded because I understood finally. "It was a dream, Alistair."

  "But, it felt real. . . ."

  "They often do, but I assure you it was just a dream. You're safe now that you're awake. Tell me though: did you see Melinda this time?

  "No, there was nothing but suffocating darkness."

  "That surprises me, but nevertheless, I think I know what's happening. When you slumber, you're entering a self-hypnotic state that leaves you highly susceptible to outside influence. If you were to go to the window and look outside right now, you'd see some of the people of New Hamburg gathered on my walk to no doubt gossip about you, and doing so loudly enough that their words are carrying inside the house. I certainly heard them while you slept. Their talk no doubt caused your dreaming mind to create the illusions you believe are real. Illusions like the presence of Melinda and Rand."

  "But, I've seen them in the daylight. Even while I've been awake."

  "The brain is a complicated organ we don't yet fully understand. You've been feeling the pressure of so many eyes watching you, judging you, that the stress has been preventing you from fully resting . . . and it came right on the heels of the stress caused by your campaigning. What's happening is that you're experiencing what we call microsleep, a state induced by prolonged sleep depravation. In these moments, your mind is trying to recover the rest it needs and, much like a daydream, you're experiencing sights and hallucinations your brain is tricked into believing are real. As the death of your wife and the accusations are kept foremost in your mind, it's no surprise that visions of her and of Rand appear to you. After all, if we were to assume you are in fact seeing their spirits, what sense would it make for them to arrive here in my home as well -- a place you have not seen in years?"

  He sat quietly mulling over what I'd said, while I leaned back, confident in my deductions. Then, he looked over at me and he seemed calmer, more rational.

  "If all that's true," he asked, "then how do I stop them from reappearing?"

  Yes, I thought. That was the question.

  "Well, you need to get proper sleep, for starters. But you must also find a way of eliminating the stress that is feeding these illusions. It seems to me that you are reminded of the crime by every face you've seen since your arrest. These people, unknowingly, are transferring their presumed guilt onto you, and you're allowing it to happen. You see them and believe what they think and say. After all, as you've admitted, the ghosts leave you alone until people discover where you are.

  "The only way to free you is to confront the cause of your troubles." I beckoned him to the window, and then pulled the curtains back. Outside, the crowd looked startled, and some of the younger members walked away in feigned casualness. The rest were too old, too indifferent, to hide their curiosity. "Look," I said, "The number has already swollen."

  He leaned closer to the window for a better look, and the site of him only excited the crowd further.

  "They are your first step. You must confront them, Alistair. You must make them understand you didn't do the things of which you are accused. Otherwise, you'll suffocate beneath their suspicions."

  We stood there bathed in evening light, each casting a doubled shadow on the wall behind us. Alistair's emotions played across his face as he watched the crowd and listened to their incessant whispering. Then he turned to me with eyes that spoke of exhaustion, the kind that runs deep through fissures into one's soul.

  "I can't," he said. "I just can't face them."

  "But you must." I wanted to shake sense into him. "It's the only way to stop this."

  "I--" he stammered. "I'm going to bed. I need some time."

  "Of course," I acquiesced, though I couldn't help but feel his lack of action was a mistake. He left me and I heard his heavy steps echo and multiply in the small stairwell, as though his past were ascending with him.

  I listened to his footfalls as he prepared for sleep, resigned to the scrutiny he was under no matter what he did. He would never be forgiven for those crimes he did not commit. The crowd outside my window whispered their gossip with increased fervor once Alistair was no longer there to watch them. I had known each member f
or many years, and yet I couldn't help at that moment being filled with anger and disappointment over what they were doing. They were driving an innocent man mad.

  It was then I heard the sounds of agitated movement above me, and resolved to take the action Alistair would not. I retrieved my coat from the closet and stepped outside to face his accusers.

  Their numbers seemed to have grown in the time it took me to leave my house, and I half wondered if the whole town had not already converged there. Few of them moved as I approached, and despite my obvious displeasure at what was happening, fewer still seemed at all concerned to see me. Even Mrs. Rutherford was there, standing defiant and judgmental. I put on the most authoritative voice I could muster. My doctor voice.

  "Please, move along. Give the man some peace."

  "He's a killer, Dr. Reilly. Having high-price attorneys doesn't make him innocent." Those around her who were listening nodded in agreement. The rest continued to whisper their gossips amongst themselves.

  "It's not true, though. The media, the stories, all of them are false. All you need to do is look into it. I assure you, Mr. Burden is as innocent as you or I."

  She eyed me suspiciously. "You, perhaps."

  Then, before I could respond, I heard a bloodcurdling noise, one that silenced everyone around me. It came from my own home, and it was a scream of such terror that it froze my very core. Mrs. Rutherford's brow furrowed as she looked at me, but I didn't stay to find out the reason. Instead, I ran back to my home, back toward my friend's side. Behind me, part of the crowd must have followed.

  With every step I took, I knew I'd made a mistake. I shouldn't have left Alistair alone in his state. He was still far too susceptible to his imagination, to the guilt that the world broadcast onto him. He took in their suspicions and made them real, and as I climbed the stairs towards him I realized I'd been wrong to think he could overcome it all so easily. Part of my brain heard the stampede of feet behind me, and I suppose in hindsight it only made things worse, but my concern for my friend blinded me to that possibility, and I wonder now if that was not the final straw in what happened. Part of me hopes not, but if it wasn't, then I have to give way to an explanation that still doesn't make sense to me, even though I was there to witness it first hand.

  I burst through the guest room door to Alistair's aid and stopped immediately. The room was frigid, and what I saw -- or at least think I saw -- I surely couldn't have. There on the bed lay Alistair, his hands pressed into the pillow that covered his face while the rest of his exposed body struggled. And yet, just beside him, I thought I saw shadows bent like two pairs of hands, and they too were pushing the pillow down. Alistair was kicking out violently, and I ran to grab the pillow from his face but I could not budge it. He held on too tightly, pressing it with unbelievable strength in some bid for release from all his torments. And yet as I tried in my panic to stop him it almost seemed as though he were trying to help me, as though he was in fact working to push the pillow away. But I knew that was impossible. I tried with all my strength to stop his suicide, but could do nothing -- even when he stopped kicking it took a few moments for me to work the pillow free from his clenched fists. When I did, it fell away from his face to reveal a rictus of terror lying beneath. I stepped back, horrified, and then, in the darkness of the room, I saw two shadows move. I'm not sure what cast them as there was nothing nearby, yet the pair started towards me with a sound like the whisper of silk, as though they were night made solid. I took a few steps back but they came too quickly and rose to overtake me. I lifted my hands instinctively before my face and shut my eyes, and then heard the sound of Mrs. Rutherford behind me, screaming.

  "What have you done?"

  I opened my eyes to see a crowd of people standing at the door, staring in at my dead friend and me.

  Things did not go as smoothly as I would have liked afterward. Though it was agreed that I'd had far too little opportunity to asphyxiate Alistair Burden between the time his screams were heard and I was found with his body -- not to mention the lack of any clear motive -- there was still the suspicion that I'd somehow managed to use my knowledge of medicine to do the deed. Much like Alistair before me, I was freed from inquiry, but not absolved of possible guilt.

  Needless to say, my practice did not last long after my name was ostensibly cleared. Even Polly, who had been with me for longer than I could remember, simply stopped coming in one day -- which was fine, I supposed, as I no longer had any patients lined up in my waiting room. Despite my own advice, I said nothing to anyone about what had happened for fear I would have to explain what it was I thought I'd seen, and I'm still not entirely sure how to do that.

  Ultimately, I could no longer stay in New Hamburg, and not simply because I could hear my neighbors, those same people I'd been treating for years, whispering about me as I passed them on the street, much as they had done to poor Alistair a short time before.

  You see, the feeling I could not shake, the one that made me leave the quiet town of my childhood, was that when Mrs. Rutherford screamed, "What have you done?" I am not so sure it was to me she was speaking.

  And if it wasn't. . . . Well, I would rather not think too much about that.

  TEND YOUR OWN GARDEN

  She'd swapped photographs. Halford pretended he hadn't noticed, or that if he had it didn't bother him, but in truth it hurt far more than he let on -- far more than he expected it to. Had Libby known that he'd spotted the callous swapping of their wedding day portrait for one of her and Peter on tropical vacation, she made no mention of it either -- and Halford wasn't sure if that made him feel irritated or grateful.

  "Like I said, Libby, I'm looking for a box of blueprint hardcopies and files. I need to reconstruct our failed archive server, and I can't find them anywhere. I've checked my entire apartment and in the storage locker and they aren't there. I must have left them behind when I moved out." It took all his effort to remain civil and conversational, but it was worth it if Libby's guilt was stoked. If she had any. "I probably left them here accidentally."

  "Accidentally," she repeated, her voice suggesting she didn't believe that word truly existed. The look in her eyes made his blood turn to fire. How dare she look at him as though he were the untrustworthy one. He had to swallow his anger before he could speak. He didn't know why he let her crawl under his skin, but it was obvious she enjoyed it.

  "It's a pretty simple question," he spit as soon as his power of speech returned, disappointed at how quickly she could make him break his vow. "Did you find anything or not?"

  Libby took a long drag from her cigarette, squinting from either smoke or suspicion, and then blew a steady stream concurrently from both her nose and mouth. Halford was reminded of a dragon.

  "You can check downstairs if you want. If we found it, either Pete or I would have put it down there. Or thrown it out. I'm not sure which."

  Halford smiled that smile that didn't reach his eyes, didn't show his teeth. The kind of smile that wasn't a smile at all. It was clear she was trying to drive him insane. Perhaps it was some ploy to get something, but what he didn't know. She already had the house he spent all those months renovating. What more than his home could she need?

  In hindsight, he had no idea why he'd married her. It was always clear they weren't suited for one another, but at the time he somehow convinced himself it didn't matter, and then managed to convince Libby of the same. It took no time at all before their homelife collapsed, but Halford held on, buried himself in the repairs to their new house, certain that when it was complete it would miraculously fix all their problems. Libby didn't seem to have any interest in helping, he noticed, instead she spent more and more time on her computer. He encouraged it, hopeful the distraction would allow him to work faster, unaware of the contact she was making with her former lover. While Halford worked to repair their new home's foundations, Libby was destroying those of their marriage, meeting Peter surreptitiously in out-of-the-way hotels, and then eventually his and Libby's
newly renovated bedroom.

  Halford was unsure what was worse: discovering the two adulterers together, or doing so in the house he'd poured so much love into fixing. The ground beneath him seemed to shake when he discovered the truth, and he blamed it for his stumbling gait as he tried to escape the constricting hallways. At that point, when he was at his weakest, he would have signed anything that kept him from seeing the house again. Even as he was moving his things out for good the place already felt foreign, everything having shifted in some imperceptible way so it no longer resembled the home he'd spent so much time building. Instead, it had become merely a house, a place that he wished to never remember.

  Perhaps that was why when he returned for his blueprints, Halford could not remember how to access the basement. His memories had become jumbled as though in a dream, and in his mind's eye he could remember only the entrance to the cellar of his childhood home, the doors located at the rear of the house beneath the omnipresent shade of a towering oak and the small wooden treehouse his father had built for him in its sturdy branches. Halford wandered disorientated, searching his memory for the true direction, and finally found the door just off the kitchen, but even then, confronted with the answer, his memory objected.

  "Wasn't this stairwell on the other side of the hall?" he asked. Libby looked at him with barely contained disgust.

  "I'm sure I would have noticed."

  "And here I thought I was the one who failed to notice things."

  He enjoyed saying it, even if ultimately the joke was on him.

  Libby watched him from the top of the stairs as he descended, and he could smell the smoke from her cigarette chasing him like a spirit downward into its depths. The stairwell was set at an odder angle than he remembered -- the treads both too narrow and too close together -- and he wondered if Peter hadn't made ill-considered changes to the house. Halford was forced to keep one hand on the wall as he traveled down too many steps, the temperature of the plaster growing colder and rougher, the damp softening everything. By the time he reached the bottom of the short flight, the smell of smoke was gone, replaced with the tang of mildew and something else. Something stronger, like an earthy garden, combined with a strange musky odor. It was also darker than he remembered. Darker, and colder.