by Gregor Xane
The doll's arm twirled as he approached. A soft jewelry box tune played as it turned. Frank grabbed for the arm, but it was much too fast, disappearing inside the tree long before his fingers came within reach.
Frank hugged the tree. He smashed his face against the tree's bark and looked inside. He found nothing there at first, and then the silver wave. The eyes and then the stars. The universe opened for Frank, put on a private show inside that tree. Frank felt like a five year-old stuck to an ancient nickelodeon's eyepiece. He was scared, but thrilled with the night inside the tree. And the stars. He couldn't think of anything more beautiful.
And the hole in this wonderful tree revealed another tree filled with stars. And the next tree revealed another. A trail of scarred trees wound through the neighborhood, tying it together, a trail of lost worlds. Clusters of star systems tunneled through a planned forest of perennials and pine.
The tiny silver-gray arm waved him forward, poked out and danced, from the hole in every tree, until Frank was just a few feet away, and then would disappear inside the trunk. Frank followed the arm through a maze of manicured lawns, to a line of trees bordering a brick house poured from the same mold as Steve's.
He peered into a tree in the backyard, at swirling galaxies and shooting stars. Then the stars dimmed, leaving only moonlight, and the world beyond the tree appeared.
He saw dead grass, the brick wall of the nearby house. There was a hole in the wall, a tiny arm reaching out to him, taunting him, daring him to come closer, to break in to this stranger's home.
Frank approached the wall, and the arm, predictably, retracted. He stood on tip-toes and looked through the opening. The stars were absent here. Frank looked onto an abandoned living room, jagged shadows and shades of plush furnishings.
Frank stepped back from the wall and cursed himself for having left his burglary kit back in Steve's living room. He couldn't go back now for his supplies. He'd risk losing the trail. He would just have to make a tour around the house and hope for an open window.
Frank kept to the shadows, watching for any signs of life in the windows, as he circled the house. His luck was with him, the house remained dark and quiet, and he found a basement window near the back pulled open. There was no screen to worry about, and he was able to slide down through it without much difficulty.
Frank wasn't nervous until his feet settled on the basement carpet of this strange house. If he'd been caught sneaking around in Steve's house, he'd be ostracized, certainly, but not arrested.
Or shot.
But, now that Frank thought of it, Steve did have a cabinet full of guns. He might have gotten shot breaking into Steve's house, too.
Frank wiped his palms on his pants and tried to take deep breaths. His pulse quickened in his ears, making it difficult for him to listen for signs of the house's awakened residents. He took extra care when climbing the basement stairs, placing his weight at the outside of each step. He'd read somewhere that this would help to avoid creaking boards. And it seemed to work, but he found it difficult to hear anything over the beating of his heart. The basement door opened on to a kitchen. Frank saw that the layout to this house was identical to Steve's. Even the appliances and the countertops were the same. Both houses shared the same faulty, flickering bulb over the range.
Frank moved into the living room to find the hole in the wall he'd spotted from outside. He wasn't disappointed. The crack was there. The baby-doll's arm was taunting him. He crept forward and reached his hand out to grab for the silver-gray arm as soon as he was within range. But the arm disappeared a second before he could make his move.
Frank chased after it. He reached his arm into the crack up to his shoulder and flailed around, searching. His arm extended into the endless night of stars that had followed the incubus from tree to tree. He bent his arm at the elbow and felt for the inside of the wall and wasn't able to find it. He brought his right hand toward him far enough that he would be touching his chest had the wall not been in the way, and he didn't see his hand emerge from the wall or feel his palm against his jacket. He pulled his arm from the wall and let his palm rest on the ridge of the crack. He tried to tap his fingers on the inside of the wall, but found that there was nothing there to tap them against. The wall only existed on his side.
Frank took a step back to consider the implications of this and tripped over an object lying in the middle of the floor. His body hit the floor hard, shaking a dozen unseen nick-knacks on the shelves, and the dishes in the kitchen cabinets. Pain shot through his hips. The thing he'd tripped over was wedged in the small of his back. He cursed, reached under his back, and flung the thing across the room. It was a metal cylinder, and it rolled into the big screen television. Frank heard a thud and the twang of a popped spring. And from inside the cylinder, a lamp sprang up from the shadows to a height of seven feet.
Frank cowered, covered his face with his forearms, as the lamp's head exploded into a ball of light. The head bobbled and turned, casting its erratic beam throughout the room. It revealed a mass of intertwined bodies molded together to form the shape of a couch. Frank recognized faces as the swarming spotlight fell upon them. Kristy Kane. Wilma Wonders. Sugar McSweet. All were naked and bound in torturous positions, faces frozen in time, their confused expressions torn between agony and mock lust. The light then scribbled brief glimpses of an overstuffed chair made of more joined bodies. Frank recognized Randy Mayor's tangled chest hair, Ricky Mild's cowboy mustache, Tanya Feast's trademark piercings, and the goldfish tattoo that was the calling card of the one and only Heidi Fleishman Cobb.
Frank crawled across the floor to stop the mad lamp but his left palm knocked against something sharp-edged and wet. It felt like the lid of a soup can. Frank searched the carpet and soon found an empty can. He snatched it up and held it before his face, waited for the spotlight to pass by and illuminate its label.
NoodleZoni, it read.
Then Frank and the word were left in darkness.
When the spotlight returned, the label read, NoodleZonies.
Then CrazyNoodles.
With each sweep a different brand, NoodleBites and GravyNoodles.
Chapter 15
Steve retrieved the brown paper bag from the passenger seat. He climbed out of the car and walked briskly up the gravel pathway to Frank's front porch. He hadn't heard from Frank in over a month, nothing until a strange phone call in the middle of the afternoon. Frank had sounded groggy, his speech slurred. He didn't say much, no greeting, no good-bye. "Steve," he'd said, "I need you to bring me over a supply of Serapuems." Steve tried to question him, ask him how he was doing, but the line went dead. And now he was here knocking on Frank's screen door, keeping his mouth tightly closed, careful not to breathe the smell creeping around the cracks in the doorframe. He rattled the aluminum door a few times before deciding to let himself in.
The doorknob had a sticky layer of some unknown substance coating a fine under-layer of crust. He quickly drew back his hand after turning the knob and pushed the door open, wiping his fingers on the peeling wood. He heard a rustling noise as he moved whatever it was that was obstructing the entry. It was like a pile of leaves and branches had drifted up against the door. He poked his head through the crack and found a floor piled almost knee deep with trash. The rustling sound had been a disturbed mound of stale fast food paperboard cartons, crumpled burger sacks, smashed Styrofoam cups, and an assortment of detached plastic no-spill lids with straws still piercing their middles. Steve scanned a carpet of thin microwaveable dinner boxes and used napkins, a hundred restaurant logos smeared and torn and strewn throughout the room. Beer and cola cans popped up everywhere announcing their brands with bold color and brazen design. Cherry Wild. Mega Mountain. Honey Brew. Blue Collar Lager. Plates and bowls teetered in the mess, covered with remnants of unfinished noodles, forgotten sauces, fork-trailed patches of smashed potatoes. Steve spotted an assortment of collapsed water bottles, a casserole dish half full with some ancient meal, an overst
uffed grocery bag overflowing with popcorn, two untouched and rotted cantaloupes, piles and piles of laundry, magazines and newspapers, automated-teller receipts and unopened mail, cookie tins, snack chip bags and candy wrappers, tossed onion rings and countless grease-stained French fry sleeves.
"Frank," Steve called out, stepping inside. He kicked a path through the carpet of waste, keeping a close eye on his shoes, being careful not to get anything stuck to them. He raised his voice so that Frank could easily hear him from upstairs. He wanted to give the man a chance to put himself together. He didn't want to repeat his last visit to Frank's house. "Is anyone home?"
Steve looked up when he didn't hear an answer and found Frank sitting on a stool in the middle of the living room, asleep, shirtless, with industrial accordion piping connected to his torso. Three tubes were attached to his back, one between his shoulder blades, one at its base, and one in between. Three more tubes connected to his front, one at the top of his chest, one at his solar plexus, and another just below his navel. The other ends of these tubes were connected to the ceiling overhead. Hastily hammered nails fixed them to cracked and water-stained plaster.
How the piping stayed fixed to Frank's flesh, Steve didn't know.
Frank's eyelids were motionless. He wasn't dreaming.
Steve picked up a collapsed cardboard wine box and used it as a shovel, clearing a path to Frank. When he finally stood over him, he nearly gagged from the smell. And he considered leaving, contacting the county's mental health authority.
"Frank," he said. His voice was quiet. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth too wide that his brother's stench would wash over his taste buds. "Frank, wake up."
Frank snorted and raised his right arm to wipe his nose. He disturbed the tubes, sending waves up to the ceiling. He whimpered and dropped his arm to his side. His chin dropped to his chest, head titled to the right. A brownish line of drool trailed from the corner of his mouth.
Steve considered picking something up from the floor to poke Frank with—less afraid to handle strewn trash than to touch his brother's unwashed skin—but decided that it would be more sanitary to poke his brother's right shoulder on the spot where the most recent nicotine patch was affixed. He pressed the smooth plastic square over and over. He felt like a rude salesman abusing a doorbell.
Frank's eyes opened and registered Steve's presence. They didn't seem surprised. They didn't seem murky either. To Steve's amazement, they were incredibly clear and alert.
"Hey, Steve," Frank said. "Did I leave the front door unlocked again?"
Steve nodded.
"You got the Serapuems."
"What's going on here?"
"You've stumbled upon my investigation."
"I think you're sick, Frank." Steve took a second look at the room, the accordion piping. "You're going to have rats in here."
"I've learned how to study my dreams." Frank scratched his chest hair next to where the top front tube attached. "I can study them while I'm dreaming them."
"What are you talking about?"
"I can tell when I'm dreaming now."
"I hope so."
"You know what I mean. Lucid dreaming. I can examine them now from a logical perspective. I can even control them sometimes."
"And where has this gotten you, exactly?"
Frank didn't answer.
"You never did go to that interview, did you?"
Frank sniffled again and wiped his nose on his bare forearm.
"You sold your car, didn't you?"
"Who told you that?"
"Jean Daniels from the Old Grocer. She's Jill's cousin."
"People talk."
"You've been riding around on some bike. With a basket on the seat, like some village idiot."
"I'm saving money. I've got groceries to buy."
"You've got a problem."
Frank shook his head, laughed.
"What the hell are these things?" Steve said, disturbing the tubes with a derisive swipe.
"There's nothing wrong with me."
"I bet you haven't been out of the house for at least three weeks. You look like shit."
"I went to the movies last week. I saw this movie about these three kids who live in this post-apocalyptic setting. The whole world is one big third-world country. One night, the kids discover some very strange neighbors up the street. A family with peculiar deformities. To these kids they look like aliens in wheelchairs. Well, the kids find out that their odd neighbors aren't aliens at all. They are the last generation of human beings bred in secret on a space station that had to be grounded right before the world economy went bust. These neighbors look strange because their physiognomy has mutated to adjust to life in space. They are bound to wheelchairs because they can't support themselves in Earth's gravity. It was a pretty good movie, considering that it tried pretty fucking hard to manipulate the old heart-strings."
"What was this movie called, Frank?"
"Suburban Gravity."
"Where is that playing? I've never heard of it."
"Over at Towne Multiplex. I saw a matinee."
"Jill and I were at the Multiplex last week. There's no such movie."
Frank shrugged. "Believe what you want. I'm just telling you."
"What are you doing, Frank?"
"I was getting ready to go to sleep. I just popped the last few Serapuems, getting ready to continue my investigation."
"You're still chasing after that fucking baby-doll arm?"
"It's more than that."
"That's right. You went and named the thing."
"I didn't name it. I found out what it is."
"It's a dream, Frank. Why don't you just let me pay for a few more visits with Dr. Vo? I'm worried that you're going to hurt yourself."
"Dr. Vo can't help me. Besides, I've just about figured it all out on my own now. Vo would have quite a bit of catching up to do."
"What have you figured out?"
"What I have to do."
"What do you have to do?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"You're right. I probably wouldn't."
Frank closed his eyes and nodded his head in agreement. His chin fell to his chest and he began breathing deeply, rhythmically.
"What are you doing, Frank?"
"I'm trying to get some sleep. Give me a call sometime. We'll go play some golf." Frank's mouth turned up in a sarcastic smile. "I promise to take a bath, so you won't be embarrassed."
"Frank," Steve said, "You're lucky— " Then he stopped himself. He saw there was no use continuing. Frank could no longer hear him. He'd already fallen back to sleep.
You're lucky that I don't beat the crap out of you right now, Frank. But I can tell that you just can't help yourself. You just don't know any better.
Steve considered taking the bag of Serapuems with him when he left, but decided to leave them behind. He'd never be able to help Frank if he was pissed at him. He placed the bag gently in Frank's lap, then followed the path he'd cleared through the garbage to the front porch.
Outside.
He locked the door behind him.
Chapter 16
Frank loaded the basket with a duffel bag containing his makeshift burglary kit, kicked his kickstand into the upright position, mounted the bike's plastic seat, and pedaled out into the darkness. He smiled and thought back to the dream in which he'd done the exact same thing, with the same destination in mind, the same intentions. The streetlights cast broad circles over the asphalt; he couldn't ride in the shadows like in his dream. It was cooler tonight and Frank wore gloves and a stocking cap. Steam poured from his nose and mouth. At least two trashcans stood sentry at the end of each driveway; in his dream it hadn't been garbage night. The smell of cheap trash bag plastic was more pungent than that of the rotting meat and vegetables.
Frank heard a dog barking in the distance, then the pattering of paws approaching through autumn leaves. He pedaled faster toward an intersection, but slammed the brakes, squeez
ed the handle-bars hard, when a shadow leaped into an island of light. The shadow had four legs. It lowered its head and retracted its lips. Its teeth glowed. Steam billowed from its throat.
This can't be a neighborhood dog. It's got the upper body of a wolf.
Frank pushed the bike backwards, slowly, careful not to let the dog out of his sight. He tried to control his pulse, his breathing, tried not to allow his glands to spray the smell of fear. If it had been the middle of the afternoon, he'd just yell at the dog, try to scare it, tell it to get the hell out of the way. But he couldn't do that now, someone would call the police. He went over a map of the neighborhood in his head and considered other routes. But then decided that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to turn his back and run. The dog would almost certainly give chase.
Frank pushed himself a few yards backwards up the hill. He wasn't going to allow himself to be intimidated by this dog. He was going to pedal as fast as he could straight at the beast. Make it get out of his way. He backed up a few more feet, lengthening his runway, and stood up when he pushed down on the pedals. He hunched his shoulders, formed his body into an arrowhead; his arched brow upturned to compete in a feral contest of locked eyes.
Frank moved fast. Cold tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears but was soon lost in the beast's deepening growl.
The thing's not moving.
But it was too late to stop. He put his head down and pedaled faster, and prepared for a collision. He closed his eyes and told himself that he was going fast enough now that if it pounced the beast would be deflected off of him and sent sailing into a gathering of trashcans.
But the collision never came, and Frank rode for a long time in darkness.
