Twice as Dark: Two Novels of Horror
Page 39
The seemingly natural sunlight shining through the black-tinged clouds was disorienting so far from the surface of the real world. For all of the anticipation and excitement that marked his day, Maury was unsure of himself. He didn't know why he felt this way. Palms sweaty, temples pounding. He always thought of the dream-people as beings as dumb as cattle. They did what they were told. They went where you guided them.
Juliet placed first one hand then the other palm-flat against the enclosure glass. Maury hesitated, but approached the glass, copying her display. Without thinking, he nearly stumbled as he backed away. He felt something he should have expected, that he should have prepared himself for. Warmth. The simple process of energy conversion and the resulting dispersal of heat had made him as jelly-legged as a freshman at his first dance.
Juliet was grinning at Maury as a child would look at a puppy at play. She pursed her lips and lightning tore through the dream clouds above her, small vibrations trembling through the basement walls. She breathed a circle of fog onto the glass and traced her index finger along its surface.
Hi
Thrown off by Juliet's seamless humanity, Maury began to question why he had come down here in the first place. It seemed so childish to him now. So childish and wrong. He had planned to enter her enclosure. He was going to instruct her like the simple-minded thing that she was to strip herself naked, and then he was going to… why he was going to do whatever he damn well pleased. And now, the simple act of feeling warmth through the glass, feeling warmth emanating from this specter of the mind, this embodied psychological enchantment, made him feel something totally foreign to his nervous system. Guilt.
"How are you?" He stepped closer to the glass, feeling slightly less jelly-legged.
He put his palms against the glass and she mirrored his movements. He felt the warmth, expected this time, and when she looked him in the eye, she didn't flinch. When her eyes wandered from his eyes to his cheeks and neck and his burden of marred flesh, she didn't shy away or look sickened by his appearance.
She met his eyes and now he saw pain below the surface. Not the bleak, depressive pain she normally carried, but something different.
"Sorry, poor boy." Her voice was thin and melodic, on the verge of breaking. A bare silver tear, a speck of crystal in the flowing rivulets of rainwater drenching her, filled her eye, fell from her heavy lashes.
He pulled his hands away. Pulled away from the trance she seemed to have on him. He sat on the edge of the battered desk and suddenly hated her, this dream-woman. He didn't want her pity. He wanted to enter her enclosure, tear the clothes from her and mount her like a wild fucking animal.
"Fuck you," he said, mostly to himself, defeat in his voice. "I did this to myself." He touched the familiar brown and pink scars on his cheek, the smooth surface that was his living torture.
Juliet retreated to the park bench and covered her face in her hands. He could hear her sobs through the glass. When the clouds broke and the rain eased, he jumped to his feet.
He had forgotten about the time. He had been in the little room for at least ten minutes. Juliet picked up the gun and placed the barrel against her chin.
Maury opened the access door to the small hallway leading to the entrance of her enclosure. He fumbled with his keys, finally found the right one, and fumbled with getting it into the keyhole. He threw open the door, splashed through the cold rain puddles and grabbed Juliet's forearm. His actions deflected the gunshot and the bullet sheared through her cheekbone, split her eye socket, exposed a swath of brain matter through her shattered skull.
"Why? Why do you do this?" She slumped into his arms and he cradled her. He could feel her quake as shock settled in. Blood flowed freely onto his shirt and down his pant legs.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Juliet's body fought to hold onto her fleeting life. A seizure gripped her in its fist, and spasms shook her wildly in his arms. Soon, her breathing slowed. Maury held her until she died. Then her wounds began to heal, to disappear altogether. The crimson glow of life crept back into her cheeks, human quality spreading once again throughout her body. Blood soaked, but without a wound to show for it, Juliet opened her eyes. She had changed, somehow through her interaction with Maury, she had broken her cycle of death and life. The clouds reformed and a chilly rain began to fall, washing most of the blood and gore from their bodies.
Maury leaned over, kissed Juliet's forehead.
Maury didn't know about the immortality of dreams until after Rocky killed his brother.
His parents were never religious people, but they were wearing their Sunday best the day they signed over Maury as a ward of the state. He sat in a secretary's office, in an orange vinyl chair that had foam busting through a split seam. The secretary peered over what she was typing, looking at Maury over the fat brown rim of her glasses.
"You want some water? Or some coffee? Ha, who am I kidding? No coffee for you. Too young for that. I can get you some water though. It's kinda rusty from the pipes being old, but that shouldn't do no harm." Her eyes lingered on his face, and she couldn't help but shake her head.
"No thanks."
Maury didn't know why he was in this cramped office on the first Thursday afternoon after they buried Dale. But he had done what his dad had told him to do. He washed up after school, put on a suit his mom had bought for him for Dale's funeral, and he kept his mouth shut. The day they buried his brother, Maury had pleaded to keep his cap as they entered the church, but his mom had taken it from him. He couldn't concentrate during the entire funeral, not with so many eyes investigating his singed, pink scalp.
The dark gray suit didn't really fit, especially when he bent at the elbow. He had been preoccupied with trying not to bend his arms at the funeral, hoping no one would see his scabby wrists. When the priest had told them to kneel and pray for Dale's soul, his dad had nudged Maury with a sharp elbow for not clasping his hands together in prayer. He didn't like the suit in the first place, and now he was wearing it for the second time in a week.
His healing arm still itched as if festering insects were burrowing through his bones. He snuck his right hand up the sleeve and scratched until he felt pain in his skin. It didn't feel good, but at least he felt something in his arm. The doctors had told him he may never feel anything--that he would need to be careful not to put his arm in any danger. They had told him to keep it away from open flame (he told them he had learned that lesson already). They had also recommended keeping it away from extreme cold or prolonged sunlight. That seemed like an awful amount of responsibility for someone who had torched his family's home on a whim. If they had only known.
He didn't know how long his parents were in the office with the frosted glass door with that Mr. Smelzer guy, but it seemed like forever. Twenty minutes ago, he noted the time on a wall clock that looked just like the one from his homeroom at school. A stark white circle with thin black numerals. It seemed like time went by slower if he was ever in the presence of such a clock. He sighed in boredom, but at least boredom kept his mind off his dead brother.
When they had entered the waiting room, his dad had told him to sit quietly and to not touch anything. Not that he wanted to touch anything in the dust and cigarette smoke stained everything of the waiting area. So, an eternity plus twenty minutes equaled forever, at least in Maury's estimation, especially when you're wearing a Sunday best suit that doesn't quite fit.
The secretary, who seemed as uncomfortable as Maury in his suit, wore a brown woolen blazer. She kept looking from Maury to the frosted glass door. He was about to ask if she knew anything about what was going on (and he figured she knew something since she seemed so twitchy and nervous), when Mr. Smelzer's office door opened. His parents emerged, his dad with a consoling arm around his mom's shoulder while she stared blankly at the floor. They had the door to the hallway open before Maury could even stand. His mom cried into her hands while his dad mumbled something in response as the door shut behind them.
"Your parents told me that a cat killed your brother?"
Maury still didn't know what was going on, or why his parents were no longer in the office. His theory was that Mr. Smelzer was some kind of counselor. Like the Jung guy he had read about. Counselors seemed so cool.
"Yes. A burning cat. Blue flames, like the ones coming from a kitchen stove."
Mr. Smelzer jotted something in a notebook as Maury spoke.
"And, your house burnt down not that long ago?"
"It was an apartment. We didn't get a house until people felt sorry for us and gave us donations after the apartment fire."
"There have been other instances, is that correct?"
"Instances?"
"Yes. Of fire."
Maury thought back to the time he had set his bedroom on fire. It had been nothing big, just a burn hole in the carpet when he was playing with matches. And that had been so long ago.
"Well, one time. I guess."
Mr. Smelzer looked at the notebook, flipped through a few pages of notes. "And then somehow a burning cat scratched apart your brother's chest."
"He had monster claws." He realized how crazy this sounded, but couldn't help telling the truth.
"Did you try to help your brother?"
This conversation wasn't heading in the direction he figured it would, and he didn't like it one bit. "Right away. I loved that little prick," Maury said. From his tone, it sounded like this guy believed everything had been Maury's fault. Well, maybe some of it had been his fault. No one had forced him to torch that poor cat, but Dale… he had nothing to do with that. It was an accident, totally out of his control.
"And what happened when you fought off this burning cat?"
"Not much, really. I thought it would hurt if I touched him, but he was barely warm, just like any other cat. He hissed at me and swatted his paw through the air, but he already had Dale's blood on his whiskers. Dale died pretty quick."
"So, like you said, you didn't get burned. Can you explain more about that?"
"It's simple. Rocky is a dream-cat. He does what he wants. I guess he wanted to kill my brother."
"Do you have any idea why Rocky would want to kill your brother?"
"I have no clue." He did have an idea of why Rocky killed his brother, but it was only a theory. If a dream person could kill the person who dreamed it, then perhaps it would be free to do whatever it wanted. Immortality. Why else would Rocky return?
"I need to have you understand, Maury, this is for your own good. Your parents feel like they can no longer protect you from yourself. They want to get help for you. That's why they brought you here."
"When are they coming back?"
"I'm afraid I don't have an answer for that one. Your parents feel like they can't let you out of their sights, even for a second. It's a matter of trust."
"Are they coming back?" Maury asked, his voice cracking.
Mr. Smelzer didn't answer and was saved from any more questions when someone knocked on the door. When the door opened, Maury could see the twitchy secretary in her itchy woolen blazer peering inside as two burly men entered the office. Mr. Smelzer told Maury to follow the men, and he did as he was told, and he kept his mouth shut, and he didn't touch a thing.
The sun had set and Maury was sitting on a lower bunk bed in a sterile white room with one of those super-slow homeroom wall clocks. A dozen bunk beds stretched in either direction. Shortly after an eternity had elapsed, the door opened and white-clad kids with dour expressions filed into the room. They climbed into their bunks. Maury rested his head on the paper-thin pillow and closed his eyes. No one said a word to him. He could only marvel at the mess they must have gotten themselves into in order to end up in a place like this.
He kept his thoughts to himself, kept the pain buried deep inside. The loss of his brother, followed by the rejection of his parents. Cast off like an old suit that doesn't quite fit anymore. He thought of Dale, the only one who really mattered anyway, and tears seeped from his closed eyes.
Chapter 7
Kevin removed the crumpled packaging material from his new backpack. The blue bag had red straps and pockets all over the place. His mom had left it on his bed as some kind of present, but all it did was remind him that school was approaching much too quickly for his liking. After playing ball with the kids from the neighborhood, going to a new school wouldn't be all that bad, but still, he wondered why everything had to change all at once. Why couldn't he wake up every morning, grab his baseball glove and disappear until the sun dipped below the trees?
He had made it through dinner, but barely. He didn't want to let on that he had gorged himself on ice cream so close to dinnertime, even if his mom had given him the money. He ate as much roast beef and mashed potatoes as he could manage. He told his mom and grandma about how his team had won, and about Lucy's inability to catch a ball or swing a bat and his God-like pitching arm. He left out mentioning Screamer's swear-laced tantrum or how Reid had assumed Kevin's parents were divorced. It was like the kids from down the block and his family came from different worlds and he didn't want them to mix.
But now his heart raced as night overwhelmed everything it touched. The day started slowly, with an enjoyable breakfast with his family. Then the hours at the ball field slipped away as leisurely as maple syrup dripping from a bottle. The sun had set, having taken shelter from the coming night, leaving him alone in his room. It felt like time was accelerating, shoving him down a road to the inevitable and painful crash of sleep and the ever-present Mr. Freakshow. He didn't want to think about falling asleep. Maybe he was just being a chicken. Maybe he should just grow up.
I bet Reid isn't afraid to fall asleep.
Kevin thought of his new friend, and wondered if he could call him a friend at this point. Probably not. Reid probably hadn't given Kevin a second thought after the game split up earlier tonight. Kevin would probably have to reintroduce himself when he went back tomorrow. Reid seemed so confident and grown up that he didn't need to know anyone. He didn't need to go out of his way to know anybody when everybody already knew who he was.
Kevin tugged the zipper all the way open on the biggest pocket of his backpack and held it open like a lion tamer ready to stuff his head into a lion's mouth. The bag had enough space to carry just about anything. He glanced from the bag to his dresser (or rather his Uncle David's old dresser), and knew he wasn't nearly as confident as Reid. He couldn't face another night of nightmares, couldn't face the pain straining every chest muscle as his heart throttled against his sternum. Even if it meant he was a chicken, he didn't want to ever sleep again.
He opened a dresser drawer and took out a clean t-shirt, and then grabbed his windbreaker off the back of his desk chair. His mom had also bought him a new dictionary and thesaurus, placing them on his desk. He couldn't imagine a future where he would soon spend hours on end sitting at the desk, looking up vocabulary words or reading a history textbook. He couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of tomorrow.
His old Boy Scout flashlight was in the bottom of the closet. He glanced at the band stickers his Uncle David had left on the closet's back wall: Kiss, Yes, Boston, and absently wondered why people named their bands such stupid names. He filled his backpack with gear he might need. Clothes, check. Flashlight, check. The pocketknife his mom didn't know about stashed in his sock drawer, check. The blade was dull, but the point might do some damage if he needed it to. He looked around the room and couldn't think of anything else he should bring. That only left going to the kitchen before he would leave.
Running away like a chicken.
He pressed his ear to the door, but didn't hear anything. It was fully dark out and his grandma was almost certainly asleep. She was a light sleeper, but would usually turn in early and listen to the day's soaps on the soap opera channel,
falling asleep in the process. His mom was another story. She was unpredictable and could be just about anywhere in the house at this time of night. She could be in taking a bath, or washing the last of the dinner dishes, or possibly in the living room doing a crossword. It was much to his relief when he noticed her bedroom door closed and the light of her T.V. flickering under the door. Kevin hefted his backpack to one shoulder and closed his bedroom door as quietly as possible.
Once in the kitchen, he eased open the zipper to a medium-sized pocket of his backpack and tossed in a couple cans of Coke from an open case sitting on the floor. He took a bag of cheese puffs from the pantry and grabbed a couple packets of toaster pastries as long as he was there. He was nearly out the back door when he went back to a cupboard and took out a jar of Sanka instant coffee. He snatched a teaspoon from the drying rack next to the sink, and then stealthily slipped out the back door, tightly closing and locking it behind him. He couldn't help feeling like his life was about to change.
When he first started scrambling for supplies, Kevin was imagined leaving his grandma's house and heading north to Canada, and still farther, to whatever was beyond that. He had heard that if you went far enough north, there was no night, just daylight and high skies. So now he would walk all night, every night, and maybe hang out during the day, playing pickup baseball, or reading Ray Bradbury novels from the local libraries. Anything to stay awake.
His plan all but evaporated by the time he reached the grass of the back yard. Running away, or in this case, walking away, would do him no good. He realized he needed to take this one night at a time. Scaring his family by running away to Canada didn't seem like it would help any. He imagined them finding his bed empty, and the guilt the images conjured wasn't very pleasant.