The Night the Heads Came

by William Sleator

  “Er … I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean? He’s telling them something different?” Mom says, sounding bewildered. She’s more worried than anything else, because she knows I never lie. Dad knows it too; he’s just accusing me of lying because he’s so angry. And I know what I’m telling them does sound pretty implausible.

  “Uh, he’s probably not telling them anything, because … well, I don’t think he’s home.”

  “What?” they both say at the same time.

  I start to say we should call Tim’s house right away and find out if he got home. Then I think about what it’s going to be like to deal with his parents if he isn’t home, which is the more likely possibility. “I … I was driving him to Bridgetown, to catch the midnight bus to New York. He had an appointment there this morning with a publisher—he sent them his drawings, and they were interested and wanted to talk to him. And you know his parents would never in a million years let him go. So I was helping him out—he figured it could be the beginning of his career. The last thing I remember, it was eleven thirty-five and we were driving on Route Thirty-eight. The next thing I remember is waking up there in the car at seven-thirty—and Tim wasn’t anywhere around.”

  They just stare at me, not saying anything.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth!” I insist.

  “You’re sure about that, Leo? You’re very, very sure?” Dad says, his eyes fixed on mine.

  “Would I expect you to believe anything so crazy if it wasn’t the truth?” I ask him. I know it sounds lame. But the one thing I have going for me is that I’ve never lied to them before.

  “I hope you’re sure, because Tim’s parents are going to be a lot more upset about this than we are if he’s still not home.”

  I know that. I also know that Tim’s parents are going to be a lot more suspicious of me than Mom and Dad, partly because they don’t know me as well and partly because that’s just the way they are. I feel more dread than ever as Dad gets up to go to the phone.

  But as nervous as I am, I also feel something else—something I’ve been aware of ever since I woke up. “I’m starving,” I say. “I’ve got to have something to eat, anything.” I can’t remember ever being this hungry in my life.

  Dad makes the phone call. Tim isn’t there. And as sick with worry as I am, I still keep gulping down more bread and peanut butter.

  Of course we go to Tim’s house, in case he calls or shows up or something. Two cops are already there when we arrive.

  Both my parents are in jeans and T-shirts; Dad’s unshaven; they clearly haven’t had much sleep. But Tim’s parents, who kept mine up all night, look like they’re ready to go to a formal party. They’ve always been more conventional than my parents, but I’ve never before seen them dressed so immaculately in their own home. Tim’s father is wearing a suit and tie; his mother has on stockings and high heels, and her face and hair look like she just got back from the beauty salon. “Good morning,” Tim’s mother says, in a flat, expressionless voice.

  Her behavior is very odd. She doesn’t seem the least bit upset that her son is missing. I knew she was a snob, but now she seems to have turned into an emotionless zombie.

  The cops sit me down in a straight-backed dining room chair, which has been placed in the very center of their living room. The two cops and the two sets of parents are all staring at me. I feel like a prisoner being cross-examined.

  I tell them exactly what happened, including Tim’s plans about the publishing company. I know he wouldn’t want me to tell his parents this, but that doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is doing everything I can to help them find Tim. The older and fatter of the two cops, Captain Kroll, seems to be in charge. He asks me questions about the exact location of the car and the time, and the other cop writes down my answers.

  “And does this, uh, supposed publishing company have a name?” Tim’s father asks me.

  I tell him the name. On the one hand I’m reluctant, because I know he’ll make trouble for them somehow—he’s a lawyer; recently he’s been doing a lot of work for the factory bosses in town, and he knows how to make trouble for people. But I have no choice, since it is one of the few things I’m telling them that can be verified. And maybe Tim is there!

  Tim’s father calls from the cellular phone he carries in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He lifts his eyebrows when Directory Assistance gives him the number of the publishing company in New York, as though indicating surprise that anything I have said might be true.

  He calls the company and asks about Tim, his face absolutely blank while he listens to the answer. “So you state that he did have an appointment with you at nine o’clock this morning and never showed up?” Tim’s father says.

  I glance over at Mom and Dad, slumping down in the chair with disappointment.

  Tim’s father listens on the phone a little while, then says, obviously interrupting the person on the other end, “Look, I don’t need to hear about what you refer to as his ‘talent.’ The boy is a minor, and I consider it highly questionable of you to encourage these scribblings of his, which we, as his parents, have forbidden. Not to mention actually inviting him to your premises, in another state. You will be hearing from me.”

  He clicks off the phone and slips it back into his pocket, not looking at me, and turns to the older cop. “Well, I suppose this gives credence to his claim that Tim believed they were actually on their way for him to catch this bus. The next step is to find out what this person did with my son—and the three hundred and fifty-seven dollars he had on him.”

  “Hey, now wait just a minute,” Dad says, leaning forward on the couch. It’s practically the first thing he’s said since we arrived. “Are you accusing Leo of theft and lying? Are you claiming he’s responsible for Tim’s disappearance?”

  Tim’s father ignores Dad, still talking to the cops. “This boy was the last person to see my son. And all he can come up with is that he passed out and remembers nothing.” He shrugs slightly. “If we’re going to find out what happened to my son and that three hundred and fifty-seven dollars, this person needs to be formally booked and subjected to more rigorous questioning.”

  Now Mom and Dad are both arguing with him. They know Tim is my best friend and I wouldn’t hurt him or take his money. Mom and Dad know I don’t lie, even though my story is full of holes.

  Tim’s father just shakes his head at them, looking disgusted. Tim’s mother says nothing, sitting primly beside Tim’s father. I can’t believe she’s continuing to be so unemotional about her son disappearing. Is she completely under the control of Tim’s father? Or does she just care more about her clothes and her house and her social status than she does about her own son?

  It’s the older cop, Captain Kroll, who finally quiets Mom and Dad down. “Just hold on, hold on a minute,” he says. “Don’t worry, there’s no cause for any criminal proceedings, not yet anyway.”

  “What?” For the first time Tim’s father allows anger to show in his voice. “He goes off with my son—who had three hundred and fifty-seven dollars of my money on him—and comes back without him and says he has no memory of what happened. And you don’t think—”

  Captain Kroll lifts one hand. “Excuse me, sir, please,” he says. “I’d agree with you too that it sounds very suspicious. Except …”

  “Except what?” Tim’s father demands.

  “Except for certain other incidents, one over in Monroe County, the other out in the Westwood Park area. Two other incidents, not far from here, of people who lost certain amounts of time. Blanked out, amnesia, whatever. Responsible people, you might like to know, who had nothing to gain by telling these stories.”

  Captain Kroll gives Tim’s father a long look—he doesn’t seem to like him either!—then turns to me. “And these other stories were a lot like yours,” he says in a more patient tone of voice. “People driving in an isolated area late at night who woke up later and didn’t remember a thing. And
in both those cases the police found one person who was able to help these people out. And maybe the same person could help you out too.”

  “Did anybody just disappear with cash in these other cases?” Tim’s father demands.

  Captain Kroll shakes his head. “No. But in both cases this person—a professional—helped the people to remember.”

  “To remember what happened when they blanked out?” I ask him.

  “To remember what they thought happened during the time they lost,” Captain Kroll says. “I’m not saying how much I believe in everything they said; this kind of stuff, I don’t know.” He sounds slightly embarrassed now. “But I do believe those people really did lose hours of time—for one thing, they didn’t gain anything by it and were real inconvenienced, in fact—and I believe this young man here honestly lost hours of time too. And getting the help of this professional is one possible way of finding out some clues about what might have happened to your son. We’ll be doing all the usual searches, sure, starting with a thorough check of the car. But there’s no reason not to try this other way too; nothing to lose and maybe something to gain.”

  “What kind of, uh, professional is this you’re talking about?” Mom says doubtfully.

  “A health professional,” Captain Kroll says. “A psychologist. An expert in hypnotism.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’m actually glad to be going to this psychologist. I want to do anything I can to find out why I blanked out and what happened that I don’t remember. And mainly I want to do anything I can to help Tim, as fast as possible. I know the longer a kid is missing, the less chance there is of finding him alive.

  They discover nothing unusual or incriminating in the car. But Tim’s father is very suspicious—and impatient. He’s not happy Captain Kroll wouldn’t book me. Mom and Dad and I all got the strong feeling that Tim’s father is going to pull strings to go over Kroll’s head and have me charged with some kind of criminal activity. We call the psychologist—Captain Kroll gave us his number—and tell the voice on the phone that this is very urgent. We get an appointment for early that evening.

  There’s something vaguely familiar about the name of this psychologist, Dr. Viridian, but I can’t remember what it is. And I wonder why his office is located in the industrial area of town, where the air is so polluted.

  Dr. Viridian is tall and good-looking, like a doctor on TV, and has a smooth, soothing voice. He doesn’t wear a lab coat or anything; he’s casually dressed in expensive-looking clothes. His office is large, the furniture very plush and comfortable, in subdued, bland colors. He lets Mom and Dad stay at first, while I tell him what happened last night.

  He listens carefully, nodding occasionally, his expression concerned and understanding. The questions he asks are so right on and acute that it almost seems like he knows what I’m going to say before I say it.

  Mom notices too. “It sounds like you’ve seen many cases like this before, not just the two the police mentioned,” she tells him when I’ve finished.

  “Quite a few,” he says, smiling slightly at her in a professional but warm way. “And I’d like to assure you right away that what this sounds like is in no way a mental illness. Fugal amnesia is not uncommon.”

  “Fugal amnesia?” Dad asks him.

  “Fugal means running,” the doctor says. “When something happens to a person that is too traumatic—too terrifying—for the conscious mind to tolerate, the mind runs away from the experience. It forgets it. That’s how the mind protects itself from the horror it cannot live with.”

  “Mom and Dad look pretty worried now. I feel a little shaky myself. What could have happened that was so terrible my mind had to run away from it? And what does that mean about what happened to Tim?”

  “So we go beneath the conscious mind—into the unconscious,” the doctor is explaining. “Hypnosis is how we get there. When the subject is in a hypnotic trance, the memory of the horror is released, brought out into the open.”

  “Yeah, but if what happened is so terrible that the conscious mind had to run away from it, then what happens to the, uh … subject when this terrible memory comes back?” I want to know.

  “I understand your concern, and it is true that there is often some unpleasantness when the memory surfaces.” (What exactly does he mean by “unpleasantness”? I wonder.) The doctor leans toward me. “But you must understand that you will be in a very deep state of relaxation—a state in which the memory can be faced and tolerated. I assure you, I have done this procedure over and over again, and the subject is always very much improved as a result.”

  Then Mom and Dad have to leave, looking back at me as they go out the door, as if they’re really not so sure about this whole thing. But the cops recommended this guy, and he seems trustworthy and is obviously a successful psychologist. And what else can I do to help find Tim?

  The doctor invites me to sit in a very comfortable reclining chair, and he sits down across from me. He presses a switch on the desk, and the lights in the room dim. He presses another switch, and I hear a faint whirring.

  Then he begins speaking to me in a gentle but authoritative voice. “Your body is relaxing now. It is a soothing warmth that starts in your feet and moves up your legs, up your spine. Soon there will be no muscle tension anywhere in your body. And your mind is emptying. You are concentrating on my voice and nothing else. You have no worries, no other thoughts, only my voice. Soon you will be in a deep sleep, aware only of my voice …”

  At first I resist, it seems so cornball. But gradually it actually starts to work … I begin to feel very relaxed and very sleepy. My mind is a blank.

  “Are you asleep now?”

  I nod.

  “You are aware only of my voice?”

  I nod again.

  He pauses. Then he says brightly, like somebody talking to a little child, “You are three years old. It is your third birthday. Are you there?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  “Tell me what you see, what is happening.”

  And I tell him, in a baby voice, things I have not remembered for years. Mom and Dad and I are the only ones there. We are in a different house. I describe the room, the kitchen tablecloth, the cake, the presents. Dad has a beard; Mom has long hair. It’s just like it’s really happening again.

  He takes me back to my first day of school. I am in the classroom; I see the view out the window, and the teacher in her blue-and-white dress, and the kids who are crying because they don’t want to be there. But I’m not crying; I’m eager and curious. I enjoy the games we play.

  He takes me back to last night.

  Tim and I are driving on Route 38 to Bridgetown. I’m nervous, afraid I’m going to get in trouble for this. We have a little argument because the car is acting funny, and Tim accuses me of not filling it up, and I call him fatso. And then …

  “I can’t see what happens next,” I say. “Something’s in the way.”

  “You are more relaxed now,” the doctor tells me. “More deeply asleep. You are perfectly safe. Nothing can harm you now. You are driving with Tim. You have a little argument. And then …”

  I tell him about the strange lights that Tim points out to me. The doctor asks me to describe them in complete detail, and I do. I tell him that right after we see the lights, the car dies. We are stuck there in the darkness.

  My mind goes blank again. The doctor instructs me to relax even more; he tells me I can remember everything now; I am perfectly safe.

  I’m moaning now, my head rolling back and forth on the soft chair. “Oh, it’s so horrible! The scariest thing that ever happened to me. Oh, my God! It’s impossible; I can hardly believe it. But it’s really happening. I can’t stand it!”

  The doctor has to spend a few minutes calming me down. And then I tell him a very strange story. The noises on the windows, the lapping on my neck, the undulating creatures we can’t run away from, taking us to the lights, being strapped in, going up so fast, up to the big jungly s
hip. The tall ones, the heads, the way they take our blood right away, the other things they do to us. It’s a real effort for me to keep from screaming. The doctor has to stop many times to soothe me.

  He also asks me lots of questions. He wants to know absolutely every detail. And I remember every detail—what the creatures looked like and smelled like, the messy alien ship, the weird plants, the stuff lying around on the floor, the needles, the machines, the way they look at Tim’s drawings, exactly what we say to each other. Every time I skip over something or don’t describe it completely, the doctor presses me for more details.

  “These creatures you describe as the heads,” he says. “You say they mentioned something they called The Others. What exactly did they say about them?”

  “Not much.… They only mentioned them twice. The first time, they said they had to do the tests on us because of The Others. Then later they said they had to keep Tim because of The Others.”

  “I see. That was why they had to keep Tim.…” He pauses. “Did they explain?”

  “No. They just said they had to keep him because of The Others.”

  “That was all they said about them? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.”

  He leads me through the rest of the story. Again, he questions me very closely when I get to the part when the heads say they will come back to the same place in exactly two days. We go over this several times.

  Then they give me the last injection, which is some drug that seems to have totally destroyed my memory, because we can’t get anything else until I wake up the next morning in the car, the part I consciously remember.

  The doctor calms me down again. Yeah, I’m relaxed, but I’m sweating, and I also feel like screaming. Going through this experience has been really unpleasant. But after he instructs me to relax again, I begin to feel a little better.