The Lurkers & Other Strange Tales

by Benedict, S. Lee

  Teetering on the edge of consciousness, Raj grabbed the container and, his strength waning, lifted it over the mound of quivering material. He brought the canister down onto the egg sack with all the energy he had left. The organic mass burst; some of the substance splashed onto his face. He fought back the urge to retch.

  The creature leapt from the gallery, too late, and landed with its two sinewy legs straddling Raj’s broken body. The gun was no longer in his hand, but even if it were, he didn’t think it would’ve been very effective just then.

  Raj was momentarily blinded when the alleyway was bathed in a bright light.

  He heard a loud, whirring noise and saw a large, disc-like shape materializing directly overhead. Its smooth surface was mirrored, and lights burned all along its perimeter.

  Raj could see himself in the reflection, lying on the ground with the beast standing over him. A multi-rayed star, pulsating with light, decorated the bottom of the craft, and Raj recognized it immediately as the icon of the Church of the Celestial Prophet.

  The star design began to shift, forming an opening in the bottom of the vessel. An even brighter light issued from within it, illuminating the entire alley.

  The alien leaned over Raj, and the boy knew his life would soon be over. He smiled and wondered if the world beyond this one would be as some people said. He wondered if he would meet his parents there and if they, freed from the trials of life here on earth, would be better parents in the hereafter.

  But Raj’s horror was far from over.

  He watched, helplessly, as the creature’s black eyes began to discharge a silver liquid. The thing bent its hideous face over Raj’s, and the secretions dripped onto his face and into his eyes.

  Raj started to scream, but then he was filled with an overwhelming euphoria. Almost immediately, he forgot what he was screaming about and instead succumbed to the pleasure engulfing him.

  The alien lifted Raj off the ground with its tentacles, wrapping him up in them like a cocoon, pulling the boy onto the creature’s back. With its powerful legs, the monster leapt into the air and clutched the edge of the hovering craft’s opening. And then it was inside, and the star-shape shifted again, sealing the vessel shut.

  As the alien ship lifted into the foggy night air over Butcher’s Alley, it disappeared in a shimmer of light.

  No one in the slum had any inkling of what transpired in the alleyway that night. No one saw the boy or ever knew what became of him.

  Raj had been alone in the world.

  And he wouldn’t be missed.

  DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE

  I

  Rosa threw Jack the lead in, and he delivered the punchline, just like they’d been rehearsing all week. His delivery was flawless, and the crew erupted into fits of laughter. Jack shot a glance off stage and saw even Burton crack a smile. The producer’s arms were crossed over his chest in his usual, stuffed-shirt manner, though, so who knew what he was really thinking? The man was as hard to read as he was to please.

  “Okay, guys, that’ll do it,” said the director. “Good rehearsal. Everybody get some rest tonight. Big show tomorrow, people! Season finale!”

  More cheers and enthusiastic applause rose from everyone in the studio.

  Rosa gave Jack a hug, and several of the other cast and crew came up to shake his hand or give him a pat on the back. He smiled and nodded and joked some more.

  “So, where’s the party?” he said to Bobby Jay.

  The man was a seven-year veteran of the show. In fact, they’d been calling it The Laugh Track with Bobby Jay for two years now. The guy was a legend, the funniest man in the biz.

  “Uh … I dunno, Jack,” said Bobby. “I gotta get home, actually. Celia and the kids are waiting. Just wanted to say good rehearsal. Go get some sleep, you look like hell. Those circles under your eyes look like drink coasters. See you tomorrow. M’kay?”

  Bobby started to walk away, but Jack went after him.

  “So … is it true?” he said.

  The vet comedian didn’t slow as he headed back to the dressing rooms.

  “Is what true?”

  “The rumors. Everyone’s saying you haven’t renewed your contract with Burton. They’re saying this is your last season.”

  The two men came to a stop at the first dressing room door, the one closest to the studio. Bobby’s name was stenciled on it, under a large, golden star. Jack glanced at it, and Bobby smirked.

  “You lusting after my star, kid?”

  “Nah, Bobby,” said Jack, who realized he was being completely honest—not something he was used to. “Just curious, really. You know you’re like a mentor to me. I would hate to see you go.”

  Bobby leaned against the door jamb and folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t really decided yet, if you want to know the truth. Getting a lot more offers from Hollywood these days.”

  “You deserve it.”

  “Thanks, man. But you know, Laugh Track is a full-time gig. It’s hard to balance things.” Bobby rapped his knuckles against the door. “No promises, but it could be your name under this star come next season.”

  Jack briefly imagined it but then shook his head. “Well, I’m not really that ambitious. Besides, I think Burton hasn’t been all too pleased with me lately.”

  “When are the suits ever happy? They wouldn’t know funny if it fell out of the sky and gave ’em a lap dance.”

  Jack laughed. “Yeah … right.”

  Bobby opened his dressing room door and pushed inside.

  Jack squinted as the light bounced off the four Emmy statuettes on the make-up counter. He started to enter, but the other comedian was apparently only there to scoop up his coat.

  Bobby headed back into the hallway and closed the door on his way out, then slapped Jack on the shoulder.

  “Gotta go, my man. Have a good one.”

  A second later, Jack was alone in the hallway. Something churned in the pit of his stomach, that familiar, unnerving feeling that triggered warning buzzers in the back of his mind. He spun around and thought he saw something black dart around the corner and out of sight.

  “No, no, no, no,” said Jack. “Not tonight. No way.”

  He fled, back into the studio, back to where there would be people, back to where he’d be safe.

  A few crew members were still around, but Jack didn’t spot any of his fellow cast members. Had everyone left without him? He was starting to panic a bit.

  A grip Jack recognized was busy putting a cover on one of the cameras. What was his name? Barry? Barney? Jack remembered the man laughed enthusiastically at some joke or other the comedian told the previous week. In fact, it was the guys on the crew who would always laugh the loudest when fat Jack Duffy took some pratfall and crashed through a table on stage. Surely ol’ Barn would want to hang out with a big TV personality.

  Jack was about to approach the man when Rosa entered from the dressing rooms. She gave Jack a wave and smiled. He noticed she was wearing her coat.

  “You still here?” she said.

  “Hey, Rosa, where’s the party?”

  “Uh … not sure there is one. Everyone’s gone home, except for a few of the featured guys. Don’t know where they were headed, though.”

  “Well, how ’bout you and me grab a drink?”

  Rosa gave Jack an amused look and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Dude, you go out every night. You’re partying way too much. I’m tired. Aren’t you tired? Go home. Get some sleep.”

  Jack’s sense of panic was growing stronger. “Can’t. Been having a lot of insomnia lately. Might as well go out and do something if I can’t sleep.”

  Rosa let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve been there, man. We’re not in our early twenties anymore, doing the standup circuit every night and having all day to sleep.” She squeezed his shoulder, then let go. “See you tomorrow, Jackie.”

  She headed for the door leading to the elevator bay, and Jack only then noticed the remaining crew had dis
appeared. The feeling began to creep back into his gut, the one telling him there was surely something hovering just beyond the range of his peripheral vision. Any moment that steely claw would fall on his shoulder, and then …

  He called after his cast-mate. “Well, how about a ride, then?”

  The drive was much too short. Rosa had a lead foot, and Jack was beginning to realize there were drawbacks to living in the city, so close to the studio.

  The doorman came out to open the car door, and Jack waved the guy off.

  “Come up for a drink,” said Jack.

  Rosa laughed. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Never, ever, ever. Gotta keep the good times rolling.”

  Rosa turned in her seat and regarded Jack with an expression resembling something like concern. “Hey, man, you okay?”

  Jack flinched. Actually, it was more of an involuntary tick, right along the perimeter of his right eye. Rosa saw it, and Jack noticed the slight widening of her own eyes in response.

  “Yeah, I get these little spasms sometimes,” he said. “Since I was a kid, really, but I think it’s been getting worse lately.”

  “Probably the stress,” said Rosa.

  It was … and it wasn’t.

  Jack watched as Rosa’s expression morphed from concern into one of pity. Pity was good. Jack could work with pity.

  “Okay, just one drink,” said Rosa.

  She parked along the street, and together, they made their way up to the twentieth floor of Jack’s building. He hurried down the darkened hallway to his door, but Rosa’s short legs made it necessary for her to almost jog to keep up with him.

  “What’s the rush, dude,” she said. “You know nothing’s gonna happen, right?”

  Jack hoped that was true. He really did.

  He went around the apartment and turned on every light in the place. The brighter the better. Then he poured himself a bourbon and downed it. He started to pour a second one and one for Rosa as well, but she said, “I’ll take a beer if you got one.”

  “Sure.”

  That would be better. Beer took longer to drink. Jack got one for himself, too.

  He switched on the TV and plopped down on the couch. Jeopardy was on.

  “What is the Spanish Inquisition,” he said. It was the correct question.

  Rosa sat down next to him. “See, the problem with the Spanish Inquisition is that nobody expects it.” She smiled and took a slug of beer.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jack.

  Rosa punched Jack’s flabby bicep, and he knew she got he was only kidding.

  They sat like that for a half hour, drinking and joking, while Trebek was his typical, sardonic self in the background. Things were going well, and for the briefest moment, Jack allowed himself to forget.

  But when the news came on, he observed Rosa had nearly drained her bottle. Jack’s pulse quickened, and he felt his chest seize up. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and he was finding it hard to take a breath. It felt like an iron band was wrapped around his torso. But he wasn’t having a heart attack, not yet anyway. This was just the beginnings of terror, his piercing fear at knowing what would happen if Rosa walked out that door.

  “Get you another beer?” said Jack.

  “Um … no, I’ve got to get home.” Rosa set the empty onto the coffee table, stood up, and started to make her way to the door.

  Jack heaved himself up and went after Rosa, grabbing her by the elbow.

  “I think I’ve got some blow if you want—”

  Rosa jerked her arm out of Jack’s grip and spun on him. “Geez, Jack, get it together! How long do you think you can keep this kind of stuff up? We’re not getting any younger, and in case you hadn’t noticed, this business has a way of devouring talented comedians. Next thing you know, you’ll be headlining the evening news and then what? Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not, Rosa, but … you don’t understand.”

  “Sure, I do,” Rosa said. “You think it’s easy for a woman in this business? It’s been stressful for me, too. But I’ve got a family, and it’s time I got home to them.”

  “I can’t be by myself,” Jack said and realized it sounded like he was pleading.

  Rosa’s lips separated, and her eyes showed surprise. She reached into her pocket and brought out her cell phone.

  “I’m calling someone,” she said. “I’m gonna get you some help, Jack.”

  An image flashed in Jack’s mind, a picture of him strapped in a bed in some psych ward, all alone in a darkened room. He grabbed Rosa’s hand to stop her from dialing.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean I was gonna … you know … I–I just don’t like being alone. Come on, just hang out with me tonight. I’m not expecting anything. I know I’m a big, fat joke, and you’re beautiful and funny and have everything. I just want the company.”

  Rosa exhaled, and the hand holding her phone dropped to her side.

  “I get it, man. I really do.” She gave him a hug. “But I gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid, and I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s gonna be a great show. You’ll see.”

  And before Jack could say another word, Rosa was outside and heading down the hallway.

  Jack dropped to his knees and put his head against the closed door. “Don’t go.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Please.”

  Everything died. The TV, the lights.

  The involuntary pain in Jack’s intestines returned with a vengeance, and he knew what was coming, what always came when he was alone, ever since those dark days of his childhood.

  He’d tried to prevent it—just as he did every night—but he failed this time. He could try to run, but he knew it wouldn’t let him.

  He felt it behind him then, reaching out with its long, decrepit fingers, tipped with razor-sharp claws. Jack didn’t want to look, but he felt compelled to. That little voice was always in the back of his head, telling him maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time he’d look and nothing would be there.

  But that voice always lied.

  Jack felt a warm sensation in the area of his crotch and knew he’d wet himself.

  “Thought you could keep me away, didn’t you?” it said.

  Jack began to cry.

  II

  Jack rapped on Burton’s office door and hoped the man wasn’t inside. But Jack had been summoned, so there wasn’t much chance of that. He knew he was in trouble, but if he wasn’t so exhausted—and anxious about things that had absolutely nothing to do with the show—he might care a bit more.

  “Come in,” said the gruff producer’s voice from behind the door.

  Jack forced himself to put on a showy smile—his clown smile, he called it. It was perfected at a young age, when he learned a cheery and comical disposition meant people would want to be around him.

  “Hey, Burt,” he said as he entered. “What’s happening, my man? Pretty good season finale, I thought. Audience seemed to really enjoy it.”

  “East coast numbers are decent,” said Burton, but for some reason he didn’t look happy about it. “Have a seat, Jack.”

  The comedian did as he was told. “You know, I know I flubbed some lines here and there, but I don’t think anybody noticed. Bobby was—”

  “I’m concerned,” said Burton. He sat back in his leather chair, elbows on the armrests, fingertips placed together in front of his stomach. He didn’t look directly at Jack but instead gazed out the wall-sized window at the mesmerizing lights of the city outside.

  Jack could see his reflection in the glass. He looked liked a bloated sea lion after going two rounds with Shamu. Yet he was surprised he didn’t look much worse, considering what he’d endured. It always surprised him, even after twenty long years.

  A psychosomatic pain caused the fat-lined muscles of his abdomen to contract.

  “You haven’t been on your game lately.” Burton leaned forward and consulted a yellow legal pad on his desk. “Tonight alone you missed five cues, forgot th
ree lines entirely, and an intern had to wake you up to get you to the stage on time for the last sketch.”

  Jack let the smile drop, and he was glad for it. Keeping up that particular act had been taxing him even further.

  “You’re right, Burton. Tonight was an off night for me.”

  “It’s not just tonight. You’ve been coming in to work looking like some kind of two-bit junkie, constantly late for your call times. I understand hard partying is par for the course in this business, but when it affects the bottom line, it’s a problem.”

  Jack didn’t know what to tell his boss. Not the truth, obviously. Jack tried telling the truth when he was thirteen and ended up on the wrong side of a seventy-two hour psych hold. What an agonizing weekend that had been. Literally.

  “Are you firing me?” he said.

  The producer sank back in his chair once more. “You’re still under contract for one more season. Whether or not the network renews depends on you. If you’re willing to take some steps—”

  “What kind of steps?” Jack felt bile rise up in the back of his throat. He’d asked the question but was sure he already knew the answer.

  “The season’s over. It’s the perfect time to check yourself into a treatment facility.”

  Burton reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a glossy pamphlet, which he set in front of Jack. Fresh Breezes, it said across the top, and under that, A Place to Start Over. Jack thought the name sounded like a feminine hygiene product.

  Burton explained. “It’s in Malibu. Very nice. The network and the show will stand behind you when the press gets hold of it. In fact, we’ll pay for everything. Next season you’ll get back to work with a new perspective, and everybody’s happy.”

  Jack felt sick. He wasn’t opposed to treatment. It was the downtime that scared him, the countless nighttime hours spent all alone in a private room. Those places catered to the rich and always had private rooms.