Crash

by David Wright

  “Yeah,” I say, “that works for me. When do you need it by?”

  “In two days?”

  “Jesus, short enough notice, Marty?”

  “Sorry, but I’m flying in to meet Russell about something else, and if you want this to happen sooner rather than later, I need something now.”

  Meg comes in with a large bowl of steaming linguini with just a bit of marinara and a light coating of butter, just how I like it. She then returns with two bowls, one with plump meatballs — her meatballs are the best I’ve ever had — and a second bowl of garlic bread. My stomach rumbles in anticipation as she sits.

  “This looks, and smells, delicious, Meg,” Marty says. “Been so long since I’ve had a decent home-cooked meal.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s not as good as the restaurants you usually eat at, but … ”

  “Nonsense,” he says, loading his plate with pasta. “Those places got nothin’ on the love you put into this.”

  Meg laughed, “Yes, love and two jars of store-brand marinara.”

  **

  After dinner, Meg excuses herself to call her sister, Mallory, which seems like a convenient and obvious way to give Marty and me some alone time. Clearly, she’d told him what was going on, and now he was going to start asking me if I was OK, or had gone full mental as Meg probably suspected.

  We’re standing outside on the deck looking out over the lake behind the house. To the right and downhill, is the old church and cemetery. To the left, more woods. Above, the moon peered out from behind fast-moving clouds, painting the sky a beautiful shade of violet. Times like this, I’m glad I left the South Florida rat race, trading near-constant sun for scenery and seasons.

  “So,” Marty says, winding his pitch, “Meg says you’ve lost your mind.”

  I shake my head with a grin. “Ever the subtle segue, Marty.”

  “Hey, if you want subtle, hire someone else. We’re friends, right, Tommy? And I don’t mince words or dance with friends. I cut to the chase, so why don’t you do the same? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say, about as convincing as a dog begging to have his balls cut.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Tommy. What’s going on? You steppin’ out on Meg or something? If so, that’s your business, even though I’d have to tell you you’re a flippin’ idiot.”

  “No, I’m not cheating on Meg,” I say, pissed he’d even suggest such a thing. “Besides, you are the last person in the world with the right to preach about that.”

  I didn’t need to finish the thought by citing Marty’s three ex-wives or six children with four women.

  Marty held up his hands, shaking his head back and forth, “Hey, hey, hey, have some respect. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Your wife is worried about you, and even though you and I go way back, Meg’s my client, too, and I’d not be doing my job if I didn’t try to get to the bottom of this. So, tell me, what’s going on?”

  I start with the man in the photos, and how he vanished, to see how Marty reacts, before deciding if I’ll tell him about what happened tonight with the ghost and those weird things.

  After I tell him about the man in black, and how Officer Ruiz didn’t see him in the photos, Marty asks, “What are these pills you’re taking?”

  I tell him.

  “Yes, they can cause hallucinations. You need to have the doc prescribe you something else. But there’s also other causes for hallucinations, far more troublesome causes related to your injury, including psychosis in some people. This isn’t something you should be fucking around with, considering your accident. You need to get to your doctors and sort it all out.”

  “I know,” I say, deciding not to tell him about the school or the Kayla incident.

  “Tell me you’re going to talk to your doctor.”

  “I will,” I promise.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9

  I’m sitting in Dr. Merrill’s office, following an MRI scan, watching as he looks over the results on his computer. Pictures of the insides of my skull are on an overhead screen behind him.

  “There’s nothing indicative of a problem on your scans,” he says. “How often are the hallucinations occurring?”

  “Not often,” I say. “Just a few here and there.”

  I’ve not been totally forthcoming with the doctor. While I told him about my “hallucinations” of the man in black, I’ve not told him about hearing Kayla’s voice, her “message,” or what happened at the auditorium. I figure if something’s wrong, he’ll see it on the MRI. No need to tell him about all the things I’ve seen.

  For one, I don’t want him thinking I’m crazy. For two, I don’t want anyone cutting my pills.

  “How about headaches? Are you getting headaches?”

  While I hadn’t given much thought to it before, I remember the splitting headache I had in the auditorium just before I saw Sam. And there’d been a few others, lately.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Now that you mention it. Does it mean anything?”

  “How often are you having them? And how bad are they?”

  “Not often,” I say. “Mostly, they’re like migraines I used to get. One night was really bad. But otherwise, a dull ache that tends to go away if I take something.”

  “I’d like you to start tracking your headaches, Mr. Witt. Write down when you get them, how long they last, and how bad they are on a scale of one to ten with ten being worst. Can you do that until our next appointment?”

  “Yeah,” I say, wondering if the headaches are a sign of something worse. I don’t want to worry too much in front of the doc, though, lest he prescribe something I don’t want.

  The doc continues, “You said before that you’ve had trouble sleeping. How much sleep are you getting per night?”

  “I dunno, maybe four or five hours.”

  “What’s keeping you awake?”

  “Back pain, stress of needing to get the book done, and, of course, Kayla.”

  He nods. “On a scale of one to ten, what would you rate your stress level?”

  “I dunno,” I say again, trying to think what he wants to hear. What might get me the least amount of interference or follow-up visits. But at the same time, stress might be the thing to keep him from cutting my pills. “Can stress cause hallucinations?”

  “Yes, there’s tons of things that can cause hallucinations; stress and lack of sleep are definitely on the list, along with other things such as mental illness.”

  I don’t like the sound of that, so I say, “I’d say my stress is around a nine.” This isn’t far from the truth on some days, as Meg can attest to. I know I haven’t been easy to live with this past year.

  “Have you talked to Dr. Lavender about your stress or the hallucinations?”

  “Not really,” I say. “They’ve only come up recently. I was doing OK … or at least I thought I was.”

  “OK,” Dr. Merrill says. “I’m going to prescribe a mild mood stabilizer for you. Also, a new pain medication. I’d like you to stop taking your current prescription right away, and to keep track of your mood and sleeping habits over the next few days. Also, I’d like to schedule a follow-up with you next Thursday. And I’d like you to make an appointment with Dr. Lavender if you don’t already have one. OK?”

  “Sounds good,” I say, wanting to argue about the change in pain pills, but not wanting to get flagged as an addict. Best not to argue. If the new pills don’t help, I’ll just ask to go back on the old ones.

  “And please,” Dr. Merrill says, “get some sleep, Mr. Witt.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, as if it were that simple.

  **

  I’m on my way home when Meg calls. I tap the steering wheel to take the call hands-free. “Hello?”

  “Hi, just checking to see how your appointment went.”

  “Bad news,” I say, giving a dramatic pause.

  “What is it?” she says, worried.

  “Doc says that the MRI scan shows that I don’t have a b
rain.” I break into a laugh.

  “You asshole! That’s not funny!”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “So, what did he say?”

  “He said it’s probably stress and a lack of sleep. Nothing to worry about. He gave me some new meds including … get this … a mood stabilizer.”

  “Will it do anything about your being an asshole?” she jokes.

  “Afraid that modern medicine has yet to find a cure for that.”

  She laughs. It’s good to hear it. I used to make Meg laugh a lot before our lives went to hell. These small moments give me hope that maybe we can find our way back to some sense of normalcy.

  “You mind if I go visit Mal?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, do you need me here?”

  “Well,” I say, suddenly not wanting her to leave me alone, but not entirely sure why. “I need to get that pitch ready for Marty.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  “What?”

  “Yup, I decided that you’re busy writing Book Three, and I didn’t want to ruin your rhythm, so I went ahead and did it. He sent it to Johnny K to spice up, and he’ll send it back to us for a look before he meets with Russell.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome. You know you can ask me for help anytime. If you get stuck, just ask. About the book, or anything. We’re partners, Tom. You don’t need to go it alone.”

  Tears start to well up in my eyes. If she were here, I’d give her a big hug. But she’s not, so I simply say, “Thank you, Meg. That’s sweet of you.”

  “I know, I’m awesome,” she says with a laugh. “OK, I’m going to head out now unless you want me to wait for you.”

  Ahead of me, about a half block away, I see a dark-red pickup truck approaching a bright-red light without the slightest indication of slowing. Ahead of the truck, sitting in the middle of the same lane, is a man on a motorcycle.

  The truck slams into the biker, sending him flying high into the air.

  I gasp in horror as the truck then veers off the road and straight into a light pole, where it comes to a sudden stop, wrapping itself around the pole. The biker finishes his airborne takeoff, then falls to the ground, where he’s hit by a blue car.

  Horns and chaos erupt ahead as I slam on my brakes.

  “Tom?” Meg says. “You OK?”

  “Just a fender bender ahead,” I lie.

  She sighs, as she knows what's coming next, or perhaps has figured out the severity of the accident from my tone. “OK, I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”

  “OK,” I say, now barely aware that she’s even on the phone. “Love you.”

  I hang up and head toward the accident.

  **

  I pull over on the side of the street into a gas station’s parking lot and get out of the car, watching as other people stop in the middle of the road, get out, and go toward the man who’d been on the motorcycle.

  He’s not moving.

  People are on their cell phones, calling 911. Some are crying, while others rush to the man who wrapped his truck around the utility pole. I bring the camera up, zooming in and snapping shots of the chaos.

  I focus on the motorcycle driver’s mangled body. I can’t see his face, but his arms and legs are unnaturally twisted as blood pools around him. There’s no way he survived.

  I turn the camera toward the red, wrinkled metal, and the careless asshole who killed the biker.

  I’m shocked to see him climb out of the crumpled truck.

  He’s a scruffy-looking guy, midthirties, curly brown hair. He looks wasted. I snap shots of him as he looks around. It’s hard to tell if he’s messed up on booze or drugs or if he’s in a state of shock.

  Odd that no one’s approaching the scruffy man, everyone still hanging around his truck as if there’s something in there worth staring at. I wonder if there was a passenger. Hard to tell from my angle.

  I consider going closer, but then I see him: the man in black.

  I stop, heart frozen as I stare through the lens. I snap photos, as many as I can, afraid to move the camera from my eyes lest I lose him. I continue watching as the man walks from the side of the road and toward the motorcycle driver. He looks down at him, kneels and seems to be saying something, then stands back up.

  I want to pull the camera away, to see the man with my own eyes, run toward him so I can ask who he is, what the hell he’s doing at these crash sites, and if he knows anything about the things I saw at the auditorium. Everything feels so connected.

  But I don’t dare take the camera’s viewfinder from my eyes. I know if I do, he’ll disappear in a blink.

  I keep watching, snapping photos as the man walks away from the body and toward the dazed or drunk truck driver.

  The driver sees the man in black approaching and says something that I’m too far away to hear. The driver points back toward the remains of his truck.

  The man in black nods, then puts a hand on the man’s shoulder as if to reassure him that yes, he’s OK.

  And then, just like that, they’re gone together.

  I pull the camera away and scan the crowd.

  I don’t see either the man in black or the truck driver.

  What the hell?

  I can’t stand here any longer. I rush toward the crash scene as sirens approach from not too far away.

  I run past the motorcycle driver and toward the crumpled pickup truck where a crowd is gathered, still staring inside.

  What the hell are they looking at?

  An ambulance pulls up, and paramedics hop out, two rushing toward the motorcycle driver. Another two going toward the pickup. As the paramedics approach the truck’s driver-side door, the crowd disperses and I finally see what they were looking at.

  It’s the scruffy man, crushed in the cabin, steering wheel pressing into his chest, bloody head leaning limp over the wheel, eyes staring out dead to the world.

  How?

  I fall back, trying to make sense of it when suddenly I realize, in that way you realize dream logic when you’re in a dream, that the man who emerged from the wreck must’ve been the scruffy man’s ghost.

  Police arrive on the scene, and I make a mad dash back to the gas station before anyone sees me. I don’t even look to see if Ruiz is one of the responding officers. I need to get back to my car so I can check the camera and see what I got.

  I get to the car and climb inside, turning the camera on and reviewing the photos.

  Except there are no photos.

  At least not from this accident.

  Instead, I see photos I don’t remember taking, from inside my house.

  What the hell?

  I cycle through to the start of the sequence and look at the photos in the order they were taken:

  One of the kitchen.

  One of the living room, with Meg’s Moleskine notebook sitting on the couch where she usually leaves it when she’s been writing.

  Another photo, this one of the main hallway.

  Another one, in Kayla’s room, from the doorway.

  A chill runs through me as my head begins to pound.

  Another photo of Kayla’s room, this time lying on her bed and shooting up at the stars on the ceiling.

  I did not take these photos.

  Did Meg?

  And why use my camera?

  Confused, I continue.

  Another photo in the hallway, this time focused on the door to the guest room that we never use.

  Another photo, closer to the guest room.

  And yet another shot, this time in the guest room. Except it looks different. Gone are the bed, bookshelf, and TV we have set up for guests.

  The room is full of boxes, and the walls are painted a different color.

  What the hell is this?

  I click forward.

  Back in the hallway.

  It’s nighttime now in the photos, I can tell from the flash.

 
; Another photo, this one outside my bedroom door.

  My headache is now pounding so hard it seems to be matching my racing pulse.

  I pause my finger on the advance button, afraid to move forward. I don’t know how, but I know that whatever comes next will terrify me.

  I’m shaking, as ice runs through my blood.

  I advance to the next photo.

  A close-up of me, sleeping in my bed.

  My heart is pounding as my finger hovers over the advance button.

  Meg is playing some sort of joke, and I don’t fucking like it. Another photo, even closer to my face, bright white in the flash.

  How did I sleep through this?

  I click forward.

  And this time I’m looking at Meg sleeping.

  I drop the camera.

  Oh God, who took these photos?

  I look down at the floorboard as if the camera might spring to life and attack me.

  I reach down to get it, fingers closing around its body, wanting to see what’s next, but also scared.

  I push the advance button, and the screen is dark.

  Another, dark.

  And another.

  And then ten more of nothing.

  I’m back at the gallery’s start.

  I stare at the camera, trying to figure out who the hell could’ve done this, and more importantly, why.

  Then, a knock on my window.

  I turn.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  In the dream, I’m walking through a series of big iron doors groaning on oversized hinges as I push them open. As I go through each one, I feel like I’m one door deeper into the bowels of hell. The world around me is boiling hot, and as I pass through each successive door, it grows hotter.

  Yet I can’t stop.

  I feel like I’m close to stepping through the door that harbors my memories prior to the crash.