A noise cut off my dream and I snapped awake, too accustomed to waking up for emergencies from double and triple shifts at the hospital to be disoriented this time—and perhaps the wine wore off. It sounded the way bones pop when they’re broken, or surgical rotation when I cracked open a chest for a quadruple bypass. POW!
I had turned away from Bryce while sleeping and saw my clock read 3:33. When I turned over again to look at Bryce—my gaze met with the smiling face of a beast.
It was, by Wendy’s description, Undaga. That appalling, comical grin that stretched out too far across his narrow head. The wide eyes that could almost be human, but were too large. I could make out the tendrils of blood vessels in the whites that looked like cracks of black (not red) lightning running to the bright green irises. His praying mantis, walking stick-like body moved in an insectile way—not human, yet with all the human musculature. The air filled with an odor of decay—old decay, the way it smells when an animal dies in the walls during winter.
The creature was wearing Bryce’s clothing from earlier—for a moment. He was far too thin to be wearing his outfit, and slithered out of the clothes with ease, still holding onto me, as if this was a simple task for him. While one spider-like hand (foot?) gripped at me, he shed one side of the clothing, then the other. It was a freakish display of flexibility.
I shrieked and hit him, trying to get him away from me, but he kept hanging on. I found I could struggle against him, not paralyzed as Wendy had described, but he was so strong I couldn’t fight for long without getting drained.
“Where’s Bryce?” I asked, hollering at him as I tried to push him away. My muscles shook with the effort. No answer. He kept smiling that smile at me. Was Bryce dead?
He didn’t answer, and then he was inside of me, biting at my chest rather than scratching. The bites were far from love bites, and I was bleeding runners from the wounds, wondering if that decaying smell from his mouth would turn my wounds septic. The pointed teeth were smooth rather than serrated—it was like being bitten with large-bore needles. I squirmed, trying to reach the gun on the floor, but it was no use. Undaga held me fast, and his legs felt like sandpaper against mine. He was unbearably hot, trickles of slime running down onto my body as he moved inside of me. It bit into every nerve, and the only thing I could do in protest was to stare at the clock and count the minutes while he held and bit me. Had he not broken eye contact to bite, I couldn’t even have done that. Two minutes became six minutes. Six minutes became ten minutes. I lost track as the smell of decay overwhelmed me and I realized he was coming. My stomach rolled and clenched, and my body filled with a thick, hot slime that was thicker than any male seminal fluid. I gagged, but nothing expelled from me.
When he finished, he put Bryce’s clothing back on and left me lying there. I grabbed the shotgun. “Undaga—face me.”
He turned those huge round eyes on me, and I fired, the blast from the shotgun making my ears ring. The adrenaline in my body went into overdrive, and I could see every detail of his face as it contorted into something like shock and betrayal. The jaundiced face with the too-wide mouth going pale and turning into a deep frown—the round eyes narrowing into slits of hate. I took my finger out of the trigger guard to resist firing again. He collapsed, bleeding from the chest wound—and I was surprised it wasn’t black. Instead, it was just as red and iron-rich as any human’s. I turned on the lights and went to the door. The lump of being that was there was in Bryce’s clothing, and far too big to be Undaga.
It was Bryce.
The horror of what I had done made my knees turn to gel and I screamed. Well, more like made a horrible choking noise that was something between a sob and gurgle. My heart pounded in my still-ringing ears and I sobbed, trying to pull myself together. The strings of my sanity were frayed down to a thread, but I held to it, lest I fall off the cliff into the ocean.
Running to my bed, I called for an ambulance and the police, trying to tend to Bryce at the same time. I reported that I’d mistaken Bryce for an intruder. I decided I would just tell them the bites were from rough sex. That might blow their little country bumpkin minds.
When I hung up the phone, I ran back to Bryce and resumed medical treatment right away. Stop the bleeding, take his pulse, supportive care until the paramedics came. While I worked, I couldn’t stop crying. The sirens were getting closer, and they sounded strange, like a pulse.
I opened my eyes to see I was safe, in bed. An empty bed, but still—a bed. I looked down at myself. No bleeding. No bite marks.
What was even better, even Bryce had been a dream—well, not better, but he wasn’t dead, so while I didn’t get to have a pleasurable night, I thought that was a more than fair trade. I slapped the alarm off and sat up, rubbing my eyes. Was that a dream? My hands were still shaking and I felt like I would vomit at any moment. I looked down to see the shotgun by the bed and picked it up.
As I put it away, I heard a moaning noise. Maybe Bryce hadn’t been a dream. Confusion settled in fast as I worked out the difference between dreaming and reality.
I had nightmares as a child, and Father taught me to become a lucid dreamer. My dreams are often as detailed as anything I experience when I’m awake, and as a consequence, I have to work hard to tell wakefulness from dreaming. After being taught how to lucid dream, I have a sign that tells me differentiate my sleep/wake state. A literal sign that reads: YOU ARE DREAMING. It’s written in red ink on a black background. That’s the only way I can tell, and if I don’t get that sign, I wind up disoriented for a while.
“Bryce?” I raised my voice to be heard outside the bedroom.
“Yeah?” Came his voice from the bathroom across the hall. I breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, so only part of my evening had been a dream. At least I didn’t shoot him.
“Nothing, I wasn’t sure where you’d gone,” I said, climbing back into bed for a while. Why my alarm clock had been on was a mystery—I was sure I’d shut it off earlier. It didn’t matter. I set the shotgun down again and snuggled up under the covers.
I was dozing off when I heard Bryce come back in and get in with me. He cuddled up against me, and I noticed how cold he felt; how thin he was. My eyes snapped open, and I turned around to see the horror that was Undaga in front of my face again.
No, not again—this couldn’t be happening. My heart dropped into my stomach and my stomach dropped even further. Hot tears stung the swelling rims of my eyes. My body tried to curl in on itself, but couldn’t. My mind tried to shut down and I came close to blacking out, but the tightening grip on my arms and the sandpaper scratching on my thighs brought the world back into focus.
The monster repeated every action from my dreams—the biting, the unwanted sex—all of it, wearing that ludicrous smile of his.
And I couldn’t look away.
When he finished, he got off of me, and I lay there, bleeding and sick to my stomach. I didn’t know what to do. I held still and looked for the sign to tell me I was dreaming or not. It never showed up. Not a dream, then.
That’s when Bryce came in, and I wasn’t sure if it was him or not, because it seemed like Undaga had been able to disguise himself. I couldn’t say a word, but I grabbed my shotgun, and I cowered from him. I aimed it at his center mass, and he put his hands up.
“Kit? What’s wrong, honey?” He asked. “You’re injured. What happened?” His voice was gentle, tinged with concern, and he held up his hands in a gesture to show me he wasn’t up to anything untoward.
“Get away from me. I can’t be sure if you’re Bryce,” I told him. That sounded nuts, but after what had just happened, with Bryce right in the house, how could I be certain it was him and not another trick?
I took a deep breath to steady myself, and Bryce stepped back. “Kit, you’re bleeding. You need help.” His voice was soft. I kept the sight trained on his chest.
“Kathryn, just relax. I’m going to call for the paramedics. You’re bleeding a lot, and I’m wo
rried,” he said. I stared at him, hard, trying to decide who he was.
This is insanity, I thought. It’s Bryce. You know it is. That’s his gentle baritone, his manicured (talons) fingernails. Stop this.
But what if it wasn’t Bryce?
He got out of the room and dialed for an ambulance. Though he kept his voice hushed, I was still flushed with adrenaline, and I heard him speak. “She’s bleeding a lot and won’t let me near her—it looks like animal bites—and she’s acting unusual.”
Bryce never saw Undaga and had no clue what had happened—or what I thought had happened. I doubt Undaga would have called the authorities. It couldn’t be Undaga, then. I dropped the shotgun and ran to Bryce, who remained Bryce. He tried to help me with the bleeding wounds. I talked him through it.
“I think I’m hallucinating,” I said.
Bryce looked up at me. He was pressing hard on a wound on my thigh. Tiny beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. Just stay calm.”
“I’m calm.” That was a lie. “But I’m not safe. I’m going into shock and I need a blanket to keep me warm. Also, you need to elevate my legs. Don’t give me water no matter how much I ask for it.”
“Okay. But hang on for me, honey. Keep talking.”
I kept talking.
Perhaps I was hallucinating again, like I had on that night with Mercy, and this time, I had a story of Undaga in my head. I could have scratched myself or had another injury that looked like bite marks.
Was that a stretch? Could the fungi that was in the air have spread, or blossomed in my system the way poison ivy does? I wasn’t a botanist, but it was the best answer I could muster for the moment.
The Constable—Chet Callfield, came into the house (Bryce left the door open so the paramedics could come through) and helped Bryce tend to my injuries. I had warmed up, and the shock was subsiding because of my companion’s careful ministrations.
Callfield, not terribly unfriendly to outsiders but suspicious of them, had an accusatory look in his eye every time he glanced over at Bryce, who was oblivious to the scrutiny. He was far too busy tending my wounds and making sure I was lying supine with my legs elevated.
“Are you able to answer questions?” Callfield asked me. “I mean in here. Mister—”
“Bryce Gansen,” he said, and I saw he took no offense to Callfield not recognizing his name, even though the Gansen family owned just about every commodity in the Union. His humbleness made my heart soften. I loved him even more in that moment.
“Mister Gansen, would you excuse us?”
Bryce looked like someone had goosed him for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, yes, that’s fine.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and I saw his torn shirt where he’d used it to tie off a direct pressure tourniquet on my arm. “If you need anything, just have Callfield come get me.”
His hand lingered, and then he left for the other room. I could hear his footfalls growing more distant.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
I shrugged and bit back the sarcastic answer that came to mind. Not that you’ll do anything about it. “I’m not sure. Bryce left me alone to attend his night habits, and something attacked me. I don’t know what it was, and I think I was seeing things.”
“Like what?”
“Things that couldn’t be there because they don’t exist. But I can tell you one thing, Callfield—these bite marks won’t match Bryce’s impressions. He didn’t do this. I know you’re thinking you’ve got a domestic on your hands, but you don’t. I don’t know what kind of animal attacked me, but these bites came from mouth larger than my boyfriend’s.”
Chet’s mouth became one pursed line, and he grunted his agreement as I showed him one of the bite marks. “They look human.”
“Almost, don’t they?”
He sighed. I could see he believed me, but there was something else. A resignation I didn’t understand and at the time was too unwell to ask him about it.
“We still need a forensic dentist to take impressions,” Callfield said.
I nodded. “I know. Bryce will cooperate, I’m sure. But expect him to get an attorney if you intend to question him further.”
“Right.” Callfield said.
The ambulance came, and I told them I needed blood and fluids. Then I attempted to sit back and let them do their work without my interference.
Bryce and Callfield followed behind.
I came in via a gurney ride to see Tom Patrick—my colleague on duty in the ER that night—greeting me with an ashen face, but stitching me up just the same. He gave me all my jabs and made sure I started on a prophylactic antibiotic.
“Those bite marks look human,” Tom said. “Mouth’s too big to be your partner’s.” He was sitting on a rolling stool by my bedside. “What in Perdition happened?”
I told my story to Tom, and then to Gina, the psychiatrist on duty. I said I was likely having a lasting effect from the hallucinogen that had caused my previous issues. Both knew me and they knew I wasn’t in any danger to myself or would become a source of danger to others.
We agreed that there must have been a plant or spores that invaded my house, and it would be vital to bring in someone to do a thorough cleaning, and getting an air filter.
While I stayed in the hospital for my injuries, I had Bryce take care of that. They found nothing, but thought a certain plant called soma aculeatus (around here they call it stinging weed) was active. I’m getting tested to see if I’m a slow metabolizer of the enzyme that attaches itself to the 5-HT2A receptor. In people who are sensitive to it (slow metabolizers of the enzyme), it can cause hallucinations, among other symptoms, including a rash that resembles bite marks. When scratched, it tears the dermis enough to bleed so much so that they look like deep bite wounds. At the time I write this, I’m still waiting on those test results, as they have to send them out to Grace City. The joys of being overworked and understaffed (not to mention underequipped) in the path lab.
They treated me, and I recovered.
I’m home now, resting—Bryce took me back to the house.
“Callfield gave me a colonoscopy,” Bryce said while he drove back from the hospital. “Had to tell him my family history back to the 1100s and provide my kindergarten photograph.”
“Stop exaggerating.” Even though I was weary, I laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “He’s got nothing on you.”
“I know. I think he cares about you, but doesn’t know what to do. Do any of us? If you hadn’t told me about that company that came into Dubbs House to clean up, I would have thought a monster attacked you, like a wood ape.”
“You? The day you believe in that stuff is the day I grow a beard.”
“Too late,” Bryce said, then laughed. I punched him in the arm. It was a weak tap.
“Don’t kick a woman when she’s down.” I grinned and fought the urge to check my face in the mirror for beard hairs.
Under the volunteer contract I signed, I go back to work in two days to finish out the obligation. It’ll be a relief to return to Grace City. I have one more week, and I can bear it. I can’t stand the thought of leaving with them having last seen me in such a vulnerable state, either.
Yes, I know it’s ego. If I could stop myself, I would.
-Kathryn
***
10 October
Bryce has not left my side since the incident. He is staying with me in the house until I’m finished with my work here in Silver Hollow.
He makes me breakfast, and dinner is on the table when I come home. It’s strange. I didn’t know he could cook. I mean, he can cook well, too. Every bite is a trip to a Michelin Star restaurant. Someday, with cooking lessons and luck I might be able to return the favor.
Who am I kidding? Meal planning is the extent of my food knowledge.
There’s something weighing on my mind. I’m five days late from my menstrual cycle
, having nausea and vomiting in the mornings, and my void frequency has increased.
Symptoms shouldn’t show up this early, and I haven’t taken a test yet, but also haven’t mentioned a word of this to Bryce. When he asked about the vomiting, I said it would take me some time to recover from the soma aculeatus poisoning.
I’ll take a test before I start my rounds tonight at Mercy Hospital, but I can’t bear the thought of this right now. Not after what happened.
It nags at the back of my mind—the incident that was so vivid, so real, and not a dream. A hallucination, I suppose. But I still can’t help asking: whose baby is this? Do I want to carry it to term to find out? I’m terrified to tell Bryce, not because he’ll be upset, but thrilled. He’ll ask me to keep it—and what do I tell him if it isn’t his?
Ridiculous thoughts, I know. It was all hallucinations. Yet I don’t know what to do. I’m not ready for this. Not at all. I have no time to devote to a dependent human being. Plus—what if none of that was a hallucination?
I get sick to my stomach for multiple reasons—one of them is that I might buy into that garbage that Wendy believed.
Bryce will want to keep it. I know it. I should tell him, but it’ll take every ounce of courage I have.
He is a kind and gentle man. I am making excuses. I could pay for an army of nannies. But I don’t want it because of the—incident.
I believe it, I just don’t like admitting I was wrong.
No. There is no such thing as the Timeworn Order. They were nothing but a fantasy concocted to keep people in line. Wendy thought so, too, but now?
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