Scribner Horror Bundle: Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner

by Joshua Scribner

  Celeste found herself amazed by this new person in her life, and though she couldn’t possibly be attracted to him, she wasn’t oblivious to the fact that he was, as Kendra put it, mega-gorgeous.

  How nice it would be to develop a relationship with him, to see where it would go. But inevitably, she knew it would fail. He wouldn’t always be willing to work this hard with a woman who couldn’t give him something physical in return. Even if he was willing, soon some other beautiful woman would come along, one that was able to supply the physical, and hoard all of his empathy and emotional support.

  “Yeah,” Celeste finally said to him. “You’re right.”

  ***

  After he’d brought her up on Friday, Tabitha, having for the first time been separated from her history and learning, had been able to discuss where she’d been. She’d described it like a vague dream, where she was an unthinking, unfeeling being in a dark place.

  That she remembered where she had been didn’t surprise Dr. Porter. Coming out of the trance, her history naturally rejoined her current experience, and she was able to use that history to put words to the experience, like when a dreamer comes from a dream that lacks the logic of waking life, but is able to recall that dream upon waking.

  Dr. Porter hypnotized his wife several times on Saturday, getting her used to going to the dark place, the deepest, most basic level of her subconscious. He also trained her subconscious to bring some of her history to that deep level, but only enough that she would be able to maneuver inside, not enough to contaminate it and make it something else.

  What he brought from her history were things that were common to most people, stripping away any personal association Tabitha had with these things. That way, he hoped, he would be able to show her, and through her descriptions, show himself, her subconscious as it existed without the contamination of her own life.

  Now it was Sunday. Tabitha lay on the bed and Dr. Porter sat off in a chair. He had her under, in the dark place, completely bare of her history and learning. Dr. Porter said, “Now that you are in this place, I would like for your subconscious to bring from your history enough, and only enough, of that history to respond to my voice.”

  Dr. Porter waited a few seconds and then asked, “Is the subconscious ready?”

  Tabitha’s “yes” finger shot up, as it was by the previous day’s preparation, adept at meeting this request.

  Dr. Porter said, “To the place experience is now in, I want you to bring vision and light.”

  Although he boiled with his lust for knowledge, Dr. Porter controlled himself. He wanted to know what Tabitha could see right now. He could have that description immediately, but it would be a lot less choppy if he got it after she was out of the trance, with her memory and language more readily at her disposal.

  Dr. Porter said, “I would like for what Tabitha sees right now to be placed at the front of her subconscious. Let her be able to describe the memory of it with clarity, immediately after she comes out of her trance.”

  Dr. Porter, confidant with the subconscious’s ability to meet this request, didn’t ask for affirmation. Instead, he proceeded to bring Tabitha up.

  “Now, as I count down from five, I would like you to come out of your trance. Five . . .”

  A short time later, Tabitha came from her trance with bright, glowing eyes.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  Dr. Porter fought his need to know back for a few more seconds, so what Tabitha was now experiencing, a vivid memory, could set in.

  He finally said, “Tell me what you saw.”

  “It was a tunnel,” Tabitha responded.

  Chapter 3

  Although he was 40-years-old and intelligent enough to know better than to engage in frivolous attempts at improvement, James Kisner still tried to be better once a week. So like on every Monday morning, this Monday morning he left the refuge of his parents’ basement. He found the two retired professors at the kitchen table, waiting for him. The curtains were pulled shut and in front of an empty seat were a filled coffee cup and an empty plate. In the middle of the table were serving plates, one bacon, one eggs, one toast.

  If this had been one of the other six days of the week, he would have stayed downstairs, where he would have prepared his own breakfast and gotten his own coffee. When downstairs, other than having supplies brought to him, his life was independent. He had his computer and the Internet, as well as many books and other publications to link him to the outside world. He even entertained guests from time to time, mostly his parents and a select few of their closest friends. He had a kitchenette, a bathroom, as well as makeshift living and sleeping areas. Downstairs, his life was normal as could be, aside from the fact that he spent over 99% of his time there.

  In the little time he spent upstairs, he was as dependent as a child. Because of the shakes that came with being out of his sanctuary, James wasn’t even able to carry his own coffee.

  James took his seat, the level of his anxiety telling him this wouldn’t be a long visit and that he wouldn’t be brave in the short time he was here. On some Mondays, he calmed himself enough that he might request a curtain be opened. Occasionally, he opened one himself and sat in the light coming from outside for a few minutes. But today didn’t feel like it would be one of those days.

  “Good morning, dear,” his mother said.

  “Good morning, Mother,” James was able to whisper with the small amount of wind his body could spare.

  His father, obviously sensing James’s limits this morning, merely nodded, at which James nodded back.

  James suspected his parents were way more easygoing about living with his disorder than most people would be. They both used to teach at Arabuke University, a few blocks down the street. His mother had taught English and Creative Writing and hadn’t been too inconvenienced by having a dependent at home. His father, who had taught Anthropology, had often traveled for long periods of time. The worst of it, James thought, was that he, who had moved into the basement at a very young age, had limited their ability to travel together. But they hadn’t once complained. They’d made what accommodations they could, and when he’d gotten older, they’d been less afraid to leave him alone, although he was sure they weren’t away as long as they would have been had they not had the burden of their adult son.

  James didn’t immediately fill his plate. Instead, he attended to his breath and to his body, using one of the many relaxation techniques he had learned over the years. One of the things he thought ironic was that he could probably be considered an expert on relaxation techniques, yet if he was to try and go out to teach these methods, he’d freeze up with fear before he made it to the car. For now, James was able to calm himself a little.

  The upstairs itself didn’t scare him. It was just that he was now closer to the outside. And what about the outside scared him so much? After many years of help from many professionals exploring that question, James still didn’t know the answer. All he could come up with was that the outside gave him a terrible sense of dread, and that it had been that way for as long as he could remember.

  Today, James’s thumping heart and constricted breath wouldn’t allow him enough calm to open a single curtain. Nausea barely allowed him to nibble at breakfast, and he didn’t finish a single cup of coffee. Within minutes, he hurried downstairs. There, he reclined and listened to music. Speakers surround his living area, and the music was generally something classical and complex. He became absorbed in the rhythms and his fear melted away. He didn’t even want to think about leaving again, until next Monday.

  ***

  Dr. Porter didn’t act immediately on his findings. All day Monday, and into the evening, he was with clients. In his mind, in the moments of his job that were routine and didn’t require his undivided attention, he considered a dilemma. He and Tabitha, with their history pushed aside, had seen the exact same thing within their subconscious minds, and that was as he had expected it would be. He had suspected before, that aside
from the adornments of personal experience, the subconscious minds of most people were the same. Just like most people were born with two hands, one brain and one heart, most were born with a place to store every instant of their lives gone by. Stripped of those instants of time, everybody’s storage place was essentially the same, a tunnel.

  But the tunnel was only the same for most people. For those whom Dr. Porter had not been able to help by bringing something from their pasts, he suspected there would be something different. He didn’t know yet how their tunnels were different from most, and there lay the dilemma.

  The place Dr. Porter and his wife had seen was vast, a cylinder, inside which they floated. The walls of the tunnel were uniform, black and solid. There was nothing else to them. Dr. Porter suspected this was the tunnel that many people surviving near-death experiences or returning from death itself reported moving through. When these people reported their life flashing before their eyes, it was actually the stripping of their histories from their subconscious minds, leaving the tunnel a blank place. In essence, with himself and with his wife, by stripping the subconscious of personal history, leaving it in a pure state, Dr. Porter had done what only death had done up to that point. By doing this, he had gone against natural experience. A person was not supposed to see this tunnel before it was brought about by death.

  Dr. Porter wondered if it were wrong for him to tamper with something so pure and natural. He suspected it was. The dilemma was whether he would let that stop him.

  He thought about it some more on Tuesday. Then, Tuesday evening, he made the calls.

  ***

  At about six o’clock, Tuesday evening, James’s phone rang. It was rare that anyone aside from tele-marketers called him. His biggest contacts with the outside world were through discussion forums and games played over the Internet. In these communications, James maintained an impersonal, intellectual tone, keeping his life out of it. He saw no need to tell people, “I’m a 40-year-old agoraphobic who lives in his parents’ basement. My skin is pale from lack of sunlight, and my bushy gray hair is unkempt, because let’s face it, it really doesn’t matter how I look.”

  James picked up the line. “Hello.”

  “Hello, James. This is Dr. Porter.”

  Though James hadn’t spoken with Dr. Porter in eight years, the hypnotist’s voice was still very familiar. “Oh. How are you, Doctor?”

  “I’m doing well. I’ve recently had a breakthrough in my methods. That is why I’m calling you.”

  “Interesting,” James commented.

  “And if you don’t mind me asking,” Dr. Porter continued. “Have you had any changes in your condition since we worked together?”

  “No,” James responded without needing to think about it.

  “At the risk of sounding coarse, that doesn’t surprise me. As I remember, yours was very resistant to any kind of treatment.”

  James laughed lightly. “I don’t find your honesty the least bit coarse, Doctor.”

  “Good, James. Now let me tell you what I have in mind. I’m in the process of soliciting participation in small group, where I will be using experimental procedures. The group will consist of no more than five, probably less, clients who, through no fault of their own, were unable to benefit from my regular hypnotic methods. Because of the experimental nature, no fees will be charged.”

  “That sounds good, Doctor. But as you know, I would never be able to make it to a group session.”

  “I have considered that, James. And just like before, I would like to work with you in your home. What I propose is that we bring the group there.”

  James thought about it for a few seconds. If nothing else, it would be intellectually intriguing. “Yes,” James said. “That would be fine. And I’ll do anything I can to accommodate you.”

  ***

  Next year, Toby would go off to college, and that scared him. He was a gifted student. His freshman year he’d made a B- in Spanish. Otherwise, his transcript was flawless. He’d taken the SATs during the summer, and he’d scored in the top two percent. So he wasn’t worried about the more difficult classes. He’d handle that. What scared him was that he wasn’t used to being alone, not used to being a freak and being alone, with no one to fight his battles for him.

  His dad’s position provided a constant intimidation factor for kids who might have otherwise taken their antagonizing a bit further. Now, his brother had been there to protect him from the first kid who seemed ready to cross the line between verbal abuse and physical assault. Friday night, in an indirect way, Randy had further handled the situation.

  The rain had come down steady for most of the game. Both offences had sputtered, with ball carriers unable to find traction. The Pious Eagles had prevailed in the low scoring affair, 14-0. What little offence there was came from the Eagles, and in particular, from quarterback, Randy Pollard, and his favorite target, tight end, Matt Craven. The paper said Matt, who caught 12 passes, carried the Eagle’s offence. Toby knew it was more than that. What had really happened was that Randy, by prejudicially selecting his receivers, had carried his older brother. On Monday, a high-spirited Matt apologized to Toby for the things he’d said.

  Toby struggled not to say anything about it. It was wrong, he thought, for him, a mere manager, to indirectly play a major role in the game. But it had ended well, and Randy seemed excited about winning the first game. So Toby, not wanting to spoil the jubilation, said nothing.

  But he did worry. What would it be like for him next year, living in a dorm, with other eighteen-year-olds, none of which cared who his dad was, none of which his brother could appease by throwing a football to? For the first time in his life, Toby, the skinny freak, would be alone.

  Tuesday night, alone in his room, he dwelled on that thought. Then his mother came in and sat at the side of the bed. She ran her fingers through his hair and asked, “Do you remember Dr. Porter?”

  Toby nodded. Of course he remembered the hypnotist. Of all the therapies he’d received, Dr. Porter’s was the only one he’d liked. It was fun to see where his mind could go, and it was nice to know that level of relaxation, even if, like everything else, it didn’t work.

  “I just got off the phone with him,” Mom said. “He’s got this new experimental therapy he says might help you.”

  ***

  Celeste had Monday off. Then, when she arrived at work Tuesday afternoon, Tiffany was working the grill.

  “Scott’s day off?” Celeste asked.

  “Nope,” Tiffany said abruptly. “Quit.”

  And that was that. Scott was gone. As she worked Tuesday night, Celeste tried to pretend it didn’t bother her. What could she possibly have been hoping for anyway? But it did bother her. It bothered her even more when no one wanted to hang out after work that night. They were not as desperate as she was. Companionship was easier to come by for the sex-having, normal people.

  Celeste craved that. She didn’t crave sex, because she just couldn’t. But she wanted the things that seemed to come with it. Everyone else at the pub, whether they were with someone right now or not, at least shacked up with someone from time to time, or had the occasional bed buddy. Celeste was left to wonder what that was like. What was it like to wake up and not be alone? What was it like to know, or at least have the freedom to know, that you would go home every night and someone would be there? What was it like to not have to wait for the weekend when everybody else had enough spare time to hang out, just so you could get your little bit of companionship before the next week of loneliness began?

  Celeste had lied to Kendra. She had not accepted that she would die alone. She had, in a way, lied to Scott. She didn’t want to give up the search. She still wanted to find something to explain what was wrong with her, something wrong that could be fixed. She wanted to want sex.

  Despondent, Celeste went home alone Tuesday night. There was a message on her answering machine. It was Dr. Porter.

  Chapter 4

  The basement that Jame
s Kisner lived in lent itself well to a hypnotic session. A single three-way lamp provided Dr. Porter with control of the light. James’s parents were very accommodating, providing extra chairs, volunteering to leave while the session was on so their footsteps wouldn’t make noise above. People coming to their house to provide treatment to their son was something the Kisners were used to.

  Toby’s mom, who’d dropped him off, was very pleasant. Dr. Porter told her when to return, and she agreed to wait outside in her car.

  Celeste Sheever, like Dr. Porter, had driven twenty miles from Green Pastures to Arabuke. Toby lived in Pious, a small town halfway between the two cities. They all seemed comfortable right now, which was not a surprise. None were social phobic, and all were used to feeling like freaks, so this situation wasn’t near as awkward as the many awkward situations each had faced.

  Dr. Porter had them sit in an arc in front of him. They all relaxed in big reclining chairs, not his couch, but adequate for comfort purposes. To his left was Celeste, a stunningly attractive woman, repulsed by sex. To his right was Toby, an intelligent young man repulsed by food, especially meat. In the center was James, whose aversion to the outside world was the most debilitating of all.

  “Good evening,” Dr. Porter said, which led to three quiet greetings. “I’ve already spoken to you all on the phone, but I want to repeat a few things before we get started. First of all, I’ve worked with all three of you in the past and am completely aware of your conditions. Thus, we need not spend a lot of time getting familiar with one another. Second, even though it has been a long time since your last trance, I trust it will not be difficult for you to go under. It will be similar to as if you had gotten on a bike after a few years of not riding. Once you get started, you’ll find your skills quickly return.”