Over time, they started to believe me. They muttered things about long lost relatives, ex-boyfriends that overdosed, bored with their lives, their office jobs and life in the suburbs. I laughed about my head injury, laughed about my visions. And as the nights expanded and the conversations continued, they would place their hands on my forehead, the bruise and the lump fading, making mental notes about the exact location.
When I told them about my son, his worried look, the note he left me scrawled in the foggy mirror of the bathroom one morning, the numbers 8 22 32 44 64 pushed together in his tiny fingered script, they swallowed their beer and leaned back onto the couch. They were always here now—this was better than watching TV, better than hanging out at some seedy bar. I was spending money on food and drink, plowing through it, buying a new car, and my ghost of a son was worried about the money. I spent some cash on a Little Lotto ticket, and collected $4,235.26 the following day. It wasn’t much, but as he leaned over my head, pushing my hair out of the way, in the same way that I used to tuck him in, he told me that I didn’t want any attention. Small steps, he whispered, pressing his damp lips onto my forehead, and I fell asleep shaking and cold.
****
The first thing we did was cut all of the seatbelts out of my new car. It pained me to do this to a brand new Mustang, but it made sense—no chickens in this ride. I was trying to get out, and they were trying to get in. I’d look in the rearview mirror at Amy and Robb, giddy as two kids heading off for ice cream, and shake my head.
“My brother,” Amy said, one night on the couch, one of many lost nights that we spent talking about this new endeavor. “He died in high school. Ironically, in a car accident, drunk as a skunk,” she said. “I want to see him again.”
“My first wife killed herself,” Robb said, swallowing another beer, head bowed. “I need to talk to her, I have questions. I need to say I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
I understood. It wasn’t the money—I shared the numbers that my flickering son whispered in my ear, we cashed in our tickets for a couple grand here or there, every once in awhile a bigger score, ten grand or more. We couldn’t keep winning, he told me that, we had to drive to Indiana, or up to Wisconsin, spread it around, and take turns buying the tickets. It wasn’t about the money. We had nobody to share our spoils with anyway. We were three loners connected by the thrill of doing something that nobody else could do.
I looked into the back seat as I accelerated up the entrance ramp onto the highway.
“You’re just going to end up dead,” I yelled.
They held hands and smiled. On the seat next to me my wife sat in shadow, her face away from me, staring out the window into the night. Silver tears ran dirty paths down her cheeks, a weary smile crooked across her face. She didn’t want me to join them on the other side. And yet, she did. The rules. Who knew what they were? I only knew that the pale imitation of life that I held onto with my weak grip—it didn’t mean anything to me anymore. On either side of Amy and Robb, the twins sat somber, frightened by it all, eyes on me, and yet, unable to really look at me, wanting me to hold them again, to feel my warmth, but afraid to ask me to do this, the violence a terrifying unknown.
We were sober, tonight, facing this obstacle head on. I punched the gas on the new Mustang, the pang in my stomach the only bit of life left in me. I wanted her to say no, my wife, but she didn’t say anything. I wanted the kids to say we’ll wait for you—we’ll be here whenever you get here, twenty years down the road. But they didn’t say those words.
I pushed us out into the night, my wife’s cold hand resting on my thigh, and I pulled the steering wheel to the left, looking up into the rearview mirror, Robb’s mouth open, as if poised to say something, his eyebrows arched mid-question. Amy’s eyes were glassy and distant, far away, knowing that one way or another she’d see her brother soon. And my daughter, her head down, unable to face me, my son with his hands in his lap, they looked up in unison, a slow grin spreading across their distorted features, a secret held in their mouths—and the car flipped us over and into the great beyond.
Surrender
In the process of losing my mind, the rest of the world has fallen away. A cloud hangs over the monotone house, the grass growing longer, the litter outside caught in the wild blades of fading green, as the shadows inside play games with me. I used to resist them, tried to shine a light into the corners of the living room, the drapes—the long hallways that never seemed to end. I used to scream at them, crying as I fell to my knees, begging to be left alone. When I walk by the bedroom now, the door closed, a cold wave pushing out from under the gaps, nipping at my ankles, I moan quietly under my breath as a shadow flickers at the door frame. I do not open it, not now.
I grew up around this house, with its curving banister, the old grandfather clock that sat in the foyer, the secret passageways between bedrooms hundreds of years old. I loved to spend time here, to open the glass candy dish and see what Grandma had put out that day, to hide in the bedroom closets and wait for my brother to find me. Now, I only see death.
When my grandmother passed away I was sad, of course, the memories of so many holidays spent here, Christmas trees crowded by presents, the whole family gathered around the Thanksgiving table. That all changed. It changed so fast that I never saw it coming. I couldn’t fathom what lurked in the darkness, what waited for me to come home.
For a long time now I’ve stared at the ceiling, sleeping on the antique couch, covered in dust, afraid to go upstairs, but afraid to leave it as well. I know how it summons—I know how it pulls the light to it and snuffs it out. So I stay and ask myself what I did to bring this spirit to me, what actions and crimes I committed to lure the demon out. In the dark, no amount of blankets are able to stop my shivering, I hear it upstairs, heavy footsteps, the weight of lead boots, the mass of flesh a horrible density, the shadows always fading to cold air. I remember the abortion, the way my girlfriend cried—this selfish act that we hid from the world, drowned in our sorrows and a river of amber liquid. I remember the anxiety of a thump in the road, the radio blaring, the shape left behind as I drove on, turned away, vomiting in the bushes later, pretending that nothing had happened. I remember the heroin, the needles and the glossy cold skin she wore, the way we would pour into each other, our mouths hot for slick tongues, our fingers eager to grab, to clench, to slide inside. She deserved better—I know that now. The only sound left from that night, from the dense woods, from the dull panic that washed over me is the sound of the shovel blade piercing the earth, over and over again.
Nobody thought anything of the gray cat, the Maine Coon we called Quixotic, passing away in the middle of the night. He was fifteen years old, moving slow already, doomed to die in this house—we all knew that. And yet, as I fell asleep that night, his cries came to me from the basement, wrapped in an urgency that made me queasy, that made me hesitate, pull back the covers and sit up on the edge of the bed. I heard him make his way up the stairs, and heard him slump to the floor in the guest room, and assumed he was fine, when he finally went quiet.
Guest room. Yes, that’s accurate. Our guest.
We buried him in the back yard, the acre of old oaks a canopy stretching over our heads, the brick fireplace where we would barbeque and gather, the chipped fountain of a forlorn boy spouting water into its cracked base. I have a hard time saying their names now, my son, my wife—they have turned to smoke and drifted away. My son, Robert, he took the sticks, wound round with yarn, the simple placard reading Quicky, as we called the cat, and pushed into the earth with a sigh. That night as we fell asleep, my sadness a heavy weight on my chest, the place the cat used to sit and purr, a series of doors slammed shut, a groaning from the pipes in the basement, and we clung to each other, my Linda disappearing in my arms, tears and darkness and heavy sighs luring us to sleep. We were not afraid, not yet. We were sad, and tired, and ready to move on. Our guest was not.
I didn’t know much about electricity, so my brother William hel
ped me with the ceiling fan. It seemed a simple task. The guest room was always hot, except when it was cold, needing a false breeze to keep the stillness from growing. The circuit breakers, they were flipped. The light from the windows was barely enough, clouds drifting over the yard, but we did not hesitate. A ladder, the wires, screws and a drill, it was nothing to us, an easy job, a task to be done. There were cold beers and a back porch waiting for us later, the inevitability of it unquestioned. I slapped him on the back, and we hoisted the fan. And then he grabbed the wires.
There were no lights on in the room, and yet I stared at him as his body shook, as his eyes bulged and a darkness swept across the room, the ladder shaking, no voice in my chest, no words in my mouth, the smell of charred flesh, the urine pooling beneath the ladder, his body falling to the ground, the fan crashing down on us, as I muttered his name over and over, smoke drifting as tendrils to the ceiling where it gathered. The room now held an anxious weight.
There never would be a fan in that room, the broken blades and glass carted out to the garbage cans in the quiet of the next day, the wires sticking out of the hole, always pointing, always reaching out for more. And in the corners of the room, the shadows grew, the air thick with the stench of burnt flesh.
The house had changed for us now, and we stayed away from the guest room, closing the door, which always reopened, stayed on the north side of the house, leaving that hallway alone. And yet, we went on. It was still weeks before I’d start killing myself, there was still an air of hope.
Still in a fog, we snapped at each other, my wife and I, over every small thing, over every task not done a certain way. We spit our angry words at each other over garbage cans and their liners, over bills that had not been paid, over loose handrails and crooked pictures and dinners that we brought home in greasy paper bags. Maybe we could have run then, maybe it was still forming, still weak. I don’t know.
The sounds that came to us as we fought in the kitchen, they did not make any sense, they had no context in our memories. We stomped and pointed, we clenched our fists and spewed obscenities, faces flushed, as the house around us creaked and moaned, the doors opening and closing, the boy running from room to room, a game he was playing, certainly, a laugh on his lips as he amused himself, certainly not terrified, not running from something, not trying to escape, just playing as boys are known to do. My fist banged on the table, a tall thin water glass breaking in the kitchen sink as Linda turned her back to me, cursing into the hot water that flowed over the dirty dishes. Our heads turned with a snap at the pounding, the heavy thuds as they repeated down the curving staircase, over and over until we were met with the eventual silence of the boy hitting the hardwood floor. No words, just a gasp, eyes widening, and we ran out of the room, muttering to our absent God, and found him bent and broken, lying still on the floor.
There was not much left after that, I think. There was no color, or light, only darkness. People came and left, the house was full and then empty, things were done, paperwork, I imagine, nothing that stays with me, nothing that matters. I often found myself wandering the hallways, cold and yet sweating, standing in the guest room, arms at my side, a cloak of black wrapping around me, as I cursed the shadows, begged it to take me. I was done. A dirty teddy bear sat in the corner, a long line of Matchbox cars leading from it to the edge of my shoes, and my head filled with swarming bees, my eyes rolled up into the back of my head, and I collapsed.
Linda is at our bedside, her hands on my wrist, her voice a whisper, and she’s telling me something, that we have to leave, that she’s leaving, that it’s all gone now, nothing left—I can’t decipher what she’s saying. I cannot move. She tells me it is too much and I can barely nod. Go, I tell her, there’s nothing here for you. I have nothing left to offer. Run. I close my eyes and she is gone.
I open them and there is a pounding at the front door, lights flashing and I cannot speak to the men in uniform, as they pour past me into the house, as the smell of something burning fills the hallway and my mouth. They are in the kitchen shouting and there is a wave of smoke, the sound of water, the cursing and grunting of men. They ask for my wife, they mention the boy, my brother—they have been here before. I am mute. There is water on the floor, a puddle in which I stand, and as I look above my head there is an irregular shape on the ceiling above, the guest bathroom, the drip, drip, dripping filling the air with a metronome, a repetition that wants to add up to something.
There is more noise upstairs, men yelling and I still cannot move. I am pushed out of the way, as a stretcher flies past me, the man in charge, his hand on my arm, yelling at me from underwater, pushing me into a chair, a flashlight in my eyes, and there are doctors, paramedics, policemen, firemen, a flurry of action, and I am slipping into a comatose skin, my flesh gone alabaster, my heart freezing into stone. The last thing I remember is the slashes of red on the white, white sheet—and she is gone from me forever.
I told her to run. He didn’t let her get away.
Time has abandoned me, I am no longer alive—I am no longer human. I get in the car and drive and drive, out onto the highway into the darkness, the world around me lacking clarity, and I find myself back in the driveway, the engine running—the car door open wide. I pick up the telephone and call anybody who will answer, beg them to come get me, to get me away from this unholy presence, and then I wait downstairs for the doorbell to ring, but they never show up.
There is a vague memory of a hammer and nails, of boards. There is the smell of gasoline leaking from under the door and the matches in my hand will not strike. There is a pinching at my wrists and a feeling of great release and I awake in my bed, naked, claw marks up and down my skin, bite marks on my shoulders and the torn flesh on my arms is stitched together with long pieces of dark, sinewy hair.
When there is nothing left, when I have finally surrendered, no longer seeking absolution, no longer praying to any God, anywhere, no longer ignoring the price I now must pay, not at my hands, but at his, I take the hammer and I claw at the wood, I pull away the barrier to the closed off room, this abyss, this dark sanctuary, and I place my hands on the cold metal knob—I turn it slowly and breathe frost into the air, I give myself over to the darkness inside, and finally, he swallows me whole.
The Wastelands
Darkness pours across empty desert. The behemoth trudges toward the fire pit with his massive wooden bowl, spilling the shriveled raisins, dreams deferred, into the gaping maw that cleaved the earth. I could fire my worn rifle at his thick hide, but it wouldn’t do any good. He lumbers back to the city and out of my sight, the steel collar around his neck dotted with spikes and a single yellow square of flashing light. They track him now. He tends to wander.
My lair is carved out of a mountain. The only way to traverse the flat stone is a long slender rope with knots tied every couple of feet. I hide out here, waiting for something to change, for someone to tell me that things will get better. I’m doubtful. In the distance I see the tiny outline of the creature as he heads back to the glass and metal that has enslaved so many—but not me.
When the rules fell and anarchy took over the country, I tried to blend in, to become one of the unthinking—to keep my family in line. When they came to take the children for the mines, and my wife for the hospital, a breeder now, it seemed, I went at them with clenched teeth and was beaten into submission. The decision unfurled in the blink of an eye, the crack of a rifle butt against my skull. If I had my way, there would be no survivors. Wrestling the weapon from the man in black canvas, his visor shut, a eunuch, I opened fire on the swarm of dead mannequins that poured into our apartment. I did not discriminate. When the children fell to the side, stepped on, stabbed, limbs snapping, my wife’s screams piercing the thud of boot steps, I kept on pulling the trigger.
In the end, I stood over my broken boy and placed the muzzle against his tear-streaked face, looked away and ended his life. My girl was already silent—the weeping, I realized, was coming from me. My wi
fe looked up at me, her long hair matted in crimson, her lips swollen and torn, a sneer rippling across her bruised and shattered face.
“Do it,” she said. “Wipe it clean.”
I knelt down and held her face in my hands as she sobbed quicksilver, choking on her own blood.
“Do something that matters,” she said.
I kissed her forehead and stood up, pushing the rifle towards her. She opened her mouth and fellated the barrel, one last spark in her eyes, and the sharp crack filled the room with a hollow finality.
A flutter of black and I’m standing on the edge of the cave, staring down at the endless void, the bats stitching the night sky with their angry chirps and leathery wings. With a heavy sigh I retreat into the back, hungry again, yet sick to my stomach, wanting to vomit it all away, but knowing such weakness will get me nowhere. Instead, I think of the beast, the great destroyer and his endless treks from the city to my front door.
“Do something that matters,” her voice echoes into the darkness, and I fall into a fitful sleep. A sleep where my dreams are choked by the succubus and her wanting mouth, her promises to help me most certainly lies, but lies that may be my only hope. Long hair that reeks of the dead brushes over my face, and she is on me.
****
“Give it to me,” she says.
Oil swims atop water and she covers me entirely. I am held down, and yet, lifted up. Her tongue is a writhing snake that fills my mouth. Her heavy breasts with hard nipple tips rest on my scratched and bleeding chest, her long fingernails pressing into my shoulders, her glossy heat enveloping my aching desire. I can’t resist her, though I’d like to—she’s too strong. So I pull her to me, my hands running up her narrow waist, and back down to clench her slick ass beneath my fingers, pulling her to me, pushing her down, impaling her on my cock. She moans and speaks the language of the dead, muttering prayers and curses, flies buzzing around my head, landing on my sticky face, rocks and twigs digging into my back, each thrust another cut and tear, another pinprick of pain. Her muscles tighten as she drains me dry, pulling every last drop of my life out into her barren womb, in search of a way to continue her malformed lineage, to push it forward and out into the wastelands.
Tribulations Page 4
