Not the best time for humor, Eric thought, putting a hand against her hair.
“Bam bam,” he replied, letting her know he was through discussing it.
*
For the next few days, they sought the best professional help they could find. They made an appointment with a short, red-haired man named, Dr. Neadley. His office was in Boulder. Dr. Neadley could wheedle Eric into his appointments on Tuesday morning. ’That okay with you, Mr. Durgess? Eric told Neadley that was fine.
If the noises don’t finish me off first, he thought.
Later that same day, Annie looked at the wicker basket where Beasley slept. She cocked her head and frowned. Beasley, she saw, was a bit too still for sleep.
Eric looked at Annie and a single tear traveled the length of her cheek.
It was the worst thing that could’ve happened.
The walls of the longed-for Victorian thundered with the noises in Eric’s head and Beasley’s quiet passing.. Shadows dripped over the roof, across the windows, spoiling the perfectly green, manicured lawn.
Typical, Eric thought. You bet your ass!
Annie, closer to Beasley than Eric, wept quietly to herself, trying not to add to an already bleak atmosphere.
Eric consoled his wife while squeezing his eyes shut. He put his arms around her. Annie was quick to respond.
“God, Eric! I hope…I hope…”
He knew what she was going to say: I hope this isn’t some terrible omen, some vicious sign of bad things to come.
“Don’t,” was all he could say.
Annie remained quiet and mourned by herself.
“I love you,” Eric said.
Annie nodded, not meeting his eyes. She turned away. Eric watched her walk through the kitchen and into the garage.
Through the rest of the day, they dealt with their trials separately. Annie wanted to prepare a proper burial for Beasley while Eric sat in the recliner, trying to relax in the living room.
Laying back with his eyes closed, Eric used the power of his mind to force the sounds from his brain. They were more catastrophic today. Life was predictable, he thought, but he hadn’t predicted this.
Wishing the appointment with Neadley only seconds away, Eric—still feeling tremors and the echoing din fading in and out of his mind—wondered:
What is it? Maybe this does mean something. Maybe this is a sign of bad thing…
The bad thoughts came, and the more they came, the more vicious and cruel Eric felt.
Mr. Hyde?
In the recliner, Eric waged war with his conscience.
I can do this, he thought. I can banish these noises all by myself. It’s the only way.
Miraculously, through the roar of battle—the crashing cymbals—he was able to fall asleep…How that was possible, he didn’t know.
But there is no quiet darkness in sleep. Only the sounds of screaming locomotives. Locomotives, crashing cymbals, and chopper blades.
The sound was not a marching band, he realized, but a hammer banging on a nail, his own trade tormenting and betraying him. Eric located the source through his nightmares, the first step toward it.
An alien creature burrowed into his flesh, manipulating his mind. Something changed him, turning his brain inside out. He had dreams Dr. Neadley was helping him, curing him, but outside his dreams, a demon worked under his flesh. It laughed at his susceptibility.
He opened his eyes. Had he been dreaming? No? Yes? Resting his eyes? He couldn’t tell.
Eric stood from the recliner. Anger distorted his features. He was virtually foaming at the mouth. Yes, he realized, something had bitten him while dreaming. Poison seeped into his blood, into his brain. He had rabies! He had it now!
Awake now, yes! Driving me, controlling me, clutching me by the throat is that lunatic sound!
He was no longer Eric Durgess, husband, contractor, father-to-be. He was an ill-tempered beast, brainwashed by relentless screaming. The percussion wedged itself between his ears and tuned him into a monster. He’d gone to sleep a perfectly troubled man and awoke as something else altogether. Eric Durgess was a shrieking locomotive. The noises drove him, manipulated him. The sounds were palpable; they could do anything they wanted, and they steered him toward violence. He needed to kill the sound, he realized. He needed to find its source and destroy it! That’s what it had been telling him all along…
Had it ever been his head? Had it always been on the outside, waiting for the right moment to play him like a puppet?
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
It was physical, taking control, the sound. It picked him up and dragged him across the living room floor. It pulled him through the kitchen and toward the garage door. Gripping the knob, Eric threw the door open.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?” he bellowed.
Annie stood by the workbench, the place where Eric had put cabinets, shelves, and other countless items together. The things for the home, his home, their home, the beautiful white thing they’d made, the life they had…
Annie stared at him as if he were joking. He’d often pulled puerile stunts before, trying to make her laugh, but he wasn’t succeeding now. What was it he’d said about the right time for humor? This certainly wasn’t the time.
She was building a coffin, he saw, a rudimentary thing but a coffin nonetheless. Yes. Beasley had died. She was driving in the last of the nails.
Did they even have a dog? Eric couldn’t remember. Reality morphed with strange distortion. Nothing made sense.
The box Annie was building only resembled a coffin. His perception was inside-out still. It could’ve been the size of a mansion or a toy box for all he knew. The coffin was for him, and that was all he knew. Annie wanted to kill him for what he’d done to Beasley. She wanted to bury him in the backyard. She was preparing early was all.
“FOILED YOUR PLAN!” Eric shrieked. “WHEN DID YOU THINK YOU’D DO AWAY WITH ME? THOUGHT YOU’D WAIT ’TIL I WAS SLEEPING? MAYBE IN THE CHAIR? HAD IT ALL PLANNED, DID YOU? THOUGHT YOU’D TAKE OVER THE BUSINESS FOR YOURSELF?”
Annie couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Despite her grief, she tried to smile, tried to look amused, but it was forced. She wasn’t amused. This wasn’t the time for games. Goddamn you, Eric, how can you do this to me?
Eric stormed down the steps of the garage, making footprints in the shavings on the floor. He hurried around the workbench and snatched the hammer from Annie’s hand.
Who was this lunatic, Annie thought? What was he doing?
“Eric?” she said.
Before she realized it wasn’t a joke, Annie braced herself. Worse things to come? Bad omens?
Oh, yes, darling dear. Bad omens, indeed!
He looked worse than a rapid dog, a demented jackal. Spit gathered at his lip and plopped to the floor. Whoever this monster was, it was not her husband. The man holding the hammer had come from somewhere else, someplace else.
The hammer came at her like a speeding gray blur. She heard the wind of it like a Japanese movie. She had enough time to understand what a baseball felt under the swing of a power hitter.
The hammer collided into her brain. Lightening bolts careened through her skull. The hammer tore through her cheekbone and eye. White flashes blinded her. Bone, blood, and teeth exploded through her mouth. A din of sirens wailed between her ears, followed by a numbing, prelude to darkness…
Annie fell to the floor, head spilling gouts of blood. Was she alive? Was that the sound of her demented husband above her?
I love you, Beasley…
Eric swung the hammer into her brain. Her skull caved in under the force of the blows. Loving wife, mother to be, collapsed dead on the floor.
Eric positioned himself above his wife, delivering repeated, vengeful blows to her brain. In lunatic delight, he laughed out loud.
“THAT’LL TEACH YOU, YES SIR! DON’T LOOK SO RESILIENT NOW, DO YOU? A TERRIBLE WAY TO GO, WOULDN’T YOU SAY? LET THAT BE A LESSON TO YOU!”
Through h
is head, however, the sound berated him:
Bam! Bam bam bam bam bam!
Eric stopped. He dropped the hammer, stood up, and looked wildly about the garage, his eyes wide in madness. Hearing the noises, he was more determined now to locate their origin.
“I’ll get you, you little cocksucker!” he said. “I know where you’re hiding!”
He leapt over the still form of his wife, bounding through the garage, up the steps, and into the kitchen. He stopped, looked around him, and breathed like a beast.
Bam bam bam bam!
The sound was coming from upstairs.
He ran through the kitchen and up the stairs. He stopped in front of the room he often visited in his sleep.
Eric grabbed the knob and threw the door open. He leapt inside, expecting a band of marauders, but the room was empty. Cold walls, dust, and empty floors surrounded him. A single window shed a pale glow from the coming dusk.
In the time and space of memory, Eric vaguely remembered this room when he (and his wife?) toured the house, the real estate agent saying, And you’ll have plenty of room for a study, an office, maybe a playroom…
The door slammed shut, locking him in. A section of the flooring—three feet square—flew open, revealing a dark space below.
Ignoring the forces at work, Eric moved to the opening in the floor. A staircase made of stone led into an endless limbo of black. Somebody whispered his name from below:
“Eric, come down and play.”
The stairway was something from a ruinous castle. If he’d created anything, labored with any skill and precision, he would’ve made steps just like these.
Ah! He had it now! These were his steps!
He’d chiseled and carved them himself, a mason in lives past.
That’s where the noises are coming from, he thought. The darkness below.
Eric didn’t hesitate. He jumped onto the first step and began the descent.
*
The three-foot section above slammed shut, sealing him in.
The staircase was gold. It emanated an amber light in the surrounding black. He owned more than the talent of a mason. He was a magician, too.
Worry? What more could there be? The berating noises continued to rocket through his head. How could the noises lead to a worse place, he thought?
Eric Durgess continued his downward flight. He was more determined now to locate the origin of the lunatic sound.
Blackness hemmed him in from all sides. Only the amber hue of the staircase lighted the way.
Endless limbo. Thoughts of my soul.
If he launched himself over the edge, would he sail forever?
Eric didn’t want to find out. He didn’t have sense enough to understand who he was, who he’d been. As he moved downwards, it didn’t take long to realize the steps went on and on without end. Not once through the downwards flight did he come to a room, a door, a window, a single dead end, the most endless, lunatic flight of steps he’d ever seen. The bottom never came.
Eric hurried on. He skipped in delight, taking them one by one, driven by the clamoring sound of bells.
Were the bells in his mind, those crashing cymbals? They seemed outside him now, echoing up from the black.
He was anxious to find the end. He hurried down for almost an hour before realizing the steps’ futility.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted through the dark.
Up ahead, however, a landing came into view.
Not a landing, but another staircase. This one, too, rose through the black, strangely connected to the one he was standing on. The steps came to a halt, flattened out for several feet, then climbed up, as though someone had tried fusing the two together.
Cymbals careened through his brain, prying his skull apart. The sounds never left him. Eric’s eyes watered in pain.
He took the steps leading upwards. His legs were weary and tired from running, but he ventured on, nonetheless. It didn’t take long before he realized this staircase, too, was the same, unending flight leading upwards, deeper into the black without an end.
Cursing, grumbling as he went, the sounds tormented him. Maybe he was part of the marching band.
BAM BAM BAM!
Again, just ahead, another landing…
He had more than one choice now. Two staircases merged outwards from the one he was already standing on. Illuminated in the same amber hue, the steps branched outwards in opposite directions. Eric came to a halt where the stairway forked: the left staircase traveled downwards and into the black; the one on the right ascended above. He could take the one going down, the other leading higher, or he could turn and go back the way he came.
“That would be three choices,” Eric said, wanting to pat himself on the back.
His legs were already tired, so what did it matter?
He took the staircase to his left, leading down. Determination forced him to find that still-driving sound.
In answer, it came again inside and outside his head at the same time:
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Eric Durgess never even watched The Flintstone’s. He didn’t think it was funny.
The sounds grew louder. He was sure of it. How could they possibly grow louder? They were more frequent now, too, merciless volition. They stayed, never leaving him.
It’s just you, the stairs, and the sounds in your head. Did you really expect to find the origin of sound? If it comes from inside, how is it tangible? You’re looking for something that’s not even there!
Eric didn’t listen. He didn’t recognize the voice. He continued his downward flight, jogging now, eager to find the end of this interminable staircase.
He slipped and fell because of his hurried step. His feet sailed out from under him and he lost his balance. His shin collided into stone. Pain jolted his knee, splitting his flesh open. Warm blood coated his leg.
He came to a halt after some amount of tumbling, and ignored the pain. Eric got to his feet, almost slipped over the edge, and continued his jaunt. He would not be deterred, he told himself. He was on a mission!
But he was deterred, and Eric stopped again. His mind failed to grasp what he was looking at…
Another set of steps came into view…
Eric gazed in wonder and awe. Glowing, amber steps encircled him from all sides. Some led high above; others, far below. Some led in straight horizontal lines away from him, like flaxen triangles in the dark.
Preposterous? This was lunacy! He was in a haunted house of steps and staircases. The Hall of Mirrors had nothing on this!
Eric chose a random staircase leading downwards. It was easier on his legs. He laughed at the lunacy, but in a way, he was having a joyous time! He felt like a kid at a carnival!
What had he come down here for anyway? During the journey, he couldn’t remember…
He ignored it. He was resilient and kept moving. Some prankster would jump from the shadows any minute…he’d simply gotten lost.
“Ha ha! Very funny!” Eric shouted into the dark. “You won’t get away! Do you hear me? I’ll get you!”
He hurried on, moving faster with each step, but once again misjudged them, and slipped a second time.
He held his hands out in front of him and collided hard into rough stone. He’d tried turning his body, so he could take the impact on his side, but he wasn’t fast enough.
His wrist snapped, slamming awkwardly into the steps. Eric cried out in pain. The same bleeding knee he’d injured earlier banged again into a corner of stone. He somersaulted down the staircase. His hip shattered. His left elbow snapped in half and he cried into the echoing dark. His screams came back to him like the sounds in his brain. His forehead clonked against the stone, ripping the flesh open above his eyes. Blood gushed across his face and neck. He did not fall over the side and into the dark, however. He tumbled down the steps until he came to a halt. He was on yet—another landing…
Was he alive? Was that possible? Why hadn’t the lights gone out? Or was t
hat just the glow of the steps leading the way?
He was made of rubber, his bones shattered to a million pieces. How come he wasn’t dead?
He opened his eyes. It did not surprise him—when he moved—that he was able to stand, crooked and broken on shattered limbs. It was magic, he thought, a time of fantasy, castles and kings.
It was…predictable.
Another maddening conglomeration of staircases surrounded him more terrible than the last. The dark brimmed with steps of all kinds, meshed together in every lunatic way. Some ascended frighteningly high, disappearing into the black; some descended hellishly below. Some curved like corkscrews up and down throughout the endless limbo; some zigzagged in golden glows, yet all were strangely tied together…They encircled him, hemming him in from all sides. Claustrophobia pressed close. He stood on a platform where every staircase came together. He was at the crux of the steps. He looked at them carefully, steps moving away from him in every mind-bending, maddening direction.
No, this wasn’t lunacy. This was worse. This was madness at its finest!
The beauty, however, was how they glowed. Illuminating the dark was that same flaxen hue. But even the light failed to penetrate the black.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Eric laughed at his ridiculous determination. He picked a staircase leading upward. His broken limbs carried him on. How that was, he didn’t know. He didn’t question the impossibility of how his legs were able to keep him upright, how he was able to…move. He was walking on his ankles, shards of bone splitting through his flesh, leaving trails of blood on the steps. His view (since his neck was broken) was only where he could move his eyes. He could not lift his head and tried hard not to stare at his feet. His spine had twisted during his previous fall, arms dangling crooked and useless at his sides. Because his neck was shattered, he looked at everything in a sideways, upside-down view.
Maybe it’s down there, he thought, the sound, in the blackness all around…
It wasn’t the steps, he realized. They didn’t lead anywhere at all…
Eric stopped running and contemplated something new. Dawning reality lighted his brain. Whatever it was, it would be different, right?
Body of Immorality Page 10
