Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  The Confession of a Confirmed Has Been

  To Whom It May Concern,

  What follows I tell you not out of spite or anger, but merely as a plea for understanding.

  My name is Joseph Randall. I am a veterinarian of farm animals. That is, I had been until my accident. Since that day I have been confined to my home.

  It is a pleasant home, quaint, roomy, but not large, just your average New England-style gambrel. Its greatest value to me is sentiment, since I built it myself, and though that bond remains, my home has turned from a haven into a prison. Freedom is only a hand’s grasp beyond any portal, but it might as well be infinite for I’ll never feel its wonder again.

  It was my doing—or possibly what I neglected to do—that destined me to my own fate, yet I carry on as I have, and as I will, unsure of what will be.

  I mean no harm, I have no malicious intent. I endure time and try to make its passing tolerable. I am over my despair and self-pity—at least, I was.

  I have allowed people to live in my house undisturbed, yet they are trying to remove me from my home!

  I apologize. Let me explain who they are.

  The Hansons took residence in my home six months ago, give or take a few days. It’s difficult to keep track of time when time is all you have.

  They are a handsome family—father, mother, son, and daughter, well rounded and young.

  Approximately half a year ago, Bruce and Karen Hanson decided to move here from New Jersey, after Karen was assaulted and nearly raped.

  Being a respected and proficient realtor, and a recent upturn in northern New England, Bruce was quickly hired by a firm in Concord, New Hampshire. Through them he rented a home for his family … my home.

  The first night the Hansons entered my house as a family, eight-year-old Scotty led the way, shuffling in with eager feet and eyes to match. He held a suitcase in each hand and had two Fantastic Four comic books tucked under his chin. Close behind, Kimberly skittered tough the threshold swinging a Cabbage Patch doll by one leg.

  “What stinks?” she squealed in that high, chirruping voice five-year-old children are blessed with. “It’s yucky!”

  “It’s skunk piss,” answered Scott knowingly.

  “Scott!” Karen reprimanded, yet amused.

  “That’s what dad called it,” he explained with a shrug.

  “Rat-fink! Bruce said. He playfully ruffled Scott’s dusty blond hair then granted a quick pinch to Karen’s backside.

  “How come we don’t have skunk pisses in Newark?” asked Kimberly with wide and innocent eyes—a real heart-melter.

  “Because we didn’t have skunks, dummy,” Scott replied, and then turned to his father, unsure. “Did we?”

  “Of course not,” he answered. “Jersey smells. Skunks don’t like that.”

  “Where’s my bedroom?” Scott asked excitedly.

  “Upstairs,” Bruce said, and pointed through the archway to the stairs. “Kimba gets the green one and you get the pink one.”

  “I don’t want a pink bedroom!” Scott objected.

  “He’s teasing you,” Karen said, apparently exhausted by the long haul.

  Both children left in search of their bedrooms, their footsteps echoing rhythmically off the stairs and through the archway.

  Bruce, taking advantage of the momentary absence of children, wrapped his arms around Karen affectionately. “Well, what do you think?” he asked her.

  “The living room’s pleasant. The front steps are dandy, too.”

  “Sorry, anxious question.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, “I like it a lot so far. It’ll be even better when our furniture gets here. I didn’t expect it to be so cozy.”

  What they also didn’t expect was me, but I was part of the lease; it was a package deal.

  Naturally, I was not mentioned in the lease, it would have appeared a touch peculiar.

  I, local real estate guy, on this day, lease to Bruce Hanson and family one brown gambrel, complete with spirit of the deceased veterinarian, one Joseph Randall.

  You read it correctly—deceased, as in dead. Crushed to death fifty-three years ago while trying to birth a pregnant milch-cow. And it was our beast at that.

  Sure, you laugh, but if it had been you pinned beneath that ponderous mass of bucking bovine, you’d be whistling a different tune!

  Regardless, not a wise gesture for the sake of business. The dead make for poor sales.

  The Hansons were unaware of my presence for a while, and that was how I preferred it, but two things changed that. One occurred sixty-five years ago, and the other, six months ago.

  In the winter of ’45, my Melissa was taken from me. She was seven years old and so beautiful with her round china doll face. Her lively brown hair fell in ringlets past her shoulders, and with eyes like dark chocolate saucers, she was a daddy’s dream-come-true.

  All this was stolen from me in less than a month. Pneumonia. In like a breeze, out like a hurricane, leaving shattered hearts and strewn emotions in its wake.

  When Kimberly Hanson first set foot into my house, time reversed. She was a little angel, all wide eyes and curls, and her resemblance to my Melissa was uncanny. That was the day my Melissa was returned to me. I knew that she was not Melissa. A parent doesn’t mistake his own child, does he?

  I behaved for the first three months. I simply observed the Hansons’ way of life, as I had with the two previous families. In my condition I witness traits and habits often unnoticed by people in a more physical state, like Scott’s insistent nose-picking and compulsion to wipe his findings on my fireplace, or Bruce’s fixation with himself. If he spent any more time flexing in front of a mirror, I fear he’d get himself pregnant.

  I do grant people the privacy of their bedrooms and the facilities, I’m not immoral—though discovering that Karen roams the house in nature’s garb when alone was pleasing. I may be dead, but I’m still a man.

  My condition is also what allows me to view Kimberly with utmost anonymity. In my spectral cloak, I track Kimberly about the house, watching as she involved herself in childhood fantasies, oblivious to all else. I walked with her through the garden, rejoiced with her, celebrating each discovery with open-eyed wonder. I wallowed in that beautiful youthfulness that fades as we become involved in the trivialities of adulthood.

  As adults, we teach our children and prepare them for the storm we define as the future. What we fail to realize is that we can learn, or re-learn, from the children, considering we have all been there and only forget how to see what is meant to be seen. To regard ants with more than simple disgust or see a butterfly as more than a fluttering insect is an art misplaced somewhere between the gumball and the highball. We’ve lost our ability to appreciate what is not affiliated with “nine-to-five” or a dollar sign.

  I’ve adopted this view greedily, since it has been practically the only sway in the monotony of my confinement. Such beauty and honesty I’ve desperately longed for, and therefore I am obligated to Kimberly.

  In the ensuing days after their arrival, I became steadily more aware of Kimberly’s semblance to my late daughter; she became a representation of Melissa. Qualities I found both endearing and painstakingly familiar, even after such a lengthy absence, steadily became apparent. For instance, in moments of extreme boredom and in hope of finding a playmate she would choose a candidate (mother, father, brother, etc.). She would place herself in a neutral yet strategic position in the room that the chosen occupied, and then she would start the Boredom Breathing Method. This involved punctuating every exhalation with either a heavy sigh, huh, or a frustrated click of the tongue, tch. Eventually this sound, not unlike the aural workings of a diaphragm pump, tch-huh-tch-huh-tch-huh … would break through whatever preoccupied the prospective playmate and start scratching away at the walls of sanity. When the intended finally asked what ever could be so distressing as to warrant a need to incessantly tch-huh someone to near-lunacy, her answer would naturally be an unfailing
nothing.

  By the end of the third month I had developed a strong maternal fondness for the child and discovered an intense desire to communicate with her. I have neither spoken with nor visually revealed my presence to any of the previous residents who have inhabited my house, yet I openly admit that when the solitary dullness became too heavy, I had toyed with the former occupants. Leaving little harmless but vulpine hints, I convinced the Faber’s beyond all doubt that the house was haunted. This led to the inevitable departure of the family, though mind you, they left without any physical harm or unjust anguish. They simply did not respect my home.

  I believe if you were to perceive the facts with a compassionate eye, you would understand my motives for confronting Kimberly. I had decided that the most favorable way to allure the child’s interest without scaring her senseless was to think as a child. With that in mind, I entered round one of the fight for Kimberly’s trust, which was to become her friend.

  Early one morning, I believe it was during the Hanson’s fourth month in my house. I allowed myself into Kimberly’s bedroom and shut the door behind me. I knelt near the bed, drawn in by her delicate beauty. She lay on her stomach facing away from the door, her eyes softly shut in the contented sleep of innocence. She had cast her pillow to the floor, favoring the uniformity of the mattress. A nut-brown teddy bear, suitably named Cuddles, was securely wedged under her left arm. That is what inspired my first venture.

  I slid my hands gently under the plush toy, one cupping the bear’s head, the other holding its little arm that I softly tapped against Kimberly’s arm.

  With the proper hand movements and my ghostly advantage, I was able to give Cuddles a life of his own, at least in Kimberly’s eyes.

  “Kimberly!” I called in the most elf-like voice I could muster. Cuddles tapped her arm again. “Kimberly!”

  There was a feathery flutter of her eyelids and a barely audible, “Huh?”

  “Here,” Cuddles said.

  “What?” she gasped, springing upright.

  I maneuvered the little arms to push the bear up until it stood on the bed, facing Kimberly. It was a rather clumsy execution of puppetry, yet magical to the child.

  “Whew!” Cuddles exclaimed, stroking its furry paw across its brow. “I’m very sorry about waking you up,” the toy continued, “but I had no other choice.”

  Kimberly gawked in astonishment. “What?” she repeated.

  “Well, it’s really rather embarrassing,” said the bear, bowing its head timidly, “but when you were sleeping, you rolled over and, well, I couldn’t breathe because my nose got stuck in your armpit.”

  Kimberly glanced at her arm then quickly returned her gaze to the toy. “Wow!” she breathed more than spoke. “Who are you?”

  “You know me, I’m Cuddles!” The bear said with a sprightly hop, then comically fell flat on its face. This was not my intention, but the age-weakened creature had slipped from my hands.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, concern weighing heavily in her voice.

  “Yeah,” said Cuddles. The toy struggled convincingly to its feet, and then quickly shook its right leg. “My foot is asleep, but I’ll be okay once the prickles go away. Hey, that was a rhyme!” It hopped excitedly across the mattress and careened into the headboard. It fell on its back in stressed animation and asked. “You know what, Kimberly?”

  “What?” she returned, giggling merrily at the bear’s antics.

  “They should make wood out of cotton.”

  Then her father came in the bedroom.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, irritation clear in his voice. “Do you realize it’s barely five-thirty? Some people would really like to sleep, since this is the only day some people can sleep late?”

  “Daddy,” Kimberly blurted, sparkling. “Cuddles can move! He’s alive!”

  Bruce looked impassively at the inanimate toy, which I had abandoned at the first rattle of the doorknob. He raised one eyebrow sarcastically. “I see,” he said. “Go to sleep, Kimba.” Then he turned and left the room.

  Kimberly lifted the bear as a mother would lift her toddler and regarded its button eyes. “Cuddles?” she asked hopefully. “Are you okay?”

  “Go to sleep!” her father’s voice rang from down the hall.

  She hugged the bear firmly to herself and whispered, “It’s okay. You’ll come back.” It was a tender moment that will stick with me for a lifetime, or an after-lifetime. I felt cruel and promised myself, in time, to bring Cuddles back to Kimberly.

  As I mentioned, I promised myself. Not Kimberly, but me. Though Kimberly’s belief in the bear provoked the promise, it was self-serving.

  My next selfish act happened early Wednesday morning, four days later. The Hansons were all in bed for the night when a lightning storm, common with hot summer nights in New England, struck with the ferocity of a freight train. Brilliant flashes of light radiated through the windows, followed immediately by ear-splitting blasts that rattled the glass in their frames. The rain fell in recurrent, hammering surges, submerging the windows in watery sheets.

  I made my way upstairs and paused before the two bedroom doors, Kimberly’s on the left and Scott’s on the right. I was about to return downstairs when I heard a faint whimper from beyond Kimberly’s door. The poor child was terrified, and obviously too intimidated by the incessant lightning to seek comfort from the others.

  Sensing a golden opportunity, I silently entered the room and positioned myself near the bed. A small night light glowed from the top of her dresser.

  Kimberly lay in a fetal ball on her side, facing away from the windows. She clung desperately to Cuddles, whose head was firmly wedged beneath her chin. Lightning struck nearby, bathing the room in light. A single tear had settled on the bridge of her nose, but it was not the first. Her cheeks held evidence of tears either pushed aside by her hand or absorbed by the teddy bear.

  “Are you afraid?” I asked in my Cuddles voice.

  Kimberly opened her eyes, the teardrop falling onto the bear. “Cuddles?” she squeaked hopefully.

  “That’s me! The one an …” Cuddles started, but the words were drowned out by a horrendous CRACK and a dazzling flash. Kimberly pressed her face hard against the pillow, and then timidly looked up to Cuddles, who was now standing.

  Cuddles cocked his head inquisitively to the side as if seeking comprehension of Kimberly’s trembling, then suddenly blurted out “BOOM!” He then shuffled across the bed, giggling gaily.

  “Aren’t you ’fraid?” she asked.

  “Nah, I think storms are neat. They make me hyper.”

  “Huh? You do?”

  “They excite me.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. They just do. They’re so … big!” Another resounding blast split the night, a proud exclamation to denote the truth in Cuddles’s words. The bear jumped up happily and somersaulted off the edge of the bed. This was a miscalculation on my part.

  Kimberly scooted to the edge of the bed as Cuddles jumped back up. Their heads met, which started Kimberly into a fit of giggles.

  “You’ve got a hard head!” Cuddles said, rubbing his brow.

  “Well, you have hard eyes!” she responded.

  Both of them became silent at the soft sound of footsteps coming up the hall.

  “Make be-tend you’re asleep!” Kimberly whispered urgently, and dropped to her pillow like a discarded rag doll. Cuddles fell prone on his back. The knob turned with a light click and the door opened, spreading a fan of light across the room. Karen peeked around the edge of the door. She smiled at the sight of her daughter sprawled peacefully across the bed, and then closed the door.

  A blistering white light saturated the room, accompanied by an ear-rending impact. This in turn was followed by a strange, sonorous twang. The house felt as if it was lifted off its foundation.

  “Jesus Christ!” Karen squealed from outside the room.

  “Yes, I think it was,” Bruce answered from the master bedroom, �
��And he just blessed a telephone pole. Power’s out.”

  “MAAA!” Scott cried in fear.

  “It’s all right honey, it only hit the phone pole,” she tried to reassure him, her own voice trembling.

  “C’mere, please!”

  “Damn,” Karen mumbled.

  Kimberly curled herself back into a ball, emitting tiny mewing sounds.

  “It’s all right, Kimberly,” Cuddles said, patting her shoulder tenderly.

  “It’s dark!”

  “Yeah, but it’s no different than when the night light was on,” the bear explained. “There’s still only you, your mom and dad, Scott, Papa Joe, and me here.” I couldn’t resist the subtle introduction.

  “Who is Papa Joe?” she asked timidly. She had caught it.

  “A very friendly man,” Cuddles told her, then sat down. “He’s the one who taught me not to be afraid of storms.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “He’s probably asleep right now.” I figured it best not to risk the truth for fear of frightening her further.

  “I wish I was asleep so I wouldn’t have to hear the storm.”

  “Papa Joe told me that if you’re scared you should hold on to someone you care about and your fears go away.”

  “I don’t have nobody to hold.”

  “What about me?” Cuddles asked. “I was made to be hugged.”

  “Okay.” Kimberly pulled the toy to herself and was asleep within minutes. I made my way downstairs, glowing with pride and contentment. Before long Kimberly would meet “Papa Joe.”

  Kimberly met “Papa Joe” two days later. Karen had dialed her mother’s number, and that promised that Karen would be stationed in the living room for at least half an hour, ample time for a proper introduction.

  I made my way to the garden, a thirty-by-fifteen-foot patch of tangled, weed-choked vegetation that was nestled between the house and garage. Bruce had insisted on planting the abomination, claiming that it would save money and be a practical way to use their spare time. Time, Bruce was quick to find out, was a rare luxury with his new job, and when it came to horticulture, Karen seemingly desired it as much as acne.