The Time Eater

by Aaron J. French

  Closer.

  “I needed to take some time to get to know myself. He said I was a monster and I didn’t realize it. I was totally out of touch with my emotions and was hurting people. She cheats on me and leaves me for some punk kid and I’m the monster. Of course her and that kid didn’t last too long. She slept around after that; eventually she got married again to some rich doctor with two kids—”

  Celeste suddenly sprang out of the dark, flying through the air like a tiger, claws raised, teeth gnashing. She landed with a crash, smashing into James and knocking him off the mattress. It was so dark that I could hardly tell what was happening; they seemed to be careening about in the black gulf opposite the bed.

  I tried to leap up from my chair to help, but something invisible restrained me.

  “What the hell?” I cried.

  The shadows in the room were now so intense they appeared tangible. Stars in the distance flared; planets and satellites rolled vigorously. A front of nebulous space dust moved in, providing distorted visibility.

  Then, suction.

  It’s here in the room with us, I thought.

  A strong wind pulled me; my clothes, my hair, my skin—yanked so violently I thought I would be flayed alive. The bedclothes stripped off, leaving only the mattress. Stars and planets began gliding toward the left.

  I became aware of a barely audible hum, a low-frequency vibration rattling in my ears. I could sense the thing in my periphery. The Time Eater. Sense it more than see it. Vast black spot darker than the surrounding darkness, within which there was nothing, void. The outer edges of it flickered. From my perspective, it resembled a colossal amoeba floating in space.

  I searched for James and Celeste as I struggled to free myself, but there was no sign of them. The suction created a hollowness in my stomach that felt like my insides were being torn out. I gritted my teeth, writhing in a war against some unseen entity, crushed under the weight of that thunderous hum. I could not think or draw breath.

  I’m going die in this chair. It’s going to swallow me, absorb me, digest my soul, grind up my body with the past and spit bones back. God help me…

  James reemerged, clambering onto the mattress, clutching it to resist the wind. His face was a grimace of pain, and a trickle of blood stained his chin. The suction ripped at his clothes, pulling his hair.

  “NO,” he was shouting, “NO! NO! NO!” and then he slipped into an unintelligible scream.

  Withered arms groped up from the black behind the bed. Curled into claws, they wrapped around James’s shoulder and neck, hoisting Celeste onto the mattress like a snake out of its hole. She appeared unaffected by the tremendous suction, her lizard-like body lead, an iron weight that scrambled on top of James and held him there, pinning his limbs.

  The Time Eater pulled, but none of us budged. We were all fastened in place by magic beyond our knowing. The stars, satellites, and planets, not so fortunate, were slowly drawn out of space and sucked into that vast wriggling amoeba full of darkness, which seemed to linger at the edge of my periphery, just out of sight.

  I’m seeing behind reality, I thought. I’m seeing behind everything, behind the illusion of time.

  And then a follow-up thought: And there, the beast dwelleth…

  But was it truly a beast? Could I be sure? What if it was God, the being responsible for creating the universe, sending down its substance in the guise of Moses, Jesus, Shakyamuni, and Mohammed? What if such a being was nothing more than a trundling, churning mass, sweeping over everything, endlessly destroying and recreating?

  The thought sent shivers down my spine.

  To my surprise, James’s screams morphed into the rudiments of words, phrases, syllables. Most astonishing was when he called, “I want to live! I do—I want to live!” over and over. I almost broke into tears for him.

  “Hell yeah!” I shouted, struggling again to get free of the chair. “That’s the James I remember!”

  My voice seemed to encourage him because he glanced about, pain becoming recognition in his face. When he saw me he grinned. “You wanted the old James? You got him!” he said, and quite brutally and suddenly whipped an elbow around his head, striking Celeste in the eye.

  “Holy shit!” I screamed.

  The shrieking, writhing female form who should not be tumbled off James onto her back, clutching her face. Blood seeped through her fingers. The wind pulled at James’s clothes as he straddled her, a look of rage in his eyes as he landed blow after blow on her soft undead flesh.

  Gradually she was mashed into a bloody pulp, a fizzling red puddle that turned to black and shrank down, liquefying, until Celeste ceased to be. The wind abruptly stopped. James was left kneeling in the muck, his pajama bottoms bloodstained, as the shadows lessened, allowing the soft glow of overhead light to return to the room.

  My restraints evaporated and I leaped to my feet. As I stood beside the bed, looking at James, I became aware of the Time Eater slithering back behind the veil of reality, back where it belonged. With its presence gone everything felt heavy with substance. I drew a syrupy breath.

  James held out his hands doused in foulness and blood. His face was red, his mouth a scowl, his eyes full of intensity. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But I remembered his triumphant I want to live! And that, it seemed, was the most important thing. That was going to change everything.

  “You okay?” I said.

  He’d gone still, his body rigid as a cemetery statue, while beneath him the puddle that was Celeste dissolved. All trace of her had vanished from his arms, his hands, his pajama bottoms. Soon she was gone completely, wiped away, only a figment of our imaginations.

  “Oh God…” James wailed, collapsing on the bed into a blubbering mess. “I killed her, I killed her! She’s gone…”

  I sat down, stroking his back. His body was hot to the touch and as rough as sandalwood. He went fetal like a baby, bawling, hands over his face.

  “I killed her… God… I killed Mommy!”

  My ears pricked up at the word: Mommy. Had he just said I killed Mommy?

  “Hey man, it’s all right. You didn’t do anything.”

  He didn’t hear me, just kept shivering, sobbing, curling into a tighter position. He’s trying to shrink himself, I thought. He wants to disappear.

  “Come on. Let’s get you covered up.” I searched around the bed until I located one of the blankets and a pillow. I draped him with the former, positioning the latter under his head. He still refused to look at me.

  I continued stroking his back, hoping to calm him. Overhead, the light swelled to life and the bedroom became brightly visible. The planets and stars winked out—except for those hovering outside the window, clear in the night sky.

  The Time Eater is gone, I thought, with no small amount of relief. At least for now…

  James wouldn’t talk to me no matter what I did, and eventually he fell asleep. His snores reverberated in the room. The boxes and piled old clothes loomed around us like penitent monks, offering their prayers to the sick, the lame, my friend James from college who’d somehow been turned into… this.

  I killed her, I killed mommy. His last words buzzed through my head. I sighed with heaviness, feeling the weight of the situation pressing on me. I was certain I’d acquired another few pieces of the puzzle, but my brain was not functional enough to connect them. I needed sleep.

  After making sure he was tucked in, I got up and headed for the door. He muttered something and I wheeled, his voice startling me.

  “What’s that, James?”

  He shifted on the mattress. “Moh… mor… morphine.”

  The word stung the air. I recalled the image of him on the bed, arms outspread and riddled with dangling syringes. It gave me a dreadful fright.

  I crossed to the door, switched off the light, and let myself out into the hall. For a second, I felt like I was falling down a long, bottomless shaft.

  Chapter Twelve

  My head ached from the alcohol
I had consumed the night before. Annabelle’s soft body lay next to me. I touched her, testing its realness. She stirred.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  I glanced at the alarm clock. “Almost eleven.”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Norma will be here.”

  I had forgotten about the pretty nurse with the crystal blue eyes. My intuition told me she knew more than any regular nurse should know about James’s condition. I would have to investigate.

  “What’s the problem with Norma?” I asked.

  Annabelle propped herself on one elbow. “Are you kidding? She’s a potential murder victim. Whatever is inside James is looking to kill her just as it killed those other girls, Celeste and…”

  “—Jenny, my ex-wife, thank you. I’m not sure James actually killed them. I mean, I’m pretty sure he ended their existence. But murder? No, I don’t think he did that.”

  Disbelief entered her eyes. “How do you explain yesterday? He must have snuck out, kidnapped them, killed them, and now he’s reanimating them, using that voodoo crap you were telling me about.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Annabelle.”

  She glared at me. For the first time I thought I saw hatred there. The hatred that two people experience toward each other after long periods of exposure: marriage hatred, roommate hatred, or parental hatred. Luckily, it didn’t linger long.

  She sighed, shrugged, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Of course,” she said. “What do I know about any of this? You two are the occultists.”

  I noticed the flash of resentment aimed unconsciously at me for not letting her explain away these events with murder. Resentment that remained, festering, darkening.

  We’ll have to deal with that eventually, I thought.

  I tried ignoring all of the psychological inferences my brain was making about the situation. I focused on the moment, the now, letting my eyes wander over the wonderland of Annabelle’s body. She had on a white tank top so thin I could see the swell of her nipples. Her milky smooth neck, her chin, red mouth, angular nose, and gorgeous eyes. The endless ebony spilling down her shoulders in waves. She caught me looking.

  Chuckling, she said, “Did you remember something important?”

  “Yeah. I’m in bed with a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh? Why not do something about it?”

  I grinned, “Maybe I will,” and leaned in for a kiss.

  She met me halfway, our tongues careening like two ships in a storm. I felt the warmth of the sun inching across the bed. We had been kissing for five minutes when the door slammed downstairs.

  Annabelle stopped. “Shit, Norma.” She jumped out of the bed, starting to get dressed. I followed her.

  She finished before me and headed out into the hall. For some reason I lingered, looking around Annabelle’s distinctly feminine room. Slipping my shirt on, I walked over to the dresser with the large mirror surmounting it. On the wood surface was an array of makeup products and jewelry. I imagined Annabelle sitting there, combing her long black hair in the mirror, thinking to herself, humming. The loneliness of the image made me sad.

  I heard voices downstairs and hurried to finish getting dressed. I happened to glance at a photograph pinned to the wall by the door. It was like something old and forgotten, pinned there since who knows when, unframed, corners curling in.

  It showed a younger, less somber version of Annabelle wearing hospital scrubs and a red headband. Her hair, black as ever, was only shoulder length. Her skin had more color and she wore an expression of excitement and hope, almost naiveté.

  That’s gotta be from seven or eight years ago, I thought. And that’s gotta be her ex-husband, the doctor. Jon.

  Standing beside her in the photograph was a lean, attractive man who reminded me of an actor in a soap opera. He had a chiseled face, short brown hair, with eyes that oozed confidence, arrogance, and narcissism. I laughed when I realized he resembled a young James.

  There’s the guy I never got to be. The popular guy in high school, the head of a fraternity in college. Gets all the women in the world, then shrugs them off like he deserved them anyway.

  The photograph stirred up my bitter feelings. Seeing Annabelle’s ex-husband sent me into a fit of jealousy, as I remembered the stories she had told me about him. I wished him dead. I wished some psychotic lover went berserk after discovering he was cheating on her and cut his balls off.

  I headed downstairs.

  Norma and Annabelle were in the kitchen, sitting at the table having coffee. The nurse in her blue scrubs shot me back into the photograph upstairs. When I looked at Annabelle I saw her whole life flash before my eyes on fast-forward.

  I could tell she hadn’t told Norma anything. Her jaw was clenched, her body rigid. She seemed on the verge of exploding.

  “Look, it’s Mr. Borough,” Norma said. I was surprised she remembered my last name.

  “Good morning,” I replied.

  She pulled out the chair beside her. “Sit over here by me. Annabelle was just about to tell me something important, she says.”

  I sat down. Annabelle caught my attention with her eyes and held it. She looked terrified.

  I nodded slightly, enough so she could see but not enough to tip off Norma, signaling that I would do it if she wanted me to. I had no problem serving as a beans-spiller. At this point in the game, I didn’t have much to lose.

  “You two are acting funny,” Norma said, eyeing us in a semi-cross manner. Then, to Annabelle, hooking a finger toward me: “You found out he’s married, didn’t you?”

  Annabelle erupted with laughter. As she did all signs of tension drained from her face. It was as if a cleansing wave passed over her. “I wish it was something that simple,” she said. “At least then I’d have an idea what to do.”

  Norma scrunched her eyebrows. Even wearing an expression of confusion, I noticed how clear and discerning her blue eyes were. She was younger, yes, and attractive, yes, but there was an aura of age surrounding her too. No, not age: experience. No not even that: wisdom. But it was a sinister kind of wisdom. Yes, I could see that now, although at first it had been hidden. She knows more than she’s letting on.

  “Is it something about James?” she asked, and suddenly her face tightened. “Oh God, he passed already?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I said, grabbing the reins. “He’s hanging in there, but he’s getting worse.”

  She nodded. “’Course he is. He’s dying, isn’t he? Doc Sanderson says he’ll be lucky to finish the week.”

  I cringed at this, disliking the fatalism of her statement. I glanced at Annabelle, wondering how to proceed, but she gave me a blank expression. I decided to go for it.

  “We’ve discovered something about James’s condition.”

  Eyebrows lifted. “You have, have you? I didn’t realize you were a doctor, Mr. Borough.”

  “I’m not. Annabelle was a nurse, though. But this is different. It has nothing to do with doctors or medicine. And Norma, I’m going to have to ask you to keep an open mind about this. Can you do that?”

  “Depends. I’m under the employment of the hospital. I have to report everything back to them. I have the patient’s best interest in mind, so if you tell me something I think compromises his interests, well…”

  I’d expected she’d say this. And I had a counter ready. “Do you attend church, Norma?”

  “Every Sunday.”

  “So you believe in God?”

  “’Course I do. I just said I attend church every Sunday.”

  “That’s good because what I’m about to tell you falls under the heading of spirituality. In my opinion, James’s spirit is sick. That’s why he’s dying, not because of some inoperable brain tumor. His soul is under attack by a demon. This demon has possessed him.”

  She looked from me to Annabelle, then back to me. I noticed how tense she suddenly got. Her spine straightened, jaws narrowed. Her stare became a fixed
beam emanating from her face.

  “How do you feel about what I just said?” I asked.

  “Well, I believe in the devil, Mr. Borough. And, sure, Pastor Serius sometimes makes his references about demons and folks being possessed. But to be honest, I’ve never experienced it firsthand. I’ve just seen some of those ridiculous horror movies about demons and frankly, I think they’re rubbish.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I’m a certified nurse, Mr. Borough. I have been at this profession going on nine years. That is to say, I’ve seen a lot. But none of it has anything to do with demons. Folks get sick. Folks see a doctor and get treated. Sometimes they get better; a lot of times they don’t. But really, I can’t believe demons got anything to do with it.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Annabelle said, sounding desperate. “Yesterday, while I was working. James’s voice called me into his room. I went to check on him and found… Christ, I don’t know what I found. Something is terribly wrong with him. He looked deranged, evil.”

  “Folks can get like that when they’re dying.”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No, this was different. I’ve never seen anything like it. There was something in the room with him, something dark and terrible. It covered everything in its shadow.”

  I watched Norma’s face rumple, saw skepticism enter her eyes—that and annoyance and hate. She wasn’t believing a word Annabelle said.

  “Just what are you tellin’ me?” she asked.

  “That James wasn’t alone. Things were in there with him. Two of them came out of the dark, tied me to the chair, gagged me.”

  “Say what?”

  “One of them was his ex-wife, Celeste, the girl who’s gone missing. I think James may have killed her while he was possessed by the demon.”

  Norma slammed her hand down on the table, hard, making us both jump. “That’s enough,” she said. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”

  “Nobody thinks you’re a fool,” I said.

  But she held her hand up at me. “I am a God-fearing Christian, but I am also a nurse, and I have a job to do. People get sick because of bacteria, viruses, and bad genes, not because of demons. If you wanted to play a practical joke, then congratulations because you’ve succeeded.”