The Binding

by Nicholas Wolff

  * * *

  His legs shaking, Nat walked quickly to the stairs and ascended the three steps to the landing. He headed up the rest of the way. The polished edges of the stairs gleamed far below his eyes, like lines of surf on a darkened beach as seen from a high cliff. That was all he could see. He reached for the railing.

  He touched it and began to climb. He felt like he was pushing his face into black cloth. Will it be a knife? Or will I step into a noose, the loose strands rough against my skin? His neck tingled all over.

  He reached the top of the stairs, the knife heavy in his coat.

  Run, he thought. It’s not too late. Save yourself from this death.

  Don’t look don’t look do not look.

  But it was as if Nat were being forced around by an irresistible gravity and against his will, his head swiveling left slowly as he came to the top of the stairs and stepped onto the upstairs hallway. Half blind in the deep gloom. He felt a column of fetid breath—human breath—brushing against his face and gagged.

  Submit.

  A black face loomed up in his mind. Black eyes circling toward a tiny orange flame.

  “I . . .”

  He struggled to speak.

  “I am called,” he said finally.

  He felt his body unclench, and he was able to turn away. The stairs beckoned, but he couldn’t force his body to move. Bodies slithered away into the darkness behind him.

  Where is Becca? he thought.

  Nat’s shoes whispered dully on the polished wood. He moved down the hallway and the feeling of black space extended in front of him like a deep pool. The light by Becca’s door was off. The smell of putrefaction was getting stronger, clogging his throat. He felt as if he were lowering himself into a crypt filled with rotting bodies.

  He took a breath, and the fumes nearly overwhelmed him. Nat gagged and reached out for the wall. At the last second he thought he would touch a face, and he let out a hoarse yell, but it was the wallpaper, and he leaned against it.

  Becca, I’m coming, he thought.

  A laugh seemed to rumble up and travel the hallways from deep in the house, displacing the air around him. It moved with a rush past him. A door had been opened and then closed.

  “Who is it?” he said, a waver of fear in his voice. His words seemed to echo and return to him.

  Who is it Whoisit Who is . . .

  Nat stumbled forward, at the same time reaching inside his jacket and turning the knife so that the long blade faced down toward his stomach, ready to be pulled out. He could feel the edge press through his thin wool shirt.

  The air seemed to tremble in front of him, and Nat sank to his knees. A huge rumbling noise filled his world, and he opened his mouth to stop his eardrums from splitting. The air seemed to be sucked out of the hallway, and Nat gasped for breath while pressing his hands to his ears.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Stop!”

  The noise was cut off suddenly.

  Are you ready to die and live again?

  The air brought with it a sharp, metallic smell. He heard someone moaning softly in front of him. One voice, then two, and another. Everyone that Bule commanded was in the house now, he guessed. The dead—Elizabeth Dyer, Chuck Godwin, God knew who else. And the living. Becca. A final gathering of his nzombes.

  Nat gritted his teeth. The smell seemed to be seeping into him, penetrating his pores.

  “Let Becca go,” he said aloud.

  He felt something move behind him, and the smell of rotting flesh swam over him. They were closing in. He coughed.

  “Take me instead.”

  He felt along the wall. His hand touched the mounted head of the boar, and he barely paused, staggering on, his eyes open wide and his mouth gasping for air.

  He came to the door, felt the gashes in the wood. A faint smell of pine. He could feel the things gather behind him, the moaning twisting and braiding together until he felt he would go deaf. Nat twisted the knob and pushed in. The door opened, and he rushed into Becca’s room, rattling the door shut behind him.

  He locked the two locks.

  When he was done, he glanced at the bed. Becca was laid out on the duvet cover. She appeared to be asleep. There were candles burning, one on her desk, the other on the windowsill. Aromatic. He smelled pomegranate. And was that cinnamon?

  He walked over to her. The handle of the knife was cool in his hand. He reached out with the left to touch her bare leg.

  “Becca,” he called out softly.

  She slept on. Moonlight shone in through the window, throwing long shadows toward him. Her head was in darkness, but he recognized the bones of her face.

  “Becca, wake up.”

  Leave her be.

  Nat felt the strength begin to leave him, sliding out of his body like water from a cracked glass.

  “Becca!” he cried.

  His left hand curled over the knife handle.

  Leave . . .

  She came awake, the eyes fluttering and her lips repeating a word that Nat didn’t catch.

  Watch the eyes, he told himself.

  “Nat?” she said, and it was her voice. Becca’s true clear voice.

  “Look into my eyes, Becca. Can you do that?”

  “My arms,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Look into my eyes,” he said, as gently as he could.

  . . . her BE!

  He looked into her eyes, and into the blackness at the ­center.

  Something moved back there, like an eel in a dark pool. Just a glimpse of black against black.

  He gripped the knife under the coat.

  They were at the door, which creaked inward.

  “Take . . . me!”

  Becca’s eyes went wide with shock. Her mouth was open and she breathed shallowly. Then suddenly, the corners of her lips curled into a malevolent grin.

  The flesh of her face sagged; the cheek muscles sharpened. Even her breathing had changed. Bule, Nat thought. At last.

  Becca’s lips stayed frozen in the leer. Do you know . . . what happened to the last man who taunted me?

  He must mean Markham, all those decades ago. “I know.”

  And you invite me to . . . ? There was a garbled word, a foreign word.

  Nat felt Becca’s arms push him off. Incredible power. He staggered back against the tall bookcase, which rattled back and forth on its wooden feet.

  Jesus, the power in her body. Bule had killed Margaret Post, he was sure of it. And the St. Christopher’s medal at the death scene was proof that he’d used Becca’s body to do it. Clearly she had the strength. The thought of his Becca slitting the girl’s throat . . .

  But it wasn’t her. Mustn’t think that way.

  Becca sat on the bed, her head down, her shoulders crooked, impaled somehow, though there was nothing behind her.

  I like my beautiful vessel.

  Nat shivered and put his hands in his coat pockets. All he could do was threaten death. Then Bule would be forced away from Becca into one of the other nzombes.

  “You can’t have her.”

  A smile on the mouth beneath the glossy locks of hair.

  I will have her, always.

  A dark look entered Nat’s eyes. He brought the knife out of his coat and tipped the point toward Becca.

  Her eyes went wide and she began to fall back. Nat came up on the bed on his knees and put his left hand over Becca’s face, covering it. He pushed her head down into the soft mattress. He placed the point of the knife to the beating flesh of her throat.

  “You’ve had your revenge. It’s over now.”

  You’d never.

  Nat grimaced, jabbing the knife lightly into her skin. A spot of blood appeared crimson at the base of Becca’s throat. He turned away from the sight of the blood.

  “LE
AVE!” he shouted.

  I know your mind.

  “I will kill her, Bule.”

  Suddenly Becca went limp. He felt her eyelids flutter. He eased the hand back over her mouth.

  Have I killed her?

  “Nat?” her voice was soft, confused.

  “Don’t do this,” he said to the voice in his head, his voice weakening. He pulled the knife from her throat and laid it on the bed under his outspread hand.

  “Nat, what’s happening?”

  He shook his head, unable to speak.

  “Na—”

  Did she even remember the murder of Margaret Post? The struggle of her body, the gouts of blood?

  But what did it matter? Who cared if she did it herself or used one of the nzombes in the hallway? It didn’t really matter.

  She raised up on one elbow, touching her hand to her throat. It came away with a blotch of blood on the pad of her index finger. She looked at it, and then at him.

  The noise at the door spiked, moaning and shouting. The stench was growing unbearable again, the air swimming with currents of putrid fumes.

  “Who are they?” she said.

  “It’s the others.”

  She saw the knife on the bed, under his hand. Her gaze came back to him. She closed her eyes, and a tremor—disgust? fear?—rippled along the muscles of her neck. She understood now. When she opened her eyes, there was terror in them.

  “He’s inside me, Nat?”

  It was the trust in her voice that appalled him the most. She hadn’t even tried to escape when she’d seen the weapon. He felt himself grow light-headed.

  “Is he?”

  I don’t know. The only way to be sure is to kill you. And that I can’t do.

  The reeking fumes were choking him. His vision began to spin.

  He tried to call her name, but his voice was a groan in his ears. He saw her get up and move toward the candle on the desk. It was guttering in its holder.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The sounds picked up, more voices and more urgent. The snapping of branches quickened, and John sensed the blurred, ragged line of men to his right surging ahead. What do they see? John ducked his head and peered ahead, upslope. All he could see was the bluish glow of snow and trees, ranks of bare trees.

  He started to run. His heart felt like it was being stretched out, and a stabbing pain was making itself felt underneath his collarbone. God, please don’t let me have a heart attack now, he thought.

  Baying. Movement. Flashlights bobbing. They had to be getting close.

  If Charlie was dead . . .

  He felt the wind drop away and shift direction. It was coming downslope now, and he immediately picked up a scent. It smelled like meat charring on a grill.

  The pitch of the bloodhounds’ baying went one note higher.

  He saw the flames through the trees, a lick of orange and then another. He turned toward them, fifteen degrees right, and began to run, spraying snow up to his face as his boots clomped through the icy crystals.

  “Charlie!” he shouted. “Charliieeeeeeee!”

  The flashlights darting in the black. The fire was growing. And the smell—oh, no, it couldn’t be. He’d never smelled anything like that before.

  The trees were parting, giving way. He was coming up on a clearing. Shouts from behind him.

  The bonfire was roaring, the flames thirty feet high. John’s eyes strained to make out the black things in it. There were logs and then on top of them . . .

  Oh God. Oh, please no.

  He saw a dark figure outlined against the hot orange flames, staggering toward the bonfire. John froze and reached for his gun, crying for the man to stop. But as he jerked the Glock up, the man went toward the blaze without stopping and leapt into it, his hoarse cry being sucked into the roar of the flames.

  Another black figure emerged and followed him. A shower of red sparks blossomed up toward the dark sky as the body dropped into the bonfire. There was a loud popping sound and John thought, Was that a skull or a branch?

  He ran forward the last few yards to the clearing.

  * * *

  Nat woke up, feeling heat on his face. Pain shot along the length of his neck at the spine. He breathed out once, then again. The air was clean and cold, but it choked him. His throat felt as though it had been crushed.

  Nat lifted his head up. Oh, you’ve gone and broken your neck, he thought. He reached up, his eyes closing in pain. On his face, heat, flames. He sank back down, but in the little glimpse around him he’d recognized where he was.

  The Prescott backyard. He was splayed out in the snow just under Becca’s window.

  He felt the heat again and forced his eyes open. He saw Becca’s window open and black smoke pouring out. The smoke would billow and then part, and he saw flames then, white-­orange, and he heard them beginning to roar like a wave far off but coming toward you.

  He tried to raise his head, and pain screamed up from the base of his skull. Did I fall?

  “Becca,” he called weakly. He tried to turn his head, but bright stars appeared behind his eyes. He knew she wasn’t with him. He could feel her absence, and a dawning horror overcame him.

  He saw a hand on the window frame, the fingers pale against the dark green paint, the Dartmouth trim. Becca was standing just to the side, as if the fire and smoke weren’t there. Her eyes were on him.

  Behind the roar of the flames, he heard screams. Jimmy ­Stearns and the other nzombes—whoever was in there—burning, surely.

  Becca caught his gaze. Oh, no, don’t look at me like that, he thought. No accusation in her eyes, only love.

  In the place where her right hand would be, he saw a glint of silver. His knife, rising through the billows of smoke toward her neck. Nat’s eyes went wide, and five words echoed in his head from far away.

  And . . . off . . . came . . . her . . . head.

  The knife was turning in the smoke as she brought it up fast.

  He cried out her name, but the blackness washed over her.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Six-month case review.

  Patient: Nathaniel Thayer, 34, Caucasian male. Admission number 01876.

  Supervising psychiatrist: Dr. Jennifer Greene.

  Dr. Thayer is a former clinical psychiatrist at this facility who was brought in on 1/31 exhibiting symptoms of catatonia. During his initial admission, the patient was fully awake but unresponsive to external stimuli, including pain stimuli. He exhibited signs of waxy flexibility, and appeared to be mumbling a phrase repetitively, though he would not answer the team’s questions. There were no signs of echolalia or echopraxia. His admission followed a traumatic incident with Thayer’s patient, Ms. Rebecca Prescott, since deceased in Massachusetts Memorial Hospital. This six-month report summarizes the patient’s course of treatment, response to care, and the extenuating circumstances that have attended this unusual case.

  As the colleague of the patient who perhaps knew him best, I was asked to supervise his treatment strategy. I was at the facility the night Dr. Thayer was brought in, and have been leading the team for the past six months. Despite our friendship in the past, the patient exhibited no recognition of me or his former colleagues on that night or in the subsequent period.

  The relevant backstory to the patient’s admission begins with his treatment of Ms. Prescott in an unofficial capacity on or near 1/5. After he arrived in-unit, the facility conducted an extensive round of interviews with Dr. Thayer’s friends and colleagues to determine the details leading up to his intake. Det. John Bailey was the most informative of the witnesses, though he has lately become nonresponsive to further inquiries regarding the relationship between Dr. Thayer and Ms. Prescott.

  Ms. Prescott was apparently suffering from a case of Cotard delusion, first reported by her father, which worsened into apparent full-
blown psychosis in which she imagined she was possessed by an evil spirit. Diaries found in the partially destroyed Prescott house have been conclusively shown to be those of Mr. Prescott, and they record his daughter’s progressive descent into the belief that she was, in fact, already deceased. The diary states his intention of seeking help at the Northam Psychiatric Outreach Office on or about 1/4.

  Mr. Prescott apparently first encountered Dr. Thayer in that time period, and the patient continued to see Becca Prescott in a professional capacity, as well as a personal one, up until the incidents of 1/17. Dr. Thayer’s failure to report Ms. Prescott’s case to this or any other Massachusetts facility of mental health, and his failure to admit her to any psychiatric facility, are now a matter of record, but the reason for these lapses in judgment has not been revealed in our investigation. We will not be addressing any professional misconduct on the part of Dr. Thayer in this report.

  (Soon after Mr. Prescott came to him for the first time, Dr. Thayer consulted me on the parameters of Cotard, and I volunteered to assist him with the treatment of his then-unnamed patient. Dr. Thayer declined and discussed the matter only one more time with me. I sensed then that he wished to divulge the details of the case, but apparently the strangeness of the circumstances prevented him. Our two brief conversations represent the only interactions between Dr. Thayer and other Mass Memorial staff regarding Ms. Prescott’s case.)

  Several days after his admittance to this facility, Dr. Thayer still presented many symptoms of a classic catatonic state. His eyes were open and fixed; his face showed a marked lack of affect, although not the usual flat or blunted appearance but one of fixed attention, what would be classed an “agitated” state but without the usual resistance and violence. The repetition of the meaningless phrases had ceased. Initially, the cause of the catatonia was believed to be the shock of seeing Ms. Prescott perish in the house fire at 96 Endicott Street, especially as Dr. Thayer has no history of schizophrenia or epilepsy and subsequently tested negative for encephalitis. The initial evaluation of post-traumatic stress reaction has subsequently proven problematic, however.

  The standard recovery time for such a PTSD-related episode is several days. But after six days at the facility, Dr. Thayer showed no improvement. The only change in his condition came when he was given reading material by one of the orderlies during the normal course of his fourth day at the facility. Dr. Thayer immediately grabbed a pen from the attendant and began to draw obsessively a series of pictures (see Appendix B-1). The first set of pictures can generally be described as showing the events of the house fire, and Ms. Prescott pictured in the window of the upper story of the Endicott Street house. Other images he produced included the face of a thin woman, an older Caucasian male with a lacerating wound to his neck area, and a small hut or wooden house on fire in a heavily forested area; these Dr. Thayer drew obsessively when he was provided with more paper.