Richard fell back, exhausted, eyes searching the black mud for his gun. Although the man in black gasped and writhed in pain, he still managed to reach for his wound, then slide his hand further down his leg. He pulled his pant leg up. Strapped to his ankle was a knife. He pulled it, looked at Richard and grinned evilly as he flaunted eight inches of muddied steel in his direction.
Heaving in desperate effort to recoup his wits, Richard had no time to look for the pistol which was buried in the mud, somewhere to the right, between him and the man in black.
However, across the way, behind his enemy, he could see the rifle. He ran to the left, feet splashing in shallow water. The man in black leaped to his knees, groaning as his hamstring gave out. He crawled clumsily toward Richard, dove forward with the knife outstretched in a twittering hand, swiped the air and managed to catch Richard in the calf. Richard tumbled forward, yelling out in pain. Roaring, the man in black grasped Richard’s ankle, pulled on it while trying to get a better lick in with the knife. Richard kicked at him furiously, his shoes connecting again and again with the man’s head. He rolled side to side, trying to dislodge the man’s grip, all the while making every effort to avoid the encroaching blade. It found his shin, taking a thin slice out of him that felt like it touched bone. He howled in agony. Finally he broke free, stood, nearly collapsed from the pain in his leg, then staggered over and grabbed the rifle.
At this moment, time seemed to slow. His newfound awareness kicked in, thankfully, for it told him to pump the shell in the chamber. He did that. But then his mind told him that the gun would implode if the barrel were clogged with mud. He aimed it at the man in black, knowing very well he couldn’t fire it now. It would be like playing Russian Roulette. Perhaps the threat of gunfire in the man’s direction would dissuade him from attacking further. The man in black stood up, crazed and hunched, eyes rolling madly. Richard could see the screwdriver sticking out from his thigh. The man in black wavered; clearly, he was weakening. He held the knife by the blade. Smiled. Then brought it back, intending to throw it at Richard.
The instant the man in black’s arm whipped forward, Richard held the shotgun up in front of him. He could hear the knife cutting the air in its end-over-end rotation as it came at him. Miraculously, the knife grazed the barrel of the shotgun. It was deflected off target; instead of finding Richard’s heart, the blade brushed his shoulder, still causing a nasty slice in his arm, but not enough to disable him.
With his adversary now unarmed, Richard smiled back.
The man in black looked flabbergasted, his eyes taking on a wary look, his trembling hands dropping to his sides. His sudden inaction was curious, brought by a state of severe and sudden confusion, not due to the unexpected shock of ending up in such an uncompromising position, but because he looked as if he’d just awakened from a terrible dream, only to find it to be true.
Wakened from a dream...
The man in black looked up at Richard, contemplated him with quivering eyes, looking very much like Pam did earlier today when she sat stupefied on Richard’s kitchen floor, blood on her hands, her nose smashed.
Her nose smashed...
He peered around, surveyed his injury, then moved to pluck the screwdriver from his thigh. When the pain told him it was too serious a ploy, he faltered rather awkwardly in the general direction of Richard’s dropped pistol.
Richard limped over, not about to give his adversary another chance. With all his might he swung the shotgun around in a wide arc, aiming at the top of the man in black’s head. A horrible cracking sound echoed in the night as the barrel connected flush with his skull. Blood spurted from the hole it made.
The man in black collapsed to the ground, writhing like a worm out of earth.
Richard smiled. Knew exactly how he looked.
He then placed the gun against the man in black’s temple, and blew his brains out.
File
They’d brought everything with them, the tapes, the files, the murder weapon, all of it now back in the box labeled ‘evidence’, which currently rested on the floor of the cruiser by Kevin’s feet. Siren off, Leonard took the back roads across town in an effort to prolong their short trip to Samantha Sparke’s residence. He feared the certain brutality of the scene, that in combination with Reese’s probable wrath. Kevin had one of Sparke’s folders out and was skimming through it.
“You gonna tell me about that other tape?”
“It’s a recording of the interview I did with Sparke after the attack on his wife.”
“Yeah Len, I know that already. So what gives? Why’s it so important now?”
“I seem to recall him saying something to me...well, let’s just say that it might correlate the attack on his wife two years ago with today’s events. I don’t want to say what it is until I listen to the tape first. I want to be sure I remember everything correctly. We’ve got way too many ‘maybes’ on our plate right now.”
“So you really think the two events are related?”
“Now more than ever.”
Kevin went back to reading the file. After a moment, he said, “Listen to this, Len. It says here that Sparke suffers from an extremely rare case of sleepwalking, called psychoparasomnabulism. This is the word Delaney uses to term his theory that Sparke, patient ‘1410’, suffers from a combination of sleepwalking and paranormal activity.”
“Read it to me. Maybe there’s something there that’ll clue us in to what’s really going on.”
Under the pallid glare of the dome light, Kevin recited Delaney’s notes:
“Patient 1410, Richard Sparke, appears to suffer from a very severe, previously unrecorded case of parasomnabulism. He believes his delusions to be real, as they regularly intrude into the sleep process, creating highly disruptive sleep-related events. This behavior, and the experiences that materialize from it, occur solely while sleeping, are frequent in their manifestations, and prove to be severely taxing on 1410’s mental capacities. They’ve occurred often enough and have become so burdensome that medical and psychological attention is required. 1410’s parasomnias incorporate various combinations of multiple arousal disorders, including multiple sleep-wake transition disorders, parasomnias associated with REM sleep, and other parasomnias, which I’ve put into a classification known herein as psychoparasomnabulism.
Kevin paused, then said, “You see, this indicates that Delaney’s passion for the paranormal has led to a very intimate diagnosis of Sparke’s problems. Man, Delaney was pretty off the wall himself.”
“Makes you wonder what another doctor, one that played by the book, might have seen in Richard Sparke.” Leonard made a left turn, even further out of the way from Samantha Sparke’s neighborhood. Kevin looked at Leonard, noticing his partner’s roundabout route, but didn’t say anything. “I’d imagine we’d get a completely different diagnosis altogether. Wouldn’t you think? Keep going. This is quite interesting.”
Kevin went back to reading from the file:
“1410’s arousal disorders are presumed psychoparasomnabulistic in nature due to an abnormal arousal mechanism in the cerebral cortex. In addition, I’ve examined the plausibility of paranormal phenomena, most specifically the recurring visitation of 1410’s deceased mother, child, and the unknown twin-nemesis he refers to as the man in black.”
“Well, I’ll be…”
“What is it Len?”
“That’s the first time I heard that.”
“What?”
“He refers to Sparke’s twin as the ‘man in black’.”
“You think it means something?”
Leonard paused, gathered his thoughts in an effort to make sure he got his overloaded memories straight, then said, “This may sound really crazy, but isn’t it real odd that Carol Davis, our only real witness of the day, said that Sparke had left wearing different clothing. All black clothing?”
Kevin’s eyes went wide. “Wow...that’s right...”
“And then Delaney wrote about a twin nemesis in
his notebook.”
“Len...can it really be, though?”
“What, that our mysterious third person could be a Richard Sparke look-alike? A twin brother?”
“Really far-fetched. But then that might explain why Samantha Sparke pointed the finger at her husband. Because she thought it was really him.”
“Kevin, I think we may be on to something here.”
He grinned. “You said that before.”
“Yeah, but this time I really mean it. Go ahead, keep reading.”
Kevin read verbatim from Delaney’s notes:
To explain this paranormal phenomena, one must realize that forced arousal during sleep can induce vivid episodes wherein the appearance of ghostly apparitions become apparent. The "classical" arousal disorders, sleepwalking (somnambulism), sleep terrors, and confusionalisms are all solidly present in 1410’s case history. I believe that all of 1410’s arousal disorders are fully interrelated and share multiple characteristics, as all have occurred while in a mixed state of being both asleep and awake, coming from the deepest stage of nondreaming sleep. This would affirm 1410 to have been awake enough to act out complex behaviors, but still be asleep and not be aware or able to remember his actions. Again I stress that in this case, 1410’s disorder is triggered and maintained by psychoparasomnabulistic activity, in conjunction with sleep apnea and excessive limb movement during sleep. In one documented instant, the activity became so violent that it led to severe injury to 1410’s bedpartner. It is my professional opinion that treatment should involve medical intervention with a prescription of sleep aids and regular behavior modification through relaxation/mental imagery, and ultimately hypnosis.”
“So Delaney theorized,” Leonard interrupted during a pause, “that Sparke attacked his wife while sleepwalking. Very interesting. Now how come I didn’t think of that?” he said, grinning.
“We didn’t think of it because none of the clues pointed in that direction.”
“They still don’t. But then again Delaney didn’t have all the facts we have. Keep going.”
“This part looks real interesting. Listen to this.” He shuffled through a few papers, then read:
“1410’s somnambulism is special because it contains a series of complex behaviors that are initiated during fast-wave sleep, and not only results in walking during sleep, but creates a non-delusional pathway towards psychoparasomnabulism. Details are as follows:
1) 1410’s parapsycho-ambulation (walking or moving about with direct correlation to paranormal activity) occurs exclusively during sleep.
2) Through an intense detailed study of 1410, it is concluded that 1410 found no circumstance where he’d been able to arouse himself from sleep during an episode.
3) He retains complete amnesia following an episode, which bleeds quite strongly into his coherent, or waking state.
4) It seems apparent that most, but not all of 1410’s ambulatory episodes typically occur in the first third of the sleep cycle.
5) I’ve found other medical and psychiatric disorders present, such as REM sleep behavior disorder or sleep terrors, but they do not account for symptoms or results of parapsycho-ambulation. These are universally independent, and act upon 1410 accordingly.
6) 1410 has suffered moderate levels of anxiety and depression, as well as total amnesia of the past prior to his daughter’s death (I still have not ruled out the possibility of post-traumatic stress disorder as a factor here).
7) There have been many instances where 1410 has left home for extended hours while sleeping, has committed various acts, and has returned with very little evidence to prove his whereabouts or actions.
8) Medications prescribed include Ambien, Lorazepam, Valium, Prozac, Celexa, Ativan, and Diazepam. All have come with little or no positive effect.
I must stress that although medications have been prescribed to counter anxiety and depression, sleep aids have also been utilized to strengthen and/or modify 1410’s sleep cycle in effort to foster the study of 1410’s unique situation.”
“Damn...you get that?” Kevin yelled.
“Uh-huh. Delaney used Sparke as a guinea pig in an experiment. The bastard used Sparke to test his own warped theories.”
“It goes on from here, big-time. Lots of medical jargon. Man, there’s tons of writings here. Gotta be a couple hundred pages all together. All on Sparke. And it’s all very detailed.”
“Seems to me that Delaney was writing a book. The text there is too concise, too illustrative to be notes to oneself.” In the distance Leonard saw beacons flashing. He took a deep breath as he slowed down, taking the street cautiously. “We’re here.”
He rounded the corner of Oak Place. Ahead police activity thrived. Cruisers closed off the street. A news van wound around a group of onlookers, moved on down towards the house where the crime had taken place.
“That’s where we’ll be next,” Kevin said.
“You up for it?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Let’s go.”
Unnecessary blank page?
Lights
The skies had cleared, dark clouds now gathered in the distance like retreating monsters, the stars and moon left behind to gently ignite the mountainous landscape. Under their peaceful lights, a very terrified Richard Sparke stood utterly motionless for what seemed an eternity, but was probably only three minutes--still a decent stretch of time, given the condemning circumstances. All this time he told himself that he needed to flee the scene as quickly as possible, but his feet were rooted to the ground, his legs incapable of guiding him anywhere for the moment. He could only stand and stare at the awful aftermath before him, the man in black, the god-damned entity that had haunted his dreams for so long, just moments ago executed by his very hand. But was he really dead? Sure, his physical self lay dead, horrendously twisted in the mud: an ironic parallel representation of what he’d undoubtedly planned for Richard all along. But what would happen when Richard went to sleep tonight? Who would come for him next?
No time to concern myself with this, he thought as he peered down at his twin-nemesis--what Delaney liked to call him. Three-quarters of his head was gone, transposed into a four-foot coating of crimson pulp spread out on the muddy surface, glistening in the moonlight. His body was oddly bent at the waist, legs curled over one another, arms splayed out in front of him in false prayer. It was a nasty sight, one equally as brutal as the scene in Delaney’s office. Only here the act had been committed by the real Richard Sparke in self-defense, a motive that would hold no water at a time when he was eyed as the primary suspect in Delaney’s death, and Samantha’s death.
He recalled the moment while driving up here, upon entering these woods, when his mind wandered, lost in the horrific scenes he’d encountered: Delaney’s body, Samantha’s body, disgracefully mutilated. At that moment he’d had an odd premonition of seeing his own face bloodied and torn to shreds, a vision that unnerved him. Only now, upon realization of that portentous image, he found a strange solace overcome his apprehension.
It was only now that he realized he still held the shotgun. He dropped it, then looked around and located the pistol Pam gave him. Dizzied, he tucked it into his pocket and began staggering away from the scene, first upstream to the pond, then looping back along the upper edge in the direction he’d come from. He tried his best to call upon some newfound wisdom to guide the way, but the overwhelming episode had caused his mind to short-circuit, leaving him with only basic instinct to offer advice. First, he’d try to locate Pam. Then, get out of the mountains. That was the best he could come up with; it would have to do for now.
He raced into the woods, still feeling the need to keep himself under cover. He still had the police to contend with, and the din of all the gunfire would have attracted anyone within a mile of the area. Beneath his feet he felt the ground sloping, a good sign; he’d make it back to Pam’s car in about thirty minutes, if he kept a decent pace. He tried hard not to concentrate on the pain jutting from the
injuries in his calf, shoulder, and head. Much too difficult though; blood still trickled from the wound between his eyes. As a distraction, he kept reminding himself that he’d no longer be hunted by the man in black, would no longer be at the receiving end of his taunts, his evil scowls, the insane eyes and nose and mouth that were the same as his, but extremely contorted with unexplainable anger.
He continued moving down the sloping gradient for twenty minutes, beneath the webbed branches of pines, following the sound of the stream. He kept looking back, still a bit paranoid of being followed, but knew that this time--for now--he was finally alone. Roots nearly tripped him up, his shoes slipping on the slick carpet of pine needles. At one point he needed to climb over a fallen moss-coated tree. The environment thickened. He pushed through a dense thicket of brush, stumbling over their tangles and uplifting roots. Finally, as the sound of the stream rose, the wooded area cleared a bit and through the trees he could see the wet, white surface of Pam’s car gleaming beneath the blue moonlight. He raced forward, ignoring the pain in his injured calf; he could feel the warm blood still seeping from the wound. Soon, he was free of the woods, in the place where it all started. He approached the car with feelings of utter salvation, as if it were an oasis of cool water suddenly meeting him in the middle of a great desert.
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