“Dr. Chase? Your 2 o’clock is here.” The intercom fell silent for a moment, then the slightly staticky voice came back with:
“Mm, OK, I’m ready. Send him in, please.” She pointed at the doctor’s office door with a red pen and went back to reading Glamour magazine and chewing her cud. He made his way, clumsily, over to the door and let himself in.
Dr. Tobias Chase was sitting at the desk, typing at a quick rate and with elegant ease as Harold made his way into the room. Dr. Chase said:
“Hello, Harold, give me one sec…almost…done!” He stood up. A tall, broad-shouldered man with no facial hair to hide his obvious trips to the tanning salon. He had a slight femininity to him, but the well-toned muscles protruding out from his rolled-up shirt sleeves made up for that. He had short, beige colored hair with just a slight curl at the ends and was clearly gelled or moussed into place. Harold extended his short, rather flabby arm out and took the hand that Dr. Chase had offered to him in greeting. They shook a moment, then Harold took his spot on the chair. Dr. Chase returned to his seat behind the desk and took out his note pad and a brand-new pencil. Sharpening it, he asked, “How was your trip here today, Harold?” They had been doctor/patient for a grand total of seven months at this point and both knew the script. Rarely did either man deviate from said script.
“It was fine. I had to walk a long way, though. That’s why I’m so late.” Harold took a portly finger and brushed it lightly against the underside of his nostril.
“If I might suggest, you may want to leave a shade earlier or even catch mass transit. I only say because you’re getting charged for a full session and, Harold, you’re just not getting your money’s worth coming in so late every time.” Harold nodded in agreement. He looked nervous, as always, and like he wanted to be somewhere else, as always. This, Dr. Chase had learned, was the furthest thing from the truth though. According to Harold, this was the one place where he felt the most at ease, most safe and really, just the most at home.
“I’ll do that next week, Dr. Chase, I swear.” Dr. Chase smiled and nodded.
“OK, Harold, so when we left things last week, you were telling me a bit about some more of your phobias. Is that where you’d like to begin today?” Harold was already shaking his head no and gearing up to speak. “OK, Harold, what would you like to talk about today?” Harold licked his dry lips and began:
“Clawfoot tub.” Intrigued now, Dr. Chase leaned forward and laid the pencil on the note pad.
“Clawfoot tub?” he mimicked. Harold nodded slowly. Dr. Chase raised an eyebrow, an age-old nod to Mr. Spock from those old Star Trek episodes. Dr. Chase was, in fact, a severely closeted Trekkie. Not even his friends that he gathered with once a year at the resort knew about that. Everyone had to have a few secrets. He nodded in return. “OK, Harold, you have the floor. Speak your mind.” Harold smiled and the smile itself actual sent a brief shiver down Dr. Chase’s back.
“As you know, Dr. Chase, I suffer from an inordinately number of phobias. Just about the only one I don’t have is agoraphobia and it’s a real wonder that I don’t have it. Or rather, I don’t have it very much, not enough to debilitate me anyway. I mean, I can still get out and come here every week, go shopping and go to work, so I must be doing something right.” Dr. Chase sighed in his head. Poor Harold, he thought to himself, right back to the old script. Harold’s go-to with nearly every session was talking about all of his phobias. He prided himself in having learned so much of the phobia terminology over the years. He went on about his arachnophobia and hydrophobia, pretty generic so far. Then, he’d go into his gynophobia (fear of women, which for him was odd, since he had been married until recently), brontophobia (fear of thunder) and triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13). He always watched Dr. Chase to see if he was making an impression with his big words and all of his mental shorts. Dr. Chase, adversely, knew he was watching him and would often throw out a little “oh my” or “that is a tough one” just to make Harold’s day. Harold always seemed a bit sunnier when he thought he was really wowing the doctor.
From the number 13 to fear of skin diseases (dermatosiophobia) and then on to the fear of infinity (apeirophobia). Infinity, Harold claimed, was just too gosh darned big and it made him feel just like a little gnat, flying around the enormous kitchen of a mansion. Which thinking led him to entomophobia (the fear of insects) and—just for good measure—cnidophobia (the fear of insect stings). He would unravel this whole yarn of phobias and all the while, Dr. Chase would wonder if he really even had any of these or if he was just lonely. Autophobia…or ermitophobia, Dr. Chase thought, the fear of loneliness.
Harold was silent now, studying him. Aw, shit. Busted.
“Are you still with me, Doc?” Harold said. Dr. Chase felt his cheeks heating up and knew the pink was there bright as the day.
“My apologies, Harold. I had a personal tragedy and am still dealing with it. Please continue.”
“If you’re sure.” Harold said, not sounding sure himself. Dr. Chase smiled.
“Yes, please continue,” he said, thinking, nice save, you old bugger.
“OK, as I was saying…of all the phobias that I suffer from and that we have talked about, there is one that I have never mentioned to you before. Partly because I couldn’t find a name for it, partly because it’s just kinda weird.” This coming from the man who allegedly suffered from gymnophobia, the fear of nudity.
“I’m listening,” the doctor said.
“The closest term that I can find, beside hydrophobia, is ablutophobia, the fear of bathing. But that’s not quite right. I shower or take a bath every morning. It’s a little more specific than that, you see?” The doctor looked at the blue sky out the eastern window for just a second, longing a lifetime’s worth that he could be outside enjoying it, then turned back to Harold and said:
“Am I getting this right? You have a fear of clawfoot tubs? Is that what this is about, Harold?” Harold smiled grandly and pointed a finger gun at the doctor, dropped his thumb and whispered:
“Bang.” Harold sat back on the chair and just watched the doctor’s reaction.
“OK, so tell me about it. What precisely is scary to you about clawfoot tubs?” He was now thinking of his own clawfoot tub at home and the thought of being afraid of it was frankly a bit silly.
“Well, I mean, beside the name, right? The name itself suggests that it possesses a monstrous quality. ‘Clawfoot’. That’s scary as heck, man.” Harold was getting into his stride now, feelin’ it and running with it. Dr. Chase smiled at that comment. “My wife, my late wife, Imogen-” At this segue, the doctor stopped smiling and grew stoic. “When Imogen was still alive, she wanted nothing more from life than to meet a man, fall in love, buy a house and get her very own clawfoot tub.” Harold was smiling at the memory of his recently deceased wife. “I guess she achieved everything in life she dreamed of before she passed away. Anyway,” he went on, “she loved it so much when I installed one where the shower stall used to be in our master bathroom. She insisted we took a bath together at once, I—of course—being a bit more slender back then. We had stripped down to our birthday suits and got in. We sat until the water began to get chilly, washing and being silly together.” At this, he paused reflectively. Dr. Chase watched with awe and real admiration as an actual tear broke free from Harold’s eye and made its way fiercely down his cheek. He swiped at it absently and went back to his story. That still floored Dr. Chase though. So far as he could remember, it was the first bit of unscripted emotion this man had showed in his office. “So, the weird part about the whole thing was this: when we were together and I knew she was there, or at least somewhere in the house, the tub was fine. I could go long periods of time without any heebie-jeebies. Then, she’d go out of town for a few days. I told you that her job took her out of town occasionally, right?” Dr. Chase nodded without looking up. He was writing on his pad now and quite a bit of writing, from Harold perspective. “So, when she was gone, even just to the store,
I’d go to use the john and I’d walk into the bathroom, face the toilet in the stance, and then the tub would catch my eye. Out of the corner, you know? I began to feel like the goldarn thing was watching me. My wife, she would pull the curtain completely closed when no one was in it. Thought it looked better when we had company. I would stand there with my John Henry in my hand and just look at that curtain. I could almost see the outline of someone or something just through it. I would reach over and casually open the curtain, like I was sneaking up on…whatever was in there. Nothing. Nothing. Always nothing. Always that feeling and I could swear I could see it when the curtain was closed, but no. Nothing. Always nothing.” The doc had written four full paragraphs already and his hand was beginning to cramp up. He also felt as though his heart rate had picked up just a little. Harold swallowed and licked his lips again, then went on.
“I told Imogen about it once. You know, like if I told her, I would see how silly it was and it wouldn’t creep me out anymore. She loved that thing probably as much as I loved her. I couldn’t get rid of it. That would’ve broken her heart. So, I dealt with it. Nearly every day. That fear kept growing inside of me, consuming me. I began to only use that bathroom for showers and then, only when Imogen was home. I was sure there was some type of ghost or demon in there and her being around warded off the evil spirit somehow. It always worked. Always. Without exception. But…now with her gone…” At this, he trailed off.
“You know, Harold, we’ve never really discussed your wife’s passing. I know it was recent and I didn’t want to press the issue until you were ready, but you’ve never even told me the circumstances of her passing.” Harold’s face grew visibly darker. He looked again like he wanted to get away from this place, from this building, from this city, from this poor pathetic twisted life that mocked him at every turn. Instead, he glared over at the doctor and said:
“She didn’t always leave town, you know?” The doctor looked back at him, almost stunned at this new severity in his voice.
“Oh?” he managed to sound almost casual.
“That’s right. She confided in me before it was all over that she had made a mistake and regretted that mistake and would take that regret to her grave.” Now it was the doctor’s turn to swallow hard. His lips and tongue had gone sandpaper dry. “She loved me. I know that above and beyond all other things. But, she made a mistake. OK. I get it. I’m not perfect. I’ve made little boo-boo’s in my life, too. She slipped up and had an extra-marital affair on one of her supposed trips out of town. The rest of the trips were all legit, I checked. One trip she stayed here, right here. Found herself a motel and had an urge that she had to get out of her system. We had been fighting, see? But she came to me shortly after that and spilled the beans.” He appeared to relax slightly. “That was when I started coming to see you, doc.” The doctor looked visibly shaken.
“Oh?” he said in an unsteady voice.
“Yeah. Then one day, she told me that the rat she had been seeing was leaving her messages at work and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Got her number through some of his rich and powerful connections and began to call her. Call her cell, call her work, call her at home when I was gone.” The doctor was now, clearly shaking. Harold stood up with a menacing posture, a feat that was as alien to Harold as it was the most normal thing in the world. “Then, she found out that I had been going to see this guy in his office every week. See this dirty rat is a shrink. Sound like anyone you might know?” The doctor got to his feet and backed up a step and then another as Harold began poking a hard finger into his chest. “Sound like you, maybe? Huh, doc? You had a little one-off with my Imogen when she was supposed to be out of town for business? You snake! You filthy rat bastard!” Dr. Chase realized it just a moment too late as the swing came and the soft and flabby hand, now a hard-as-steel fist, caught him right in the lower jaw. He went sprawling over his desk and landed amidst a clutter of papers and office supplies on the other side. Harold was still yelling, charging him, when a big guy came bolting through the door and grabbed Harold around the chest. He held on tight, like a cowboy in a rodeo the doc thought, and slowly Harold began to calm down. The doctor now had a very noticeable red spot around his jaw line and he rubbed at it soothingly, never taking his eyes off of Harold. The big man said:
“Hey there, boy, easy now, just ease on back. There we go. Easy now. What in the hell’s going on in here?” The cud-chewing secretary had also come in.
“The police are on their way,” she shouted over the big man. Dr. Chase stood up and, still rubbing his jaw, said:
“It’s OK. I’m OK. Harold? If Mr. Freeman lets you go, are you done attacking me?” He held out his hand at arm’s length to ward off any further attacks. Harold took a long, deep breath and said:
“Yeah, we’re done here doc.” He stilled and the big man let him go. Nobody moved. Harold was secretly taking a moment to get his heart to stop racing. He almost felt like he was having a heart attack. He took a step away from Dr. Chase and said, “We were arguing about you, you know? When she died. The police know all about it, just not the who part. I wanted to come over and absolutely fuck you up. Not for sleeping with her. Not for that. Although, that’s pretty fucked, too. For harassing her endlessly afterward. For the mean, spiteful, rich boy temper tantrum things you said to her and the things you called her. I wanted to rip your dick off for that. Despite what happened, that’s my wife. The love of my life. And you’re nothing but a piece of shit rich boy and you have no one. So you do what every piece of shit rich boy does, you want something you don’t have, you try to take it away from somebody else. Well, fuck you. Cause now neither of us get to have her. And I will fucking hate you for that until my dying breath.” He spat at the doctor with seething rage and turned slowly to leave. The doctor, completely blindsided by this whole turn of events, managed to blurt out:
“What happened to her? Harold? What happened to your wife?” Harold paused, but never looked back at the doctor.
“We were arguing and when we argue, she cleaned. It was her way of dealing with things. She was in the clawfoot tub, cleaning the walls and ceiling around the back of the tub when she slipped and fell forward, hard. She hit her face on the edge of the tub and the impact broke her neck. Paramedics said she died immediately. So now you know. Happy? Eat shit and die, you bastard.” He left without waiting for a response. The two others in the room stood as quiet as mice, nobody moved or spoke. The truth was out and Dr. Chase was finished.
The front door of Harold’s house opened and he walked in. He closed the door gently and then sat down at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands and wept. After a few moments, he began to sniffle and dry his eyes. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face off. He walked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. He took two long necks out and cracked open the first one. He drained the entire bottle in four long gulps, then pitched it and opened the second. This one he sipped at. Walking through his empty and overall depressing house. He hadn’t cleaned anything since the funeral. His every waking thought had been his confrontation with Dr. Homewrecker, or was that Dr. Stalker??? That behind him now, he honestly didn’t know what to do with the rest of his life. He loved Imogen with all of his heart and knew no other woman could be as compassionate and caring and loving and fun as she had been with him. No one could be as accepting of him for who he was. He somehow felt like it was all over. Nothing left to do but kill the lights and go to bed. Maybe bad health or some other outside force could do the job for him. He knew he didn’t have suicide in him, but he also had no wife, no longer had a job and soon would have no house or car. There were never any children in their life so that was a bust. He looked around his deafeningly quiet house and wanted to scream. He wanted to rage against the unfairness of it all, against the doctor for trying to take his happiness, against the makers of the clawfoot tub for not designing a slip-proof floor in the tub, at himself—for having everything and letting it all slip away. He upended the beer and threw the empty b
ottle at the bay window. It exploded outward in a brilliant burst of sun-twinkling glass. Then, he went upstairs.
On his way upstairs, he felt the call of nature. Well, if he did die in his sleep, didn’t want to pee himself like a little baby. He rounded the corner and walked into the bathroom. He stood at the toilet and lifted the seat. He unzipped his fly and paused there. His head turned slowly around to the side to look directly at the curtain of the clawfoot tub. There was the faint outline of someone or something standing there. He swallowed a lump that would not stay down as he felt the warm soothing trickle of urine running down his legs. He full-body turned to face the tub. He’d pull the curtain aside and it would be gone. It wasn’t real. Never had been. He was freaking out because Imogen was gone, that was all. But Imogen wasn’t gone and he knew it. As he pulled the curtain back, there stood a rotting corpse of a woman on the other side. Her elongated jaw bone hung down and slightly askew from the tendons being mostly gone. Her cheeks were likewise gone and he could see every filling this woman had. He knew those fillings by heart. Hadn’t he been with her all the times she had to go get them, for support? He stared into the dead eyes of his deceased wife…and smiled. She leaned toward him, bones and what muscle there was left creaking a bit now, and kissed him.
The next morning, a mutual friend from Imogen’s work had been called as a small courtesy of the good doctor. The friend was a young woman in a St. Louis blues jersey and blue jeans with sneakers who had been told just enough of what had happened to come over to check on Harold’s well-being. What she found was a front door unlocked and slightly ajar. She immediately dialed the police and when they arrived, they found poor Harold. He had died of what was written up as an apparent heart attack. The only thing they could not explain was the enormous smile frozen on his lifeless face.
Individually Wrapped Horrors Page 34
