Tuesday:
"Lewis? Is there anything you'd like to say?"
Lewis sat on the couch across from Dr. Kilbourne, smoking a cigarette lazily. This was their second session, and it had been as much a waste as the first.
Dr. Kilbourne waited for a moment, then, when Lewis' only answer was to lean back and slowly blow a large ring of smoke into the air, sighed.
"Mr. Parker, it is your money and you are certainly entitled to spend it however you see fit, but doesn't it strike you as wasteful to spend seventy-five dollars an hour just to sit on that couch and smoke a cigarette?" Kilbourne asked.
"Not my money, Doc." Another of those smoke rings.
Kilbourne took his glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. Finally, just to fill the silence, he started flipping through his notes. "Ah, yes. I arranged payment with one Amelia Barnard. Is she a sister, girlfriend...?" He let the question dangle.
"I guess you'd call her a girlfriend." Lewis answered.
"Quite a girlfriend to be paying for your treatment."
Lewis didn't answer, just made a noncommittal gesture with his cigarette.
"Why does she think you need treatment, Lewis?"
Lewis started shaking, and for a moment, Dr. Kilbourne thought he was having a seizure of some kind. After a moment, though, he was able to figure it out. Lewis was laughing.
"Alright, Doc. I'll play along. Let's see, my mother didn't love me. She used to beat me when I was bad, and she had a really skewed version of what was right and wrong. She was a religious crackpot, used to say she could tell when I was having impure thoughts, and would hold my hand to a hot stove whenever she caught me at it. I didn't have a father. When I was twelve I killed my first puppy dog. Is this what you want to hear, Doc?"
"It depends, Lewis. Is any of it true?"
"Not a bit of it, Doc. My father lives in Atlanta. My mother died when I was twenty-three. I'm over it now. All in all, I'm pretty normal."
"Then why are you here?'
Lewis didn't answer, instead stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and lighting another one.
"Lewis?"
The room was quiet for a moment, except for the soft hum of the tape recorder.
"Lewis?" Kilbourne repeated.
"What are you so afraid of?" Kilbourne asked.
Lewis lifted his head to look at him, and for a moment, his eyes shone with pure, naked fear. His hand trembled slightly.
Then he regained his composure.
"I can't tell you."
"Why, Lewis?"
"Because you'll think I'm crazy."
"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to help you. I can't do that if you won't tell me everything."
Lewis looked across at him, the cigarette dangling for the moment, forgotten. Kilbourne remained silent for a moment, then said, "Lewis, do you really think that whatever is wrong with you is unique? I mean, I can't give you details due to patient-doctor confidentiality, but I've seen everything. I've seen schizophrenia, I've seen people who are still afraid of the dark well into adulthood, I've seen crippling phobias of the most mundane objects. One person even had a phobia of plastic cutlery. You can't shock me, Lewis. I guarantee it. In fact, I dare you to try."
Lewis laughed at this. "Alright, Doc," he said. "Since you dared me, I'll tell you. Try this one on for size. For the past two weeks, I've been having nightmares. Only the kicker is, and you're gonna love this, the kicker is that when I wake up, some part of my dream is still there."
"How do you mean?" Kilbourne asked.
"Well, for example, if I have a dream that I'm dying of thirst in the desert, then I'll wake up with sand in my shoes, or a cactus in the living room, or something."
Kilbourne pushed his glasses up, then asked, "And how long do these manifestations last?"
Lewis widened his eyes, then said, "Goddamn, you know how to cut right to it, don't you, Doc? You see, when it first started, they would disappear almost immediately. I could actually watch them disappear, and at first I could almost dismiss it as another part of my dream. Almost. But now, the stuff is sticking around, longer and longer."
Kilbourne was scribbling a few notes, and he looked up as Lewis said, "So, what do you say, doc? Shocking enough for you?"
"No, actually. Aside from a few details, this sounds like you have a pretty standard case of night terrors. Most people grow out of them at a young age, but if you experienced anything particularly traumatic at that age, then they may not go away. Or if they do, then they may resurface later in life."
"Uh-huh. That's great, thank you. Here I was, thinking I was losing my mind, and you tell me it's just a standard case of night terrors. Tell me, doc. How is that brilliant analysis worth seventy-five dollars any more than me sitting here smoking my cigarette was?"
Kilbourne sighed inwardly, but he said, "Well, the first part of dealing with any problem is identifying the problem. Now that we know what's wrong with you, we can proceed with treatment. It's just like any other doctor, Lewis. A physician can't treat your cancer if he thinks it's the flu."
"Wow, that's great, Doc. You really know how to put a guy at ease, you know that? First you tell me it's a 'standard case', and then you compare it to cancer. Bravo."
Kilbourne sighed. "Admittedly, it was a poor choice of words. I was just saying..."
"Can it, Doc. I know what you were saying. I'm just giving you a hard time. What your type would undoubtedly call a defense mechanism." Lewis lit up another cigarette with a shaky hand, then said, "So, what do we do now?"
"Well, there are a few things we can do. First and foremost, we should try and get at whatever childhood trauma..."
"That's BULLSHIT!" Lewis interrupted. "Jesus Christ, Doc, don't you get it? I'm not Ed Gein, I didn't have abusive parents or anything like that. I never killed small animals. I couldn't have had a more idyllic childhood if I'd grown up in an episode of Leave It to Beaver. The closest thing to a childhood trauma would be the one time that my parents didn't come to a Little League game, and we lost. And you know how I dealt with that? I cried, and then the coach took us out for ice cream, and I got over it. I moved on."
Kilbourne scratched a few notes into his pad, then said, "What about grandparents? Were you close to your grandparents?"
Lewis waved his hand dismissively, sending a cloud of smoke wafting towards Kilbourne. "Sure, I was close. But I was sixteen when my grandparents died. They died together. Car crash, near Pismo Beach." Lewis stopped for a moment, long enough to take another drag, then chuffed laughter. "Pismo Beach. I always thought it was something that they made up for those old Bugs Bunny cartoons. Hell of a way to find out it's real, huh?"
After a moment, Lewis stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "Look, I know what you're getting at. But nothing ever happened to me that would drive me over the edge. I didn't even remember my dreams 'till about three weeks ago."
"When did you start remembering your dreams? Do you remember the exact date?"
Lewis thought back. "I know it was a Tuesday, so that would make it... the fourteenth?"
"Okay. Did anything happen on the fourteenth?"
"Like what? Like did I get abducted and anally violated by space aliens?"
Kilbourne smiled. "Well, that, or anything else maybe equally traumatic."
"Nothing. I mean, it was just a normal Tuesday. I went to work, just another day at the grindstone, you know. I went to lunch, went back to work, clocked out, went home."
Kilbourne made a few more notes. "Anything special happen at home?"
"Nope. Came home, watched TV with Amy, then went to bed."
"Can you think of anything, anything at all, that you think might tie into your dreams?"
Lewis leaned back on the couch, his brows knitted as he thought of an answer. Kilbourne felt like there might be some hope for him yet. This was the first time that Lewis looked as though he was actually considering the problem. Finally, he leaned forward and said, "Nothing, Doc. Nothing except for the dream."
"Okay, let's talk about the dream then. What was the first dream you had?"
"It's going to sound stupid, but it was a nightmare."
Kilbourne nodded. "I had guessed as much."
"I was being chased down this long hallway by a gigantic spider."
"I see," said Kilbourne. "Are you arachnophobic, Mr. Parker?"
"To a certain extent. I mean, I don't spend my nights looking for them before I go to sleep, but if I see a really big one, like maybe larger than a silver dollar, then I get the willies."
"The willies? What do you mean?"
"Well, I suppose that the most common things that happen are my head starts to itch, especially on top, and I get a really crawly feeling all over, you know?"
"And how do you normally deal with these situations?"
Lewis smiled. "Usually with the heel of a shoe, or a newspaper. Whatever's handy. Maybe a shotgun, if it's bigger than a breadbox."
Kilbourne chuckled.
Over on Kilbourne's desk, the timer dinged softly.
"Well, Mr. Parker, I'm afraid your time is up for this week, but I feel that we've made some progress today. I'd like to see you in here again on Thursday, if that's possible."
Lewis nodded. "It should be. I'll call if I can't make it."
Kilbourne stuck out his hand. "Until next time, then."
Thursday:
"Do you mind if I ask how you hurt yourself, Lewis?"
Lewis had come in to the office with his right forearm swathed in bandages. He looked down at his arm now, pointed to it, and said, "This?"
Kilbourne nodded.
"Oh, nothing serious. Just burned it on a rock formation in Hell last night."
"Another dream?"
"I don't really know that we can keep calling them dreams, Doc. Not when I wake up with battle scars."
"Okay. Then what happened last night?"
"Well, I went to bed as usual, and almost immediately I was in a cave. It was hot in there, almost impossibly hot, and I could feel my clothes sticking to me."
Kilbourne interrupted. "What were you wearing in your dream? Were they the same clothes you'd gone to bed in?"
"No, Doc, it was this Little Bo Peep outfit that I like to wear on weekends... Of course they were. Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't, really. I'm just curious at this point."
"May I continue, Doc?"
Kilbourne nodded. "Please."
"Okay, fine. So, anyway, I knew that I was dreaming, so I figured that I would try to prove it to myself."
"So you touched a rock formation?" Kilbourne asked.
"Not yet. Don't get ahead of me. Anyway, so I figured that maybe I was just sleepwalking or something, so I figured I'd walk around in the dream until I bumped into something. I have this coffee table that I always bark my shins on, so I figured I'd probably run into that, or a wall, or anything, you know. So I started walking."
"I don't know how long I walked, but if you held a gun to my head, I'd say at least an hour, just in one direction."
Kilbourne nodded again. "Well, maybe you were walking in place in real life."
"Running. After a while, I figured I was doing the same thing you just mentioned. Like I was on a treadmill or something, right? So, I decided that since I'm not even coordinated enough to run in place when I'm awake, there's no way that I could do it in my sleep."
"I ran for about ten minutes before I stopped. I wasn't winded or anything, I just gave up."
" I wasn't thinking. I just leaned against a rock formation, looking for a good spot to stop and think about what was going on, trying to apply logical thought. Well, you see what happened."
"So it is burned then?" Kilbourne asked.
"Pretty badly, actually. Doc's trying to decide whether I need skin grafts or not. Only reason I'm not in the hospital right now is I discharged myself. I didn't want to sit around with my thumb up my ass while everyone tried to figure out how to treat an impossible wound."
Kilbourne frowned. "Lewis, I can't say that I approve. No matter how you got the wound, you should make sure that it's properly treated."
"Right, yeah, I know, my father said the same thing. But Doc, I'm not worried about that, what I'm worried about is the fact that this seems to be... I don't know how to put this... getting more real, I guess."
"Well, it worries me too. But I'm sure that we could find a rational explanation for the wound. Did you leave a burner on, maybe have a curling iron that you could have burned it on?"
"Well gee, Doc, I kinda like to cuddle up to my curling iron when I go to sleep. It keeps me warm at night."
Kilbourne puffed out his cheeks. "Your sarcasm isn't helping, Lewis."
"Neither is your insistence that we find a rational explanation. Weird shit is going on, Doc, can't you see that? I mean, it scares me. It scares Amy, too. She moved out last night, Doc. Did I forget to mention that little tidbit? She says she woke up because I was thrashing in bed, and watched this burn form on my arm. No curling iron, no stove. Nothing. Just me, lying in bed, magically thinking a burn into existence. How do you explain that rationally, Doc?"
Kilbourne thought for a moment. "You said she just woke up herself, maybe she walked out to the kitchen to find you there and forgot..."
"Oh, come on, Doc, that's bullshit and you know it. How do you forget that you walked out into the kitchen and just magically decide, 'Oh gee, he burned his arm on the stove, I guess I'll just remember watching it form on his arm out of nowhere while we were both in bed.' "
Lewis drummed his fingers on the couch for a moment, then stood up. "I'm out of here."
"But your time isn't up."
"Keep the seventy-five bucks."
"I'd like to see you again on Thursday, Lewis."
Lewis didn't answer, except to flip Kilbourne the bird as he slammed the door.
Wednesday:
Lewis sat up in a cold sweat. Christ, that was a bad one. He nearly didn't make it out that time. If it hadn't been for... for...
He grasped for the remnants of the dream, trying to keep hold of whatever had happened, but it fell apart even as he tried to remember it. He may as well have been trying to grab hold of fog. Oh well, there were no new wounds, nothing lurking in the darkness here. Shit, he couldn't live like this anymore. He looked up at the clock, saw that it was past four. He picked up the phone, knowing full well that Kilbourne wouldn't be in his office. He left a message on Kilbourne's machine, telling him that he would be there at the appointed time, and not to reschedule it out from under him. After that was done, he walked into the kitchen and got a glass of ice water.
He had just put the glass in the sink when he heard something rush past the kitchen door.
Lewis slowly reached into the knife drawer, trying not to make any noise as he extracted a large, wicked-looking butcher knife. He edged out slowly, poking his head into the hallway.
Something skittered out of sight just around the corner.
"Oh, Jesus, no," Lewis said to himself. Suddenly, the knife seemed to be a horrible idea. He had absolutely no desire to get any closer than was necessary to the thing that he'd glimpsed darting around the corner. Lewis edged slowly upstairs, trying not to attract the creature.
He'd made it to the head of the stairs when the spider came back into sight.
Lewis bolted for the bedroom door, the creature letting out a hellish shriek unlike anything Lewis had ever heard. He slammed the door shut behind him, holding it shut as the creature on the other side slammed into it with a sickening tangled thud. Lewis heard it back up, its legs ticking on the tiled floor outside, and then run into the door with a full head of steam. The creature's legs slammed into the door a split second after its body, sounding like somebody throwing a handful of pebbles at a window. After a moment, he heard it back away again, and he braced himself for another attempt at the door, but the maddening tick-tick of its legs continued away down the hall. He listened for a few more minutes, long enough to ensure that it wasn't just getting the mother of all running starts, and then slowly eased away from the door.
Lewis rummaged under the bed for a moment, all the while muttering to himself, "Just a few minutes before I was naked in a hot tub with Scarlett Johannson, but no, this is the dream that comes to life." After a minute, he found what he was looking for, and pulled it out of its box.
He and Amy had fought about the gun when he'd bought it, but now he was glad he had it. He checked to see if it was loaded, and, when he saw that it wasn't, began filling it with shells.
He saw the phone by the bedside table, and briefly considered calling 911. Then he envisioned the conversation that would follow.
"Hello? 911? Yeah, I'm being attacked by a giant spider that came out of my dreams and now is trying to kill me. What? No, I'm not on drugs, ma'am..."
Scratch that.
Lewis took a deep breath, then slowly, softly, edged the door open; cursing to himself when the door creaked.
The hallway was empty. He searched the entire upper floor slowly, holding the gun out in front of him like he'd seen in dozens of cop shows. He had no idea if he'd be able to actually hit anything with it once push came to shove, but he at least looked like he knew what he was doing.
The second story was clear. Lewis slowly worked his way downstairs, his nerves as taut as piano wire. The kitchen was empty, as well, and Lewis had seen that the living room was empty before he got into the kitchen. That left the downstairs bathroom.
Lewis paused in front of the bathroom door, taking a moment to wipe his sweat-slick hands on his t-shirt before he opened the door.
He jumped back, expecting the spider to come barreling out like a bat out of hell, maybe landing on his chest, and he would have to fight it off before shooting it twice, three times, as many as it took to kill the damn thing before he would give into the full-body shiver that was trying to work its way out...
But none of that happened.
The bathroom was empty.
Christ, what a relief. At least I'll have one hell of a story to tell Kilbourne when I...
His thought was interrupted by a long green, strand of spittle that hit the floor in front of him with a sizzle.
Slowly, Lewis looked up.
The thing was perched directly above him, and it let out another of those hellish shrieks before detaching itself from the ceiling.
Lewis dove out of the way, feeling the air displaced by the monster's descent assisting him in his leap. He fell over the couch, tipping it and landing on his face with a brief glimpse of stars before he was on his feet again, gun at the ready.
It was crouched, primed for a leap, and as it jumped Lewis fired six shots, in rapid succession.
The creature shrieked again, this time in pain, and Lewis watched it go limp in mid-flight, its many legs swinging up and over its head. Lewis ducked, and it hit the wall with a sickeningly wet thump. It slowly slid down the wall, leaving a black ichor on the wall.
Lewis edged over slowly, his revulsion sending wave after wave through his body, making him shiver like an end-stage pneumonia victim.
It wasn't until Lewis had stopped shivering that he realized the creature was still moving. Before, he'd been able to write off the jittering of the creature's body to his own shivers, more a problem with his viewpoint than with the corpse itself.
But now, he was no longer shivering, and the creature still jittered and shook as though one of its legs had deposited itself in an electrical outlet. Lewis just had time to scream when the creature's stomach split open.
Thursday:
Kilbourne was worried. He'd gotten Lewis' message, and had felt no small amount of relief that he would be coming to his appointment. Lewis was making progress, he felt, and Kilbourne thought that he might be able to help him before he seriously hurt someone. Someone like himself.
But Lewis hadn't shown. That had been three hours ago, and Kilbourne hadn't been able to reach him either by cell phone or by his home line.
Kilbourne had decided to drive past his house, just to check. He didn't have anyone else scheduled today, and he never took any time off anyway, so he figured he deserved to leave early today.
Lewis' house was dark, and looked as though no one had lived there for a very long time. Kilbourne felt a shiver work its way down his back for no real reason that he could identify, other than that this just felt... wrong.
He couldn't leave, though. After all, he'd come this far. Resolutely, Kilbourne marched up the steps and knocked on Lewis' front door.
After a few moments, he knocked again.
When the third knock failed to get any response, Kilbourne tried the door.
It was locked. Not only that, but the doorknob was sticky with some sort of substance that made the shiver race up and down Kilbourne's spine all over again, as though it were brand new.
Kilbourne looked in the window. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior of the room, and he had to cup his hands around his eyes to block out the glare, but when he was able to see he nearly screamed aloud.
He was on the phone with 911 dispatchers before he got to his car, and was spitting out the address even as he pulled away from the curb.
The interior of Lewis' house had been draped from floor to ceiling with thick, ropy spiderwebs.
As Kilbourne pulled out, leaving at least a layer of tire rubber on the road in front of Lewis' house; a small, almost delicate looking spider slowly lowered itself from the doorknob, climbing down the steps and into the tall grass before disappearing altogether.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment