The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  "It's just words. You couldn't take this to the New York Times and get a story. I'm sorry but it's just garbage. Who gave this to you?"

  "I'm not sure. Somebody at Black Star."

  "I know that. These are internal memos, memorandums and status, but it's just words. You are the prize, son. None of this can tell you who or what you are. The only thing useful was my address and I'm fairly certain that I know the origin of that. I knew you would be sent to me. That's about it!"

  "Sent by Wiseman."

  "Surely. How else could I have known you were coming?"

  Henry was confused and a bit overwhelmed. He didn't know what to ask next and just sat there.

  "I should throw this away?"

  "Definitely. I'd burn it too, but I don't want to risk a fire out here. Just let that baggage go."

  Henry stood and took the stack of papers back. Maybe they didn't matter after all. He didn't have a plan for them anyways. He wasn't going to take them to the news. That was dumb. He held them out over the edge and let the wind pull them from his fingers as he let go. He heard the clicking of a lighter as Denzel lite a joint and started puffing away.

  "Ok. What now?"

  "Now we wait and see if the spirits want to come out and play. It's almost what the ancients might have called the witching hour."

  Henry rejoined Denzel on the bench and leaned back looking at the stars through the curve of the archway. He felt fine, maybe even a little lighter having unburned that bit of personal history as if it was nothing. They sat and sat, Henry felt patient and content. His expectations were nearly a blank slate, and he was really enjoying the stars and the cool breeze.

  A dark cloud on the horizon edged into view. Sparks of lightning leapt from cloud to cloud, some deep within the haze illuminating the structures.

  "Is it going to rain here?"

  "Naw. That's miles away. Good show though. You feel anything funny-like?"

  "Nope. Should I?"

  Denzel wagged his knees back and forth like an excited kid.

  "We'll see."

  They sat in that silence, the thunder in the distance a low intermittent rumble. Henry's gaze flitted down from the stars, still strangely alert when it was clearly past the time he'd usually sleep. A fog was forming around them, up and around the mesa, thin at first and though perhaps a bit denser near the natural gateway. Henry immediately assumed moisture or some nighttime release of vapors were responsible. It couldn't be responding to them being here, right?

  "Hey."

  Denzel shushed him with a whisper.

  Henry wanted to tell Denzel that he felt something, but was afraid to speak. He didn't think he'd gotten a contact buzz from the joint, but he definitely felt something. He tried closing one eye and then the other, as he had a funny double vision thing going on, like the fog was inside his eye, but it wasn't that. He wasn't seeing it with his eye, but with his mind. Henry closed his eyes and checked himself, searching for the sound of bells, or any ringing, but there was none. It, that thing inside, felt so far away, but could he feel it? The other layer of perception, an overlaid fog changed shape and consistency. He could see things in the air, the air itself was densely packed molecules and so was the rock, and when he looked at Denzel, who appeared to be nearly nodding off in a high stupor, he saw, no, he perceived through the man, not the organs exactly, but the energy latent and pulsing in the arrangement of atoms. It was an automatic zoom into the micro and back to the macro, an endless repeating of endless complexity in Mandlebrot sets, fractals of connections and ooooh, the loving potential of release, waves of excitement. Henry cast his gaze around, marveling at the second sight, but was a passenger, not the driver of this show. He wanted to stand, he wanted to fly, he felt a deep, deep, deep desire to push gently into this matter matrix and set these molecules free.

  There was something else, too. A feminine presence and a longing. Something familiar, but out of reach. Like the memory of a touch or a kiss. A feeling he could get lost in, but would fade if he thought too hard about it.

  His delighted reverie was shattered by a sudden slash of cold water. The extra perceptions stopped suddenly as he realized that Denzel was standing beside him, at the edge of the cliff, armed with another large bottle of ice cold water.

  "Dude, you were getting wiggy on me."

  "I'm sorry, Denzel. I thought I was seeing something. I might have been dreaming a bit."

  "Well, if you sleep walk off the edge of a cliff, then where would we be?"

  "Where'd the fog go?"

  Denzel look at him with an I don't know what you are talking about, you crazy, look.

  "You didn't see the fog?"

  "Aww man, sometimes the orbs just don't do shit. I'm hungry, my ass fell asleep. How about we head back? We might try again one night."

  Henry couldn't find the words to explain what he'd seen, and yes, he was very drowsy and would love nothing more than to be sleeping in his borrowed bed. He settled for a half-awake dozing off in the car.

  "Really, I should have known better," Denzel said.

  "Hmm?"

  "I said, I should have known better. Without the drugs, the Black Star cocktail, you can't do much of anything, can you?"

  "I don't know," Henry mumbled.

  Denzel continued talking almost to himself, under his breath, "I should know. Goddamn right. I helped invent the stuff. A bit of the old Ayahuasca and a bit of the new pharmacology. It imparted the speed of mind necessary, and a little something for the fear, and well, I almost had the spice mélange. I should have patented it. If we had just a bit, wouldn't it be fun to play? To speed up the mind and stop the world? Why should I never get to see anything anymore?"

  "Yeah," Henry murmured and drifted in to a deep sleep.

  ***

  Henry felt better than he had in days. He'd had no more freaky perceptions or altered conscious incidents, and that was nice. Denzel mode of life, no internet and scant furniture, lacked no fundamental creature comforts. Despite the perpetual avoidance of any discussion of about the "subject," Henry had acclimated to what he thought must be resort life. Rise whenever, greeted by the smell of dirt after the night's rain and Oleander in bloom. Amble into the common area for a meditative cup of tea. It took a couple days, but Henry even joined the hippie in yoga on the deck in the sun. Denzel greatly advising the physical benefits, only touched on the spiritual aspects. Often as not, Denzel then served a brunch of fresh grapefruit and some delicious seed filled bread. They had rarely talked about more than the weather on their frequent excursions to either the farmer's markets or the flea market.

  Henry knew that things would change. This couldn't just be his life now. Living on someone else's dime. Eating them out of house and home. Surely he'd have to get a job, or something. Not that Denzel ever talked about money. The day in and day out was just a pleasant amble. Even though he felt great, Henry was conditioned for some other shoe to fall.

  After a late dinner of stewed lentils, Denzel pushed his plate aside and took a hit from the large bong that was never far from his seat.

  "Hey man, I hope you've enjoyed the chilled time. Have you?"

  "Without a doubt. You have a great place here, tranquil."

  "Yeah. That's great."

  "Yeah."

  The pregnant pause. Henry had come here for a reason, but this was somewhere in the peripheral of his mind at this point. It's funny how creature comforts can move one from intention to laziness. Despite this, Henry's survival instincts, prone to predict abandonment, informed him they were likely the time for a shove off speech. Get a job, or go to school, or just plain leave. How much free food and lodging can one expect? Denzel looked at Henry oddly, and Henry knew there was more going on.

  "Henry, we need to talk about the man."

  "Oh? Has Officer Sanders checked in on me?"

  "No. Not that man, man, but the good man, the great man, Wiseman."

  "Where is he? Has he been hiding out here, too, this whole time?" Henry fe
lt like he could joke with Denzel, but apparently, he didn't think anything about Wiseman was funny. Hell, Henry had almost forgotten that he was here to meet him. There was a message, wasn't there? Someone at Black Star had brought him the printouts, the project data, told Henry something, but what? It was a fuzzy and distant memory. Take this stuff, it'll help you, and there's an address, find him it said. There was something about Wiseman in all that, too. Henry knew he'd escaped, and then, blurry time. Where were his printouts anyways? He kinda remembered leaving them somewhere.

  "Hey, friend, easy. Think of that old song, slow down, you're moving too fast."

  As if to be contrary, Henry stood up and paced around his seat before sitting back down again. "Can't you just be real for a minute? No more twenty questions? I've been here for, I don't know how long, a couple days, maybe a week, and you haven't said shit about how you know who I am, who you are, what's going on," Henry was agitated despite the ever-present happy vibe.

  "I know, man. When you came in the other night, just like he said, your aura was red hot. I never felt such compassion towards someone. You were vibrating like a raw nerve of energy. Had to let the water cool down from a boil."

  "I'm calm now."

  "I know, dude. That's what I'm telling you now. It's a tale I've never told."

  Denzel leaned back, savoring in the wizened wizard persona, about to drop some knowledge on our poor man's Frodo. Henry had wanted to buy a wizard staff for him at the swap meet, but again, there's some self-seriousness to Denzel that made some types of humor off limits. Maybe all hippies, beneath their chill calm are rage addicts, bitter about having so ultimately, and with such finality, lost the culture wars.

  Henry enhanced his calm, though still declined the offered bong hits. Had he ever gone so long without even pot? He couldn't remember and it didn't seem to matter. No matter what seemed to happen with Denzel, he couldn't shake feeling a mellow acceptance about it. Like accepting the dream logic, no matter how bizarre things became.

  "I'm all ears, man. I'm sorry I got worked up."

  "Aww, its ok, Henry. Just sit back, I've got a story for you."

  Henry actually grinned and felt like a dumb kid settling in for story time.

  "My piece in this started back in '78. You weren't even born yet, right? I was a research fellow at Berkeley. The good times were over. I had spent the entire 70s playing with awareness and psychedelic experiences. Funding was drying up as the public became disenchanted with altered states. I was spending time trying to hustle another grant, barely working. I'd also developed a pretty gnarly cocaine habit. That's when I met Wiseman, but he wasn't Wiseman then. He was Chucky Spencer. It’s complicated.”

  ***

  Denzel's office was a small, cramped, windowless interior room. Papers stacked on the floor, ashtrays overflowed, and the smell of patchouli permeated the air. Denzel sat at his desk staring at the letter of intent in front of him. Yellow paper. This was the university's way of letting him know, it's put out or get out. Dissatisfaction. Enrollment. Discontinue. Words and words of administrative contempt. Denzel perceived an underlying sense of glee beneath the words. Witch hunt. Every bridge burnt, every favor called in, and the university was revoking his tenure. Shit canned. Castaneda had been outed as an academic fraud by Rolling Stone. Leary was a crackpot. The students, once good time psychonauts, had been replaced with rising yuppies overnight.

  He wasn't sure how it was happening, but the world was changing, and not for the better. It felt for all the world like a grand conspiracy, but rather than managing Big Brother, the war for the minds of the people was being waged through media campaigns. Propaganda, Denzel knew, was the tool and materialism, self-interest, and wall street interests captivated minds, but left their hearts empty. It was only a few years before, when he could have conversations with students, meaningful discourse as they came ready to shrug off the baggage of their WASP mythology.

  Denzel opened the roll top drawer and stared at his dwindling cache of cocaine. He carefully filled the tip of his pen cap with a small bump and snorted it. The relief was immediate. He crumpled the yellow letter and tossed it aside. He grabbed his jacket and ran his fingers through his unruly, thinning hair. Grim resolve came with the rush of drug-induced confidence. If he was going to be forced out in some witch hunt against the sciences, he figured he could at least tell them where to stuff it.

  The campus was beautiful and just starting to wake with activity. The quad would soon fill with protestors and docents walking freshmen through the grand halls, retelling the storied history of the university, filling their heads with who and what they may become. Midsummer was always Denzel's favorite time. Fresh minds, a sea of Holden Caulfields, just innocent enough to be open, just jaded enough to question everything. Now he was dreading the influx of banality, of crew cuts and pastel polo shirts. Even their music was safe and boring. Maybe he should move to New York. He'd heard that there was still some interesting research happening over there.

  Denzel reached the campus message board without any run ins with his supposed rivals or campus bureaucrats. The board was a large corkboard affixed to a few railway posts, filled with signup fliers for various activities, announcements and band notices. Denzel's own signup sheet was bland and unassuming on white paper and no graphics. Unless you had a showy notice, something appealing to low standards, class notices were always in danger of being buried beneath young republican groups seeking volunteers to re-enslave the minds of America.

  Denzel read over the names on his sheet; Seymore Butts, Captain Beefheart, Sally Cumalot. He sighed and ripped the sheet down.

  "What do you think you are doing?"

  Denzel spun around to see a white woman in her mid-30s, wearing a tidy suit like the first lady might wear, peering at him with a half smile.

  "Do I know you, lady? I'm throwing out some trash."

  "Can I see it?"

  Denzel reluctantly handed the sheet to her and she read it out loud.

  "'Wanted: Sojourners into the unknown. Starry-eyed Starbucks to traverse the inner spaces and beyond into the void. Join Professor Denzel Borken in his quest to unlock the only secrets left to man. Course credits: 2 - Applied Parapsychology.' That's quite a gauntlet to throw down on these children, Denzel, isn’t it?"

  "The bureaucrats would appear to agree with you. The project is canceled."

  "That's a shame. I happen to agree with you, not the powers that be. There are secrets that no one is exploring."

  Denzel couldn't tell if she was poking fun or being earnest. After all, his cocaine highs had been turning aggressive on him lately.

  "Did someone put you up to this? Haven't I suffered enough humiliation?"

  She didn't answer right away so he turned to leave. Enough was enough. He knew a campus bar that opened early and he was feeling very thirsty.

  "Wait up. Someone did put me up to this, but not who you think."

  "What do you mean?" he said with a sigh.

  "Do you have a projector in your office?"

  "Yes. No. I can get one. Why?"

  She gestured to her suitcase, "I have something to show you."

  "Who are you?"

  She extended her hand in a very professional handshake, a gesture that seemed right in line with her suit, fuck, was she a lawyer?

  "I'm Cynthia."

  They walked back to his office, Denzel feeling a quickening of something interesting happening and also fear, that maybe the parents of a disappointed student, one who had a bad trip, had gone home and told mommy and daddy to sue the pants off the bad man who had given them drugs. He didn't think the latter was really what was going on; the chick seemed cold as a fish, but not coming at him with a litigious attitude.

  It took him just a few moments to wheel in a book cart carrying the flimsy but surprisingly heavy projector. He pushed stacks of papers off his desk. This was crazy. One crazy burnout being rooked by a conman. A conwoman. Either way, he was strangely excited.

  "Is
this going to be a stag film?"

  "No. I was a student of Edgar Cayce in '58. My path was not too different from your own. I saw the potential for discovery. The only difference is, we found something."

  "You're kidding."

  "Not at all. Just watch the film. It will explain everything, well, everything that can be explained." She had a coy smile and Denzel wondered again, what was this about?

  "Ok. It's ready. Show me what you got, lady."

  Denzel turned off the lights and the film started.

  The camera focuses on a light-skinned black man sitting at desk, hands resting easy on a table, soft light dim in a lime green office somewhere. His eyes were closed but he was not sleeping. A voice off screen, spoken in the crisp New England accent, "How are you feeling, Chucky?"

  "I feel good, like I'm laughing at a private joke God made just for me."

  "It's good to feel good, Chucky. Do you remember what you told me last time, about the path?"

  "Yes."

  "Go there now. The steps around the back of the big house."

  "And down the steps to the path, and down the path to water and out to the Quay and the tree."

  "That's right Chucky. Are you there?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you alone beneath the tree?"

  "No."

  The lights flickered in the film. Denzel felt chills as gooseflesh crawled up his arms.

  "Who is with you, Chucky?"

  "It's me."

  "Someone that looks like you?"

  "No. It's me."

  "If that is you, then who is speaking now?"

  The man opened his eyes, and the muscles beneath, even his entire physical posture, changed. It was the same man, but the simpleton expression was gone. This person was in control and very much aware. It gave Denzel the chills, but he'd seen people with Parkinson's straighten up after a hit of good weed.

  "Wiseman," he said by way of introduction.

  "Hello Wiseman."

  Denzel whispered to Cynthia, "dissociative disorder?"