The Little Demons Inside

by Micah Thomas

  He found his laughing place at last though. After checking that the door was locked and that he was alone, Jimmy opened a small locked drawer and took out the wand. It looked so much like a toy. He couldn't believe that the goons hadn't even asked about it. Almost no one had. It's like the device was overshadowed by the result that it had been forgotten. Jimmy didn't forget. The night of the Wiseman episode, after all the action died down, Jimmy, alone in his changing room, was also alone in the knowledge that he had lung cancer. He'd used the wand then, a simple press of the button, a red light not unlike E.T. and the healing fingertip, aimed at his own chest. The follow up x-rays would be later confirmed by blood work. The cancer was gone. He, Jimmy the clown, held the cure for cancer, missing limbs, and god knows what else. Should he open a clinic? Give this to the medical world? Keep it out of the hands of the rich and powerful? How? He put the wand back in the drawer and headed on stage with a huge grin on his face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HENRY WOKE UP.

  Where am I? Indoors. This is good. Oh, god, where am I? He looked around without raising his head, eyes darting around. He was in a bedroom, sparsely decorated. Homey in a rustic sort of way. Awareness of his body came in slow groggy punctuations. In a moment of panic, he realized he couldn't move. He squirmed around. Blinked a few times. He was himself. The inner noise of voices and perceptions, all quiet. Normal. It was then that he realized he was tightly wrapped in a quilt, tucked, almost swaddled like a baby. He freed himself and sat up.

  His thoughts were still running through a fog, like a bad hangover. He heard muffled voices from another room as he reached for his clothes, the hippie clothes, clean and folded on the dresser next to the bed. He glanced out the window, a desert landscape bounded by a fence line, and sheep and goats frolicking in the sunlight.

  "Hello?" Henry asked, in a funny, froggy-voice. He called out again, barely louder than a whisper, to whoever was out there.

  Maybe they couldn't hear him, he thought.

  He was wobbly on his feet, and had trouble getting his pants on, but when dressed he opened the door and was greeted by a cheerful, "Hey! You're awake!"

  A man, late 20's, with tattoo sleeves up and down his arms, and a coppery red beard stood to greet him. He took Henry's arm and guided him to a chair. They were joined by a woman, black hair done up in a Betty Paige style. She poured a glass of water from the small kitchen sink and offered it to Henry. He accepted it greedily.

  "You feeling better? Drink some water. Small sips," the woman said and looked at Henry like he was a sick puppy.

  Henry croaked a quiet, "Thank you. I'm Henry," then succumbed to a raspy coughing fit.

  "Cool. Henry. That's a good name. We were just calling you John Doe. But Bobbie says that's what you call a dead person, so we are happy you have a real name," the man said, beaming through both his engaging smile and bright eyes behind his thick glasses.

  Henry struggled to hold the water glass and managed to gulp a bit down and spilled a minimal amount on his shirt. These two were gentle, so god awfully gentle. Henry could tell they were good people, as they looked at him inquisitively.

  The man with the copper beard asked, "Were you hiking the trail?" then added, "I'm Del, this is Bobbie."

  "Nice to meet you," then added, "I should go." Henry started to stand but struggled, knocking the glass of water to the floor. Oh god, he was so very woozy and confused. What happened to the hippie? Where am I? He struggled to keep a coherent thought.

  "Easy, Henry," Del said.

  Blood rushed to Henry's head and he felt like he might pass out. He saw spots, little flashing black worms edging in on his vision.

  "He's coming off something strong," Del said to Bobbie, his voice a little bit country, but full of compassion. He spoke like someone that knew how it felt.

  Henry sat back down and stared off into space with glassy eyes.

  "Hey, I know what, why don't you lie back down?"

  That look of concern. Why is everyone always trying to help? Henry mumbled something incoherent, and allowed himself to be led to the couch and covered in a light colorful afghan, where he promptly wilted into a half sleep.

  "If he throws up again, you're cleaning it," Bobbie said and crossed her arms.

  "Easy. Look at him. This could have been me once upon a time."

  "Yeah. Ok. Let's give him a minute."

  "I keep thinking, where'd he come from? No ID. Nothing on him but the clothes on his back. How'd he even get out here?"

  "Maybe a witch turned him into a sheep and he just turned back?"

  "Yeah, except, we're still at the same count of sheep, so maybe not?"

  "Maybe he flew?"

  They laughed together as Henry drifted back into sleep. He wanted to stay awake, to tell them he didn't know how he got here, and that he should leave, most of all that he should leave.

  Sleep took hold and why couldn't it be normal dreams? No, he was awake in a faraway place. Awake, but mercifully alone. The inner landscape resolved to a place, dark and full of fog. Henry felt the moisture on his face and naked body. He was really here, wasn't he? It was uncannily familiar. He'd been here many times before. There, in the darkness, a path running between deep and darkly-forested depths. He felt no sense of hurry, and gazed deep to the right and left of the path, taking in the place, almost enjoying this awakened way of being there. Movement was a thought, pushing himself along. It wasn't walking, he was floating down the path, but dragging a bit, filling out sensory experience. The stepping stones smooth on his feet.

  This can't be real, he thought. Something was missing. The horrific race through the path. He'd been chased by something. But there was no fear this time. Maybe Mr. Dread is off jerking his dead dog dick somewhere. Or maybe he was different this time. He advanced towards the clearing and the tree at the edge of the water. Islands visible dotting the water out to the horizon, all illuminated by a starry night sky. As he expected, there was something waiting for him.

  Is this what Moses saw up on the mount? The fire was dancing around the tree. Is this a burning bush? As Henry approached, the flames burned bright in all shades, like staring into the sun, before shrinking down to the size of a baseball.

  The fiery orb hovered directly in front of Henry's face, blocking out the tree, blocking out the dark island shapes in the distance. Henry felt an intense longing, an ache deep inside. He felt these things, and also saw them from some disassociate place. He saw how he missed his mother, how badly he missed his own fucked up normalcy, and in this moment, he mourned his own lost future of things he'd never have, a job, a family, a life. He was going through some final stage ego death and mourned his own loss deeply and personal. The fire burned bright with this emotional fuel. Burned it away even, until only a quiet peace was left, and then offered a hunger to burn in its place. There were no words, only sensation and rising and falling emotion. Henry reached out to the fire and pulled something, the slight tug of inertial resistance gave way to a willingness to enter him and fill him with that excited incinerating combustion. Henry pulled the fire into his chest and looked down at his empty astral hands in the sudden darkening stillness.

  He was again aware of the tree, a small oasis that felt like in a dream, that it was made for him and him alone. And beyond, lapping black water and the outline of other small island keys. From nowhere and everywhere, a booming voice called out, "WHO IS THERE?" This wasn't Mr. Dread, the disembodied voiceless horror. This was serious. Something vast and monstrously powerful. He had images of mountains shaking in earthquakes, oceans rumbling in tsunami, anything awesomely vast and intimidating. Henry did not want to see the source of that voice.

  Henry ran like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, fleeing the tree, sprinting breathlessly through the disintegrating path as his vision faded, driven only by desire to escape that terrible voice. The dream dissolved into nothingness, and Henry felt less alone than before. The fire was no longer some distant place where he had to fetch it.
No. It was with him and he felt it in his chest even as he slept.

  ***

  Morning routines at the Sanders' household were usually divided into solo prep time for the three S's, shit, shower, and shave, followed by a light breakfast together sharing a newspaper and talking about the day. Dan, more often than not, would be planning the next neighborhood wine tasting event, something that had almost evolved into a business since he left the force. Sanders would listen to the gossip of the neighbors, who had a noisy beagle, what the association planned to do about enforcing no burn nights, and whether the new couple that moved in over a year ago would ever take up their responsibility to host a block party. Sanders didn't usually have much input beyond, oh, like you do, and sure, they'll do that. Today was different. He had something to propose and it was so out of character, he didn't know how the idea would land.

  "How would you feel about taking a vacation?" Sanders said, quickly taking a bite of buttered toast, in hopes that he came across as casual, and not immediately suspect. He had been stewing on how to suggest this ever since he'd said goodbye to Cassie.

  "Oooh! Oooh! Like get a cottage in some small New England town?"

  Dan always had a vacation plan ready to go. Sanders loved that spontaneity about him. At the drop of a hat, Dan knew where to get brunch, had an idea for the perfect date night, and vacation far and close, he was ready to go.

  "I was leaning towards the Pacific Northwest. Seattle."

  "That's random. What's this about, Sanders?" Dan asked.

  They were literally partners long before they were partners in the romantic sense. Dan still called him by his last name. Sure, he knew his first name, but old habits die hard.

  Sanders made it policy to never lie to his husband. Their life had enough deception on the outside of their four walls, but still, he felt very uncomfortable disclosing his motivations and the matter of Henry.

  "Well, for one thing, it's been years since we went anywhere really different, and no, Flag doesn't count. And Seattle is so very green, I hear."

  "Both true things. And?"

  "And, I need to ask a few questions while we're out there. Probably nothing."

  "Is this about that kid and the fires again?" Dan asked. He was a very good cop before retiring. His detective skills and intuitive leaps of logic make it impossible to pull one over.

  "Yes," Sanders said with a sigh of relief. Once it's out, the truth was often easier. It's just a matter of going first.

  "I thought you said was a closed case. Inexplicable electrical fire."

  "You know as well as I do that's code for 'we have no idea what happened.'"

  "But you know something else?"

  "Maybe. The arson investigation never even had a clue that there was someone else there, but I know. I know there was a young man at that house, a young man from Seattle. He was previously under the care of some sort of psychiatric practice."

  "And what will going to Seattle do for you that a phone call won't? You don't have to answer my questions. Really. I trust you and your gut."

  "Good. I think, and it's just a theory, that something happened to this kid. I don't know that he's done anything wrong, but something isn't sitting right with me about the place he was at. I need to understand this."

  "Christ. Where is this going?"

  "I don't know. If, once I have more information, I'll hand this off to someone, the press, medical ethics board, local police, someone."

  "You're really deep on this?"

  "All I know for certain is that I'm involved and I can't sleep at night because of it."

  "You know, it’s very sexy when your spider sense starts tingling."

  "Well."

  "Really, you would have made a very hot detective."

  "I... We made career choices for our own reasons."

  "I know. Let's do it. Can I pick the hotel?"

  "Absolutely."

  Sanders was relieved, and with Dan planning the trip, he could focus on engaging his contacts in Seattle. This did feel like detective work, and he loved it. His shift went faster when he had a project, some problem to divert his analytical mind away from the banality of every day evil. Isn't everyone like that? He had vacation time to spare, and Dan's wine events could be put on hold. It wouldn't be a sabbatical length excursion, but if he could just get closer, get a few more answers, then he could sleep. He'd contact his meager connections in Seattle and set up interviews. As for Black Star, he needed an in and didn't know where to go. Online searches produced web pages with smiling actors pretending to be doctors, but the content was so vague, he couldn't imagine what they were selling. He felt his generational gap the worst when on the internet. How had the world changed so fast? There was so much data out there, but so much of it useless. How do the kids sift through it all?

  ***

  "Wake up, Henry. You need to wake up."

  It was morning again, had he slept an entire day and night on the couch? At least he was still in a familiar place. Del, the man with the red beard, sat in a chair next to him.

  "Am I dead?" Henry half intended this to be a joke, but was mostly serious. He felt less hungover, but not straight by any means.

  "No, honey, but you are dehydrated and if you don't want to go to the hospital and deal with questions, you need to wake up and drink this."

  Henry drank from a glass and cringed at the extremely salty taste.

  "Ugh. That's not water."

  "No. It's Pedialyte, actually, veterinary Pedialyte. Like Gatorade on steroids. We give it to the sheep. Sip it. Don't gulp."

  Henry obeyed.

  "Do you remember me?"

  "Your name's Del, right? You washed my clothes. I'm in your house, somewhere," Henry said, leaving a million unanswered questions unasked.

  "That's right. Bobbie went into town, but she'll be back in a few. I'd offer you something stronger to drink, but we're a sober house, and you likely couldn't take it anyways."

  Henry chuckled at this.

  "Thanks, Del. I don't drink anymore either. I'm not sure if I'd call myself sober though."

  "I don't mean to pry, but it did seem like you were coming off something over the last few days. Do you use? I ask because if you want to get clean, I might be able to help. That's what I do, or did at least, before we moved to the farm. I do more of a general thing now, but addiction is pretty bad out here, too."

  Henry sat up and scratched his head. "I was clean, for a while, but someone drugged me. Thorazine, I think. That or more anti-anxiety or anti-psychotics. I don't really know."

  "The way you were, and I'm not calling you a liar, but it's not like you were sleeping off a single dose, or a ruffie."

  "No. You're right. They were dosing me of a week or more. I don't know. All I know is that I'm not looking forward to ever doing drugs again."

  "That part's good. Very good. Wanna sit on the porch out back? There's a nice breeze this morning, before its gets too hot."

  "Sure. I gotta piss first."

  "Right around the corner, brother. I'll be outside with a refill waiting for you."

  The house was what Henry thought of as a shotgun shack. You could see the back door from the front door. One bedroom to the left with a bathroom next to it. Henry realized that he must have been sleeping in their only bed. He was filled with a sense of self-revulsion at the series of charities and kindness he always seemed to take and take. Henry wasn't sure of his balance and sat down on the toilet. Not good to repay kindness with piss splashed on the floor. His stream lasted for an eternity, long enough for him to wonder how he had gotten here. There was a fire. He recalled a feeling of escape. Both familiar and echoes of something that came before, a memory that smelled like Seattle.

  "Oh, god."

  There'd been a gun. The hippie had a gun. Did Wiseman show up? Was that why he couldn't remember or was it the drugs?

  Washing his hands with the little white bar of generic unscented soap, Henry looked in the mirror for the first time. He look
ed like hell warmed over. Nearly a beard, as patchy as he was capable of, and sun burnt cheeks, sunken eyes. He thought he looked like a poster warning children of the perils of substance abuse. No wonder Del thought he was a junkie. He washed his face as best he could and went outside to join Del.

  "See, can't buy a better view than this," Del said gesturing to the purest blue sky, so blue and bright Henry saw spots in his eyes. The essential azure blue. Sienna mountains and burnt umber mesas beneath. It really looked like a painting.

  "Del, I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  "I don't know. For the inconvenience, for crashing your lives, for taking your bed."

  Henry found himself near tears as he tried to sum up an apology for his life. "I'm just a sorry piece of shit. I don't have any money to pay you for..."

  "For what? For our humanity towards another human being? Look, Bobbie and I have had our time in living hell of our own doing. We get it. I don't know your details, but I know the general circles of hades pretty well."

  They sat in silence. Henry sipping his salty drink as the sun climbed even higher.

  Henry broke the reverie, "I don't know what to do."

  "You wanna start with telling me what you've done?"

  "The short version is that I left Seattle, Washington, in a bad way, some weeks ago. I've lost track of time. I tried to find someone that I thought would or could help me, in Phoenix."

  "Did you? Find him I mean."

  "I found someone else. Not who I was looking for and no they didn't help me. They drugged me. I was... I trusted him. I guess he was an associate of, I don't know. It didn't work out. Something happened. I can't remember exactly, but then I woke up in your place."

  "Were any of these "they's" and "them" professional care practitioners?"

  "Well. No. Yeah. Back in Seattle that's one way they thought of themselves. I thought I was fucked up before I was in the Institute, but nothing compared to what they did to me, at least, I think. I can't remember too good right now."