Behold the Void

by Philip Fracassi

  * * *

  We tested the room many times. Mother inspected every inch of the walls, the floors, the vents, the cameras. Inspected the restraints, the heavy steel cuffs, the chains and cables that held them, the clasps that bound them fast to the wall.

  The first night we were all a bit nervous.

  Mother had always been with Father’s friends on these nights. They were infrequent, yes, but regular. But Father seemed calm, and we both helped secure her to the new restraints. She smiled at me as I locked her wrist tight. She watched our work closely, studied the clamps around her wrists, tested them. She yanked her arms against them hard, making them clink. I took an unthinking step away from her.

  “Not that testing them now matters,” she said that first time, smiling sadly at Father. “I’m half the strength.”

  “If that,” Father agreed, but nodded. “They’ll hold. They could hold a mad gorilla.”

  Later, Father and I sat outside the room. Father watched the monitors closely. I sat on a stiff, dusty-smelling couch behind him, reading a comic book.

  “There,” Father said.

  I set down my comic, walked over to the monitors. I watched in grainy color, like a television, as my mother turned.

  Her eyes, then her skin. She looked up at the cameras, watching us watching her. As I looked on in fascination, she went still. Sort of... slumped. I held my breath. A trick, I thought.

  Then she went mad. A whipping tornado wrapped in flesh, all teeth and nails, venom and fire. Her mouth spread open, chin dropping impossibly, eyes bulbous, her muscles doubling in size, squeezing against the inside of the restraints. She screamed at the pain. Pure fury. She looked so strong. She thrashed and kicked like a pale-skinned monster.

  “Holding just fine,” Father said, sounding relieved, and a bit proud. “Holding just fine.” He turned to me and smiled.

  “She won’t be getting us tonight.”

  * * *

  In the months after Mother’s first night in the new room, things went perfectly. I enjoyed having Mother home more, even though some nights I couldn’t see her. It comforted me because she was still there. Still home. Even if she was locked away.

  Father’s friends came over and watched the first few times, assuring themselves of the safety and security of the room. I sat nearby and listened while Father explained the fail-safes to them. He patiently explained the gas, and the timer.

  The men watched, some shifted their feet. A few turned away from the monitors.

  When they were all there, crowded around, I could not see Mother on the screens, but I knew she had already turned. They called it turning because she turned a little and she was one thing. But then she kept turning, and was herself again. Turning and turning forever. The Great Fear was that she would turn and not turn back. It had happened to others. I always prayed it would never happen to her.

  “Here,” Father said, and flipped a switch.

  The room filled with screams. Mother’s screams. They were terrible. They reminded me of a screeching eagle I had seen on television. Screeching so loud it echoed in the room around us, swirled around our heads.

  “She could talk if she wanted,” Father said, raising his voice to be heard. “She could sound just like herself. But not when she’s angry like this.” He watched her writhe a moment, as if considering. “Not when she’s hungry.”

  “Turn it off,” one of the men said, the biggest one.

  Father flipped the switch and the screeching stopped, leaving the room so thick with silence no one dared speak.

  “Should he be here?” one man said, tilting his head toward me. Another man turned around to look at me, eyes narrowed, but by doing so exposed the small screen on the desk. I could see Mother, naked and twisting, bleeding from the wrists, teeth large and snapping, black tongue whipping across her lips.

  Father looked at me, then back to the man, holding his eyes. The man seemed nervous and swallowed, and said nothing more.

  After a while they all seemed satisfied. They waited until the morning, waited until Mother was okay to be let out. Father went in, dressed her, treated her wounds. After a few minutes they came out. As always, Mother seemed tired, her skin slick with sweat and covered in a hot rash, but pleased to have it behind her. Wrapped up in a coarse green blanket, she looked at me and winked. I tried to wink back—it was hard doing just one eye—but she smiled so I figured I’d done close enough.

  They all talked then for a long time. I got bored and wandered across the basement and upstairs. I went outside, closed my eyes, and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood. Cars rolled by. Kids laughed from somewhere in the distance; behind a neighbor’s house, maybe. I opened my eyes, saw a man watering some bushes with a hose, watching me. It was so sunny and peaceful… I’ll never forget it.

  After a few minutes I turned away, went back inside, and closed the door.

  * * *

  Once the routine had been established, I felt we were just like any other family.

  The last evening, we sat around the dinner table. Mother had prepared fish and salad. We didn’t eat meat.

  I drank milk. I drank a lot of milk, because my parents assured me it would help me grow. And I wanted to grow. Wanted it more than anything. I would be thirteen in two days, and I couldn’t wait. Thirteen meant manhood. Thirteen meant adult.

  That night, I watched my parents eating, smiling, content. My father opened a bottle of wine, which is what parents drink instead of milk. I watched Mother closely, looking for signs. I’d been trained what to look for, although I knew it was unnecessary, because Mother always knew first, knew way before Father and I knew. We almost depended on her, in a way, to tell us. To let us know when it was time to go into the basement, into the room.

  If she didn’t tell us, it’s possible we might not know in time. That’s how fast it happens. One second, a loving mother. The next, death.

  “Mom,” I said, picking up a green bean with my fingers and biting off the tip. Mother turned to study me, cocked her head.

  “You have a fork,” she said.

  I took another bite. She always said that about the fork.

  “Do you think...” I said, flushed with the embarrassment of the young and ignorant. “Will I be like you one day?”

  I knew there were others like Mother. Hundreds. I also knew you could become like her if she attacked you. Spread into you. Mostly people died when attacked, but some lived, and then they turned too. Like vampires or zombies, but real.

  Mother’s eyes went to Father, who looked at me like I’d said something sad. Their eyes met a moment while he gathered his thoughts.

  “The truth is, Son, we don’t know,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin before setting it neatly down on his empty plate. “Not yet.”

  I finished the green bean, took a drink from the heavy milk glass they always gave me. “When?” I asked.

  “Soon,” he said, looking more troubled. “When you’re... when you’ve become a man.”

  “I’m almost thirteen now!” I cried out excitedly, knocking a knife off the table with my elbow. It clattered to the floor.

  “It’s more than just age that makes a grown-up.”

  I was confused. “What, you mean when I’m a dad?”

  Father laughed, and Mother smiled, but it was a sad smile, the one she used before she went into the room. The one she used when she told me everything would be all right.

  “No, not that kind of man. When you are through puberty. There will be... signs,” he said, then hurriedly added, “but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  I smiled, set down my milk and burped. “Because we can build another one. Just for me,” I said. “Right? We’re good at it now. I can have my own room.”

  Father looked at his plate, set his fork down on the table.

  Mother said nothing.

  * * *

  Later, we were watching television when Mother announced she was going to turn, and soon. She said it felt stro
ng this time. Hours, maybe.

  Father looked at her, nodded. He turned off the program, a documentary on the migration of birds.

  I was sad, even more sad than usual. I sulked, but knew it wouldn’t make a difference. I didn’t want Mother to get locked up, so I delivered my best, haughtiest frown, and walked out of the living room. Mother called after me, but I kept walking into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

  After a little while I grew bored of sulking, and anxious about Mother. I ventured back out, expecting my parents to already be downstairs. But they were there, waiting.

  “You okay?” Father said.

  I nodded, sniffed, wiped at my mouth. I turned to Mother. I didn’t want to help that night. I wanted to be a normal boy, with a normal mother. I didn’t want to see her turn. That night, I figured, I could pretend.

  “Will you tuck me in?”

  She set down her magazine, stood up and came toward me. I was too big for her to pick up, but she hugged me hard. I felt her hot breath on my neck.

  It smelled foul.

  I snuggled underneath the covers while Mother stood over me, stroking my forehead. The light in the ceiling gave her a halo and left her face in shadow. Her bob of hair made her head seem bigger than it was, expanding the black shape of her head upward and outward, tiny wings at the tips.

  “Will you sing me to sleep?”

  She nodded, reached out and switched off the light. I felt her weight on the bed. I wondered how much time she had.

  “What shall I sing?” she asked, her voice a husky whisper. “How about Jesus Loves Me?”

  I shook my head, then realized she probably couldn’t see me. Her eyes sparkled in the dark. She coughed.

  “Sing the hush one.”

  She placed a hand on my arm, squeezed it. She sighed, then sang softly, almost in a whisper.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word,

  Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  I closed my eyes, let Mother’s voice float into my mind, fill my body with her love, her words. I let myself drift.

  And if that mockingbird won’t sing,

  Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.

  And if that diamond ring turns brass,

  Mama’s gonna buy you...

  She stopped suddenly.

  I opened my eyes. I was almost asleep, annoyed she’d stopped at my favorite part. “A looking glass,” I prodded. “Like Alice.”

  Her hand tightened on my arm. She was a dark shape on my bed.

  “Mom.”

  The dark shape did not move, did not speak. Her hand squeezed me harder.

  “Mom.”

  * * *

  Hours later, Father came upstairs, poked his head into my room.

  “You awake?” he said.

  “Sorta,” I replied. I hadn’t been, but he’d woken me. Like he needed to talk, to not be alone.

  “I just, well, I wanted to tell you everything is just fine, Son. Nothing to worry about.” He laughed, but strangely. Like pretending. “It’s all pretty routine now, eh?”

  I nodded, hoping it was true, and closed my eyes.

  “Well, goodnight then. I love you.”

  I listened to Father leave. After a moment, I heard the sound of the basement door open, heard his footsteps going down the stairs.

  As the sound of his steps grew fainter, then vanished, exhaustion took hold. I fell back asleep; a strange half-sleep, half-dream state. I dreamed of the cells inside my blood, forming and re-forming, clustering like galaxies, making me a universe.

  I woke in the middle of the night, shaking and upset. I’d had a nightmare. I couldn’t remember. The house was deathly quiet.

  Father would still be in the basement, watching Mother.

  My bedroom was pitch dark. There was no moonlight, no light from other houses, no light from the street. It was a small, quiet neighborhood, and late at night, like this, it was as if the whole street just turned off. Click.

  I was thirsty, and I had to go.

  I went to the bathroom, washed my hands, and walked into the hallway. The lights were all off, so I stood there a moment, in the dark, the floor cold beneath my feet, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then I went to the living room, past my parents’ bedroom, which I noticed, without surprise, was empty. Then to the kitchen.

  I got a glass, stuck it under the sink, let the water get cold. I filled the glass and drank down the whole thing. I never took a breath.

  The door to the basement was open a little. Light came through the slit.

  This was unusual.

  Father always locked the door to the basement when Mother was in the room. Not to keep me out, but as a “precautionary measure.” Protocol.

  I stood there, holding the glass, looking at the bar of light. I listened but heard nothing. Nothing at all.

  I decided to go downstairs.

  At the bottom I saw Father standing over the monitors, looking tense. He turned quickly, saw me there. His eyes were wide, his face strained.

  “What are you doing?”

  I shrugged. “I was thirsty.”

  Father licked his lips, looked at the monitors again, then at the steel door that led to the room. Where Mother was.

  “Dad?”

  Father raised a hand. “Stay there. Just... stay there. Okay?”

  I was confused. I was always allowed to go to the room. My parents never hid what happened in the room from me, hid what happened to her. They wanted me to know, to be aware, to fear it, but not fear her. It was the only way, they used to say. “We all have to be in this together,” Mother always said. “Or we will all die.”

  Father pressed something on the wall by the door, and there was a sharp hiss, and a sound of metal sliding on metal, and the door clicked open, pushing outward a couple of inches.

  He opened the door, I thought, hardly believing it.

  Without looking back, Father pulled the door wide, peered inside.

  “Dad,” I said. This was not procedure, I knew that. This was not procedure in the slightest. I watched him as he stared into the room, the back of the door blocking my view. I waited.

  There was no sound coming from the room. No screeching, no gurgling chatter, no panting. None of the usual sounds Mother made.

  Father turned to me once more. “I was wrong. I need you.” He wiggled his fingers, wanting me to come closer.

  I didn’t want to. I was afraid. But he needed me, and the room was so quiet, and I was almost a man. I started toward him.

  “No!” Father snapped, holding up a hand once more. “Sorry,” he said, wiped the hand over his face. “Wait until I’m inside. Then come over here and watch. Open the intercom if you have to, but watch the monitors. When you see me wave at you, open the door and let me out. Understand?”

  I did, and I nodded.

  “But only if your mother is still restrained. If she’s not restrained, do not open the door. No matter what. Okay?”

  I nodded again. “Because sometimes she pretends.”

  Father looked at me a moment longer. He looked as sad as I’ve ever seen him, like he had something else to tell me. He started to say it, then lowered his head. “When I wave.”

  Then Father went into the room.

  The heavy door sealed shut behind him.

  I walked slowly to the desk where the monitors and the intercom were. I pushed aside the rolling black chair Father always sat in, looked at the screens.

  They flickered once, and I saw a flash and vague movement.

  Then they went completely black.

  I tried pressing the small power button in the lower corner of the monitors. Turned them off, then on. Off, then on. A small red light by the button proved they were on, and powered.

  Then why are they black? I wondered. And how am I supposed to see Father wave?

  I waited. I studied the steel door. My eyes went to the large rectangular black button next to it, the one Father had pressed. It was as big as my whole hand. I had pressed it
before. I knew how to do it. How to open the door.

  I shook off the idea for the moment, looked at the other machinery on the desk. There was the black intercom box. Next to it was the switch that turned it on, or “opened it up,” as Father said.

  There was a long green box with cables running out the back, toward one of the walls of the room. I knew this box controlled the gas. There was a clear plastic tab that flipped up, and under the plastic tab was a black button. When you pressed the button, the gas in the room released, and everyone who breathed it would die. Everyone, whether they were human or not.

  There was a thin black screen with red digital numbers on the box. It was a timer. I saw it counting down. It was at 18:43:06. A second later, it showed 18:43:05. Next to the timer was a knob and a switch. The knob, I remembered, made it more time or less time. The switch turned it on or off.

  I left it alone.

  I pulled the chair over and sat down. I waited, humming to myself the song Mother sang earlier that night, hoping the screens would come back to life, show me what was happening inside the room.

  I moved my hand to the intercom switch, flipped it. Listened carefully. But there was nothing. Some light static, maybe a sound of some shuffling, some heavy sliding movement. But nothing else. Father wasn’t yelling for me. Mother wasn’t screeching like an eagle. It was like the room was empty.

  After a few minutes, I went to the couch that sat against the wall facing the steel door. I sat down, then laid down.

  I was still very tired. It was the middle of the night.

  I fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  Mother.

  “Hello? Can you hear me, sweetie? Can you hear Mommy?”

  I woke up to her voice and opened my eyes, stared straight at the steel door.

  Still closed.

  I stood up, rubbed one eye with the heel of my hand, and walked over to the desk. I was so tired but I knew I should stay awake. Father might need me.

  I sat in the black swivel chair, eyelids heavy, shoulders slouched. I looked at the green box, the one with the timer counting down.