Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Quotes
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
1
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
1
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
1
CHAPTER SEVEN
Epilogue
Epilogue
Afterword
Want Even more?
Author Info
SLEEP
A Novel
MICHAEL WRIGHT
Copyright © 2016 Michael Wright
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1533165246
ISBN-13: 978-1533165244
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;”
—Edgar Allan Poe “The Raven”
“Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas,
Everybody is looking for something.”
—Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams”
PROLOGUE
The voices were all around him. Whispering from the corners, thick, breathy sounds that filled the world around him, making all other sounds but their own hard to discern against the blackness that was pouring out from inside of him. They had been there for a long time, longer than he could even remember, and as he walked along he knew they were getting louder.
The street around him was nearly empty, the only sounds he could hear from the outside world was the dull rumble of cars and trucks as they rolled by and the pounding of raindrops against his coat, and the street. The dull plopping that they made in the puddles resembled to the whispers to him, and only added to the chaos inside of him.
The sky above had been black, with tints of gray, as if it were fading into old age. He wasn’t surprised, it was that time of year when the rains would come heavily from the coast and wash into the little North Carolina town. The wetness of it soaked the air around him, filling it with heaviness that made him feel weak, as if there were chains linked to his limbs, and he was struggling to pull them along.with him. In a way, he supposed there were, just chains that you couldn’t see. Ones that no matter of struggling could escape, and no matter how long you carried them, they never got lighter.
He stopped at a street corner, and saw cars coming in all directions pretty heavily. From the diner behind him, he could smell eggs, and burgers cooking. There was the faint aroma of burned coffee, stale and thick, even though dampened by the rain, mingled with the sickening sewage smell of the city. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone, swiped in the passcode and tapped the messaging app.
The voices around him grew louder.
A stoplight glowed menacing red at him, like the All Seeing Eye scanning for his precious treasure, seeking it from the hands of it’s would-be destroyers.
He tapped a message thread. Most of the messages were people he barely knew who had gotten his number through work, the church he had been attending off and on, or they were ads for Redbox, his bank info or some such . The top message however, was from Samantha, who he had been talking to a lot over the past week, and was regretting that he had been. They had talked so little for so many years, he had felt bad about the lack of communication that characterized their relationship, but at the same time, with the voices moving in so close, and the things that were coming, he was beginning to feel guilt at ever trying to build a new relationship with her.
—Jon, are you okay? Please answer.—
Sorry, Sam. He thought and locked the phone before sliding it back into his pocket. His sister wouldn’t understand what was going on if he even tried to explain it to her. She didn’t hear the voices like he did. He didn’t know why he did, and he had long ago given up trying to figure it out. Too much time had passed, and too many things had changed. The voices had gotten louder, and he had found out the best way to make them stop.
He paused to look back at the red light, still staring at him, cutting through his soul with it’s deep crimson gaze. It unsettled him, as if it were a harbinger of what awaited him, on that day when he would cross over the final line and step into the life ever after, which he feared more and more would be occupied with unimaginable horrors—the ones that walked his dreams and stalked his shadow while waking. The place that the voices had come from.
Jon glanced again, and saw that the street ahead of him was clear, he could not see any headlights heading his way from any direction.
The voices grew into a united stream and began to speak louder, he could hear them speaking to him in some unknown or ancient tongue. He didn’t know what they were saying, and deep down inside he felt glad that he couldn’t—he knew if he did that it would be something that would haunt him or shatter him. He knew the words though, he knew where they came from. What they wanted.
They were getting closer. They were coming.
There were doubts that began to crawl into his mind about what he was about to do. Even though after months of thinking he knew it was the right thing to do, it was the only thing that would make them go away at long last—how he desperately needed them to stop.
He rubbed an ear in attempt to be rid of the voice howling at him, tired of wrestling with it, and tried to push it back, trying to focus on the sounds he knew to belong to his immediate environment, the sound of the rain and the puddles. The smells of the diner were growing dim with the sounds, and he could begin to pick up the scent of something rotten. Dying. The familiar stench of decay—like eggs that had been left too long, or the sickly sweetness of tomato sauce growing mold. It was the smell of them, and he knew it. They were getting so close.
Not for long.
The voice spoke louder again, built of many, their fragments growing into one phrase repeated again and again, in an unearthly rhythm of syllables, ones too close together and too complex for the human tongue. They were speaking something so different from what he had ever heard them speak, and as the sound grew louder, he felt that they were coming closer to him. The smell grew stronger, and all around him the shadows grew longer, as if fingers from them were reaching out, reaching for his leg to pull him into the endless abyss of their abode.
He covered his ears, trying to silence them, trying to push away the voices in his head. Rain ran down his arms as the moisture rolling from his hood added a path, and he felt the cold drops sluicing down his sides, soaking into his shirt beneath the jacket.
He looked up again in that moment and saw the light beginning to change.
The time had come to put the voices to silence.
The voices pushed through his hands, and deeper into his skull, vibrating against his teeth in their inhuman chanting, pushing deeper and deeper, causing his head to pound and throb, as if it were trying to resist the sound. As if the voices were an infection.
Below the light on the other side of the street, a small gaggle of figures stood. Made of shadow. Watching him.
Jon yelled and pushed forward a little bit, trying something—anything—to make the sounds stop, to make the smell go away, to shake the feeling that they were right behind him, ready to grab and attack him. Ready to pull him into their realm and devour him.
But he would not let them. One way or another, he was going to be the master of his destiny, not as they had said, not as anyone had said—he was in control. They would not take him that way.
He felt hot breath on his neck, the stench filled his nostrils, and when he took another step, an intense explosion happened to his right.
There was the sound of screaming tires, elongated by the wet roads and poor brakes.
Bones cracked, and skin separated in a whisper, spilling blood through the jacket.
His face was dragged through the pavement as the vehicle swerved, and Jon felt all within him stop at once, he felt peace, and he knew that he had won.
Then he knew no more.
CHAPTER ONE
1
My name is Dr. Clark Bell, this is patient Jonathan Morgan, this session is taking place on the seventh day of August.
(A pause)
Bell: How have you been doing, Jon?
Jon: The same.
Bell: And what do you mean by that? What we talked about in our last session?
Jon: Yeah.
Bell: So the dreams are still bothering you?
Jon: Yeah.
(Pause)
Bell: What about the dreams are bothering you, Jon? Maybe it will help to talk about it some.
Jon: Maybe. I don’t think anything will help anymore.
Bell: Well, Jon that’s not the attitude that will help you. You know that.
Jon: Yeah.
Bell: So what’s going on in these dreams, Jon? I’m listening.
(A heavy sigh, the sound of a glass being lifted up and then being set back down loudly.)
Jon: They started a long time ago, as you know. After the…the thing… and they keep popping up every now and then, but they never really are consistent. There’s a lot of…variance in them.
Bell: Like what?
Jon: Sometimes, I see her, and she’s looking for me.
Bell: “Your mother?”
Jon: Yes. And she’s looking for me. Sometimes she looks like she’s supposed to, you know, whole. But other times, she has been dead for a while. In the grave. Her skin is gone, except for a few shreds, and she’s wearing chains, and wandering. She’s scared of something, and keeps looking behind her. The area around her is a desert. The chains look so heavy. She looks like she’s supposed to. But she’s never the same as she was. She’s always…looking for me, and calling me. Her voice is different, and it doesn’t make any sense. And in the dreams I know it’s not really her, it’s something else.
Bell: And what makes you think that, Jon?
Jon: Because they tell me. They say that it’s not really her,. That it’s someone else who’s looking for me, and that in time, I’ll look for them too.
Bell: And then what?
Jon: Then I look behind me, and I see these people. Well, they’re not really people, they’re more like…shadows. Like something that used to be something but isn’t any more, and it just left a stain from where it used to be. They’re shifty and never stay in one place. They keep moving—shifting.
Bell: And why is that?
Jon: I don’t know. But lately the dreams have been different. The people, they’ve been…sharper.
Bell: Explain that a little to me.
Jon: I don’t know how to exactly put it into words, but the shapes, they have voices, and those voices are getting louder in the dreams.
Bell: That scares you, doesn’t it?
Jon: Yes.
Bell: What scares you about that?
(A long pause. Complete silence.)
Bell: Jon?
Jon: Because, I think…I think they’re getting closer. And I can’t stop them from coming.
(End of recording.)
A sharp knock cut through the pouring rain , Clark jumped and whipped in the direction of the window.
“Are you coming?” A voice yelled from the other side, “I’m getting soaking wet out here!”
Clark Bell sat in the dark confines of his Honda. The engine was off, the radio dead—keys dangling from the ignition, waiting for his next move. The recorder sat in his hand as he leaned it on the steering wheel, in his other hand was a can, some energy drink he had picked up at a gas station hours ago before he had gotten the call.
“Yeah!” He yelled back, and tossed the recorder onto the passenger seat, among the papers and his satchel seated there since he had left the office earlier that afternoon. He slid the energy drink into the cup holder that was crowded with an old fast-food cup and coffee mug.
He grabbed the keys from the ignition, slipped them in his pocket as he slung the car door open and stepped out into the heavy downpour.
The water was icy, punctuating the October night bitterly and pushing Clark and the detective into the coroner’s office door that was dimly lit and just as cheerful appearing as it sounded.
The puddles washed up into his shoes, and he tried to ignore it as the cold water swam into the soles, soaking his socks and bringing a chill to his legs. He covered his head as best he could with his arm to keep the water from completely soaking his head, although he knew it was a fruitless effort. Water ran down his arm and splashed onto his brown hair that was already beginning to thin, plastering it to his forehead and draping it around his ears.
They reached the overhang in only moments from leaving the car, but both were soaked all the way through. Detective Morrison was wearing a hat, and pulled it off hastily, shaking off the excess moisture into the puddle behind him on the other side of the overhang. “Sorry about that,” he said, “but we needed you to come down here as soon as you could. I wish it was a better night.”
Clark shook his head, “Not like it really matters.”
Morrison nodded, “I hear you.” He pulled open the door and gestured for Clark to walk ahead of him.
Clark wiped his feet off the best he could before he entered into the dark gray hallway which bounced the squeaks of his shoes back at him. Behind him, Morrison followed and closed the door, bringing the thunderous pouring of water down to a dull rumble in the distance.
“Straight ahead.”
He nodded and began walking down the hall, past the various posters that depicted law enforcement procedures and safety promotions—all of them old, and outdated, very far into the who-gives-a-good-crap bin of the human mind. Caked with age from the flickering boxed lights that were overhead. They matched the foam tile drop-in ceiling that was long past overdue on being replaced.
“Sorry to call you out here so late, but we were fresh out of options.”
“I understand.”
“He had your card in his wallet, and you’re listed as an emergency contact. We tried to notify next of kin, but no answer from the father, and the sister said that she couldn’t be here for a couple days.”
“She lives across the country, so it’s no surprise.”
“And the dad?”
“He’s just a jerk.”
Morrison paused, “Oh.”
“It speaks volumes for our society when you have to call in the shrink to help handle people’s affairs.” Clark sighed, “But anyway…”
Morrison nodded, and continued walking for a moment. “How have you been, Dr. Bell? It’s been awhile.”
Clark hated that question. He always had, which was so ironic considering that was what he was paid to do every single day. He supposed that there was a difference in why he asked that question as opposed to everyone else who did. Other people, especially ones who knew what happened, didn’t seem to have the same right to ask those kinds of questions.
“As good as can be expected. How’s Patricia?”
Morrison shrugged, “She’s still in remission. She goes in for another scan next week.”
“Best of luck to you, then.” Clark said, “I hope it all comes out okay.”
“You and me both, doc.”
Clark gestured toward the door on the far end of the hall. “That one?”
“Yeah, straight ahead.”
He nodded, “Is there anything I need to know about this, detective? I mean, I was kind of called out of the blue here, so I would like to prepare myself if it’s not exactly gonna be pretty.”
Morrison sighed, “Yeah. It looks pretty open and shut. The kid was on the curb and apparently stepped out before it was his time to walk. Impatient in the rain I guess, tired of getting wet, and a car ran right into him. It was a late model Impala, so not a
small vehicle. Dragged him on the street for a few yards before the driver could fully stop. He was DOA. The driver was a fifty year old woman, who never even saw him out there.”
Clark’s stomach sunk deeper,“Is he bad?” Which was simply polite speak for: how screwed up is his face? Is he bloody? How much blood is there?
“The dragging happened along his back, so his face and torso are only bruised up pretty bad, so you should be able to make a positive ID on him without us running dental. Again, I’m sorry for pulling you out here this late, but we didn’t want to leave him sitting in the cooler for this long if we have an emergency contact here in town.”
“I understand, detective.” Clark sighed, “I just wish that none of this was necessary.”
“I do too, doc. These kinds of cases are always something that I wish I could avoid.”
The door in front of them was thick metal with a glass insert placed just at eye-level, it allowed him to look into the room beyond him to see white walls lined with cabinets, doubtless filled with different sorting materials and tools. On the far end of the wall was the fridge with it’s long iron drawers, holding the cadavers of heaven knew how many people sitting in their eternal sleep. Waiting to be sorted and dumped into the ground. In the center of the room was the inevitable metal table that waited for all to come. He could see a man speaking to an orderly, holding a clipboard and pointing harshly at a line toward the top.
Clark glanced back at Detective Morrison and on his go-ahead, pushed open the metal door, and felt the cold air of the morgue sweep into the hallway, chilling his wet skin further and sending a shiver running down his arms, spiking the fine hairs in a swirling dance.
The tile beneath him chattered back at his now only partially damp footsteps. The cool air of the room swept all around him,swallowing him up. As he looked around, he felt a sterile chill pierce into his bones in the overly sanitized, yet somehow defiled, room. There was the pungent smell of death and bleach, way too much bleach. It reminded him of the vacant, dim halls of a hospital. It was a smell he was all too familiar with.
Sleep Revised Page 1