The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2013 Edition

by Paula Guran [editor]

  Roman looked vaguely about him. “Not very flattering, is it? Sounds like someone I knew—but it doesn’t feel like it happened to me personally. Apparently it’s me.”

  Fyodor typed in his laptop, Possible dissociation due to unacceptable self-image.

  “But since last year—your memories seem like . . . you?”

  “Yes—since last year. All that seems real. I can’t remember anything before that unless somebody reminds me, and then it’s . . . like remembering an old television episode. Except I can’t really remember those either . . . ”

  Roman’s eyes kept wandering to the Victorian fixture hanging from the ceiling. “That fixture’s been here a hundred years.”

  “I would have thought it’s older than that, really, as this house was built in the early nineteenth century,” Fyodor said absently, adjusting his laptop to make sure Roman couldn’t see what he was typing.

  “No,” Roman said firmly. “Installed early twentieth century. But it was made in the nineteenth.”

  Fyodor made a note: Possible grandiosity? Faux expertise syndrome? “Your mother says you feel your name is not Roman. Although she showed you a birth certificate. Do you feel the birth certificate is . . . ”

  “Is faked, unreal—part of a conspiracy?” Roman chuckled. “Not at all! What I said was, I feel my name is not Roman. I answer to it for simplicity’s sake. And as for what my name really is—I truly don’t know. Roman Boxer is correct—and incorrect. But don’t waste your time asking why that is, I don’t have an answer for you.”

  “And this started when you took a walk on a beach . . . ”

  “Yes. Last September. We went to Sandy Point. Myself and . . . well . . . Mother. She has a little place at Sandy Point . . . so I have learned. My real memories start—really, as soon as I arrived on the beach that day. Before that I don’t remember much. She’s prompted a few memories, but . . . ” He cleared his throat. “Well, I was feeling odd from the moment I stepped onto the sand.” He smiled dourly. “Not ‘feeling myself.’ And then—it’ll take some telling . . . ”

  “Tell me the story.”

  Roman brightened. “Now that I enjoy. I’ve got half a dozen notebooks filled with my stories. But this one is true. Very well: It was a fine Indian summer afternoon. I was in the mood to be alone—this woman who insists she’s my mother, even then she often put me in that mood—so I went out to Napatree Point. Big sandy spit of land, you know. The sea looked blue, fluffy clouds scudding in the sky, a real postcard picture. Just me and the gulls. Now, I don’t much care for walks on the beach. Rather dislike looking at the unidentifiable things that wash up there. And the smell of the sea—like the smell of some giant animal. I’d rather go to the library. But I keep hearing people talk about how inspirational the sea is. I keep looking to connect with that Big Something out there. So I was walking on the beach, trying to shake the odd feeling of inner dislocation—I did manage to appreciate the way the light comes through the top of the waves and makes them look like blue glass. I shaded my eyes and gazed way out to sea, trying to see all the way to the horizon—and I got this strange feeling that something was looking back at me from out there.”

  Fyodor repressed a smile, and typed, Enjoys dramatization.

  “All of a sudden I felt like a giddy little kid. Then I had a strange impulse—it just charged up out of my depths. I felt it go right up my spine and into my head, and I was yelling, ‘Hey out there!’” Roman cupped his hands to either side of his mouth, mimicking it. “‘Hey! I’m here!’ I don’t know, I guess I was just being spontaneous, but I felt truly very impish . . . ”

  Fyodor typed: Odd diction, archaic vocabulary at times. It comes and goes. Possibly clinically labile? Showing agitation as he tells the story.

  “ . . . and I yelled ‘I’m here, come back!’ and it’s funny how my

  own voice was echoing in my ears and a response just came into my head from nowhere: They tolled—but from the sunless tides that pour . . . And I yelled that phrase out loud! I’m not sure why. But I’ll never forget it.”

  Auditory hallucination, Fyodor typed. Feelings of compulsion.

  Roman squirmed in his chair, licked his lips, went on. “It was a curious little thing to think—like an unfinished line of poetry, right?”

  Use of antiquated expressions comes and goes: e.g., curious. Affectation?

  “And as soon as I said it I heard gigantic big bells ringing, like the biggest church bells you ever heard—and it sounded like they were coming from under the sea! A little muffled, and watery, but still powerful. It got louder and louder, the sound was so loud, it hurt my head, like I was getting slapped with each clang of the bell, and each time it rang it was as if the sea, the stretch of the sea in front of me, got a little darker, and pretty soon it just went black—the whole sea had turned black . . . ”

  Hallucinogenic episodes, possible seizure—drug use?—

  “ . . . And no, I don’t use drugs, doctor! I can see you thinking it!” He smiled nervously, straightening his tie. “Never have got into drugs! Oh fine, a few puffs on a bong once or twice—barely felt it.”

  Fyodor cleared his throat—strangely congested, it was difficult to speak at first—and asked, “This vision of the sea turning black—did you fall down during it? Lose control of your limbs?”

  “No! Well . . . I didn’t fall.” Roman licked his lips, sitting up straight, animated with excitement. “It was as if I was paralyzed by what I was seeing. The blackness sucking up the ocean was holding me fast, you see. But it was really not so much that the sea was turning black—it was that the sea was gone, and it was replaced by a . . . a night sky! A dark sky full of stars! I was looking down into the sea, but in some other way I was gazing up into this night sky! My stomach flip-flopped, I can tell you! I saw constellations you never heard of, twinkling in the sea—galaxies in the sea!—and one big yellow star caught my eye. It seemed to grow bigger, and bigger, and it got closer—till it filled up my vision. Then, silhouetted on it, was this black ball . . . a planet! I rushed closer to it—I could see down into its atmosphere. I saw warped buildings, you could hardly believe they were able to stand up, they seemed so crooked, and cracked domes, and pale things without faces flying over them—and I thought, that is the world called . . . ” He shook his head, lips twisted. “Something like . . . Yegget? Only not that. I can’t remember the name precisely.” Roman shrugged, spread his hands, and then laughed. “I know how it sounds. Anyway—I was gazing at this planet from above and I heard this . . . this sizzling sound. Then there was a flash of light—and I was back on the beach. I felt a little dizzy, sat down for awhile, kept trying to remember how I’d gotten to that beach. Could not remember, not then. The memory of what I’d seen in the sea, the black sky—that was vivid. And what was before that? Arriving at the beach. Notions of escaping from some bothersome person.”

  “Nothing before then?”

  “An image. A place: I was lying in a small bed, in a white room, with this sweet little nurse holding my hand. Remembering it, I had a yearning, a longing for that bed, that nurse—that white room. For the comfort of it. I could almost hear her speak.

  “Then, on the beach, I felt this scary buzzing in my pocket! I thought I had a snake in there, and I was clawing at it, and then . . . something fell out. This shiny, silvery, little machine fell onto the ground. It was buzzing and shaking in the sand like it was mad. I could see it was some kind of instrument—a device. It seemed strange and familiar, both at the same time, right? So I had to think about how to make it work and I opened it and I heard this tiny voice saying, ‘Roman, Roman are you there?’ It was the . . . it was my mother.” He stared into the distance. His voice trailed off. “My mother.”

  “But you didn’t recognize the thing as a cell phone?”

  “After she spoke, I remembered—but it was like something from a science-fiction movie I’d seen. Star Trek. I couldn’t recall buying the thing.”

  Fyodor made a few notes and no
dded. “And since then—the persistent long-term memory issues, your own name seeming unfamiliar. And you had feelings of restlessness?”

  “Restlessness. An inner . . . goading.” Roman settled back in the chair, staring up at the antique light fixture. “I would have trouble sleeping. I’d go out before dawn for these long rambles . . . in the old section of Providence—with its mellow, ancient life, the skyline of old roofs, Georgian steeples . . . ”

  Archaic affectations cropping up more frequently as patient reminisces.

  “You said you felt like you were looking for something—?”

  “Correct. And I didn’t know what. Just this feeling of ‘It’s right around the next corner, or maybe around the next one’ and so on. Till one day—I was there! I was standing in front of this house, looking at your sign. It was closed—I took a cab to a Target store, just opening for the day. I bought a little crowbar. Went back to the house—the rest is history. I still don’t know exactly what it is about this house. You just bought the place, right? How’d you find it, doc?”

  “Oh, my mother suggested it to me, actually. She was in real estate before she . . . ” Fyodor broke off. Not good to talk about personal matters with a patient. “So—anything else? We’re about out of time.”

  “Your mother! She was committed, right?” Roman grinned mischievously. “The inspiration for your career! And you an only child, too, like me—imagine that!”

  Fyodor felt a chill. “Uh—exactly how—”

  “Don’t get spooked, doc,” Roman chuckled. “It’s the Internet. I googled you! The paper you wrote for the Rhode Island Psychiatric Association—it’s online. Tough childhood with sick mother led you to want to understand mental illness . . . ”

  Fyodor kept his expression blank. It annoyed him when a patient tried to turn the tables on him. “Okay. Well. Let’s digest all this.” He saved his notes and closed his laptop.

  “No therapeutic advice for me, Doctor Cheski?”

  “Yes. Something behavioral. Don’t commit any more burglaries.”

  Roman came out with a harsh laugh at that.

  Roman Boxer went home with the woman he doubted was his mother. Fyodor watched through a window as they got into her shiny black Lincoln.

  An unstable young man. Perhaps a dangerous young man—researching his doctor’s background, breaking into his office . . . twice. He should not be seen here.

  Roman refused to be committed. “I won’t take those horrible psychiatric meds. I don’t wish to be a zombie. I’ll just run off, end up back here again. This is the place. It took me a long time, wandering around Providence, to find it. I know, Mom says I never lived here. But I was happy here once. I have to get help right here . . . ”

  Roman and his mother were both amenable to the use of SEQ10, to search out the core trauma, since it was something the patient only took on a temporary basis, with the doctor in the room. There were forms to be filled out, approval from the APA. Fyodor went to his office, feeling restless himself. He wished he’d tucked a bottle of brandy away in the house. But he was trying to keep his drinking down to a dull roar. Too bad the wine in the basement was off. Be crazy to drink the stuff anyway.

  He puttered at his desk, organizing his computer files, sending out e-mails to colleagues who might want to rent office space. Making the occasional note on Roman Boxer. The late November wind hissed outside; the windows rattled, the furnace vents rumbled and oozed warm air. He wished he’d asked Leah to work late. The big old house felt so empty it seemed to mutter to itself every time the wind hit it.

  About 9:30, Fyodor’s cell phone vibrated in his pants pocket, making him jump.

  Fyodor reached into his jacket and fumbled the phone out—his hands seemed clumsy tonight. “Hello?”

  “You forgot me . . . ” It was his mother’s smoky voice—a bad connection, other voices oscillating in and out of a sea of static in the background.

  “Mom. How did I . . . ? Oh. It’s that night?” It was his mother’s night to call him. She must have called his home first.

  “You bought the house . . . ”

  “Yes—thanks for the tip. I sent you a note about it. You’ve got a good memory. So long ago you were selling houses. I’m hoping if I can rent out the other rooms as offices it’ll more than pay for the mortgage. . . .You still there? This connection . . . ”

  “I was born . . . ” Her voice was lost in the crackle. “ . . . 1935.”

  “Right, I remember you were born in 1935—”

  “In that house. I was Catholic. Lived there till I got married. Your father was Russian Orthodox. Father Dunn did not approve. Father Dunn died that year . . . ” Her voice sounded flat.

  But it was difficult to make out at all.

  He frowned. “Wait—you were born in this house? I’m sure you showed me a house you were born in—it was in Providence, but . . . it was an old wreck of a place. I don’t recall where I was a kid. . . . But then the agent said they restored it . . . ” Could this really be that house?

  “ . . . Through sunken valleys on the sea’s dead floor,” she said, as the wind howled at the window.

  “What?”

  The phone on his desk rang. He jumped a little in his seat and said, “Wait, Mom . . . ”

  He put the cell phone down, answered the desk phone. “Dr. Cheski.”

  “Fyodor? You weren’t at home . . . here you are!” It was his mother. Coming in quite clearly. On this line. “You need to talk to that psycho Psych Tech, he’s following me around the ward.”

  Sleet rattled the window glass. “Mom . . . You playing games with their phones there? You get hold of a cell phone? You’re not supposed to have one.”

  On impulse he picked up the other phone. “Hello?”

  “They tolled but from sunless tides . . . ” Then it was lost in static—but it did sound like his mother’s voice, in a kind of dead monotone.

  Monotone—and now a dial tone. She’d hung up.

  He put the cell phone slowly down, picked up the other line. “What, Mom, have you got a phone pressed to each ear?”

  “You sound more like a patient than a psychiatrist, Fyodor. I’m trying to tell you that the ‘Psycho’ Tech who claims he works here is . . . What?” She was speaking to someone in the room with her now. “The doctor said I could call my son . . . I did call earlier; he wasn’t at home . . . ” A male voice in the background. Then a man came on the line, a deep voice. “Is that Dr. Cheski? I’m sorry, doctor, she’s not supposed to use the phone after eight. I could ask the night nurse—”

  “No, no, that’s all right—does she have a cell phone too? It seemed like she was calling me on two lines.”

  “What? No, she shouldn’t have one. . . . Oh, there she goes, I have to deal with this, doctor. But don’t worry, it’s no big problem, just her evening rant, yelling at Norman . . . ”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  He hung up. Picked up the cell phone. Put it to his ear. Nothing there. He checked to see what number had called him last. The last call was from Leah, two days before.

  Next morning, a cold but sunny winter day, Fyodor dropped by the ward, at the facility across town. A bored supervisory nurse waved him right in. “She’s in the activities room.”

  His mom wore an old Hawaiian-pattern shift and red plastic sandals, her thin white hair up in blue curlers; her spotted hands trembled, but they always did, and she seemed happy enough, playing cards with an elderly black woman. Someone on a television soap opera muttered vague threats in the background.

  “Mother, that house you suggested to Aunt Vera for me—did you say you were born there?”

  Mom barely looked up when he spoke to her. “Born there? I was. I didn’t say so, but I was. Don’t cheat, Maisy. You know you cheat, girl. I never do.”

  “Did you call me twice last night, Mom? Talk to me twice, I mean?”

  “Twice? No, I—but there was something funny with the phone, I remember. Like it was echoing what I said, getting it all mixe
d up. Hearts, Maisy!”

  “You remember reciting poetry on the phone? Something about tides?”

  “I haven’t recited poetry since that time at Jimmy Dolan’s. Your Dad got mad at me because I climbed up on the bar and recited Anais Nin. . . .What are you laughing at, Maisy, you never got up on a bar? I bet you did too. Just deal the cards.”

  He asked how things were going. She shrugged. For once she didn’t complain about Norman the Psych Tech. She seemed annoyed he’d interrupted her card game.

  He patted her shoulder and left, thinking he must have misheard something on the cell phone. Perhaps some kind of sales recording.

  Suggestion. The lonely house, the odd story from Roman.

  Auditory hallucination?

  It wasn’t likely he’d be bipolar like his mother—he was thirty-five, he’d have had symptoms long before now. He was fairly normal. Yes, he had a little phobia of cats, nothing serious . . .

  He got back to the office a few minutes late for his first patient. He had six patients scheduled that day; four neurotics, one depressive, and a compulsive finger biter. He listened and advised and prescribed.

  A few days later—after Roman signed numerous wavers—Fyodor was sitting beside Roman’s bed, in the guest room, with its repaired lock, waiting for the drug to take hold of his patient.

  Roman was lying on the coverlet, eyes closed, though he was awake. He looked quite relaxed. He wore a T-shirt and creased trousers, his blazer and tie and Arrow shirt folded neatly over a chair nearby, the shiny black shoes squared under it. His arms were crossed over his chest; his mother had provided the warm slippers on his feet. There was a small bandage on his right arm, where he’d been injected. The furnace was working full-bore, at Roman’s request, and the room was too warm for Fyodor’s liking.

  On a cart to one side was the tape recorder for the session, a used syringe, and the little tray with the prepared syringes for adverse reactions. Superfluous caution.

  Leah entered softly, caught Fyodor’s eye, and nodded toward downstairs, silently mouthing, “His Mother?”