A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  He was about to slam the notebook shut when he suddenly remembered the dream from the night before. White-hot flashes of a remarkably vivid dope dream. A horrifyingly real nightmare in which he’d watched himself being stabbed to death.

  He dropped the notebook on the sofa. Flicked on the television and the VCR using the remote. Just to make sure I’m not whacked, he thought, shaking his head.

  He pressed PLAY.

  The screen flickered once, changed a darker shade, but remained blank. The dark gray picture and accompanying static hum of a blank videotape.

  Wait a minute, this tape wasn’t blank, Brian thought. He punched REWIND, waited a moment, and then hit PLAY again.

  The same picture.

  Puzzled, he stood up and ejected the tape manually. It was the right tape. The label on the tape’s spine read “JILL, July 23.”

  Something’s wrong here, he thought. He pushed the tape back in, tried it a third time. Nothing.

  Jesus, could I have erased it last night?

  Brian glanced at his Rolex—eight minutes to ten—and clicked the power off on both machines. He locked the door behind him, still shaking his head.

  4

  Brian pushed the tape marked “PENNY, March 9” into the recorder and returned to the sofa. The tape’s selection had been random, and he realized he couldn’t even remember what Penny looked like, much less anything else about her. He thought she might be the cute little blonde he’d met at a football game sophomore year, but wasn’t sure.

  The mystery tape from this morning rested on the end table. He’d already played it a fourth and fifth time, checking it from start to finish. He’d even tested it on the upstairs camera for possible damage. The result: the tape itself was technically fine, but it was undeniably blank.

  Earlier in the afternoon, after lab, he’d tried to work on a research paper in the campus library, but he’d found any form of concentration impossible. All he could think about was the disturbing dream from the previous night, and the blank tape from this morning.

  He didn’t know why he was so preoccupied with what was obviously just one of life’s weird little coincidences. Okay, so what? First, he dreams—or Christ, maybe he’d hallucinated the whole thing—about watching himself getting sliced up by Jill. Everything perfectly filmed on video. And then the tape of his “real” date with Jill shows up blank the next morning.

  Coincidence, right?

  For whatever reasons, he didn’t think so.

  Despite the manner in which he lived his life. Brian Lewis was no dummy. He was at least bright enough to consider rational explanations. Maybe the whole thing was just some sort of warped revenge fantasy his mind was laying on him. Maybe it was a bad combination of drugs. Or the lack of sleep. Reasonable explanations, one and all.

  But none of them explained the blank tape. And if there was one thing he was positive of, it was that he hadn’t accidentally erased the tape. No, sir. Something weird was going on here, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

  Now, at forty-five minutes before midnight, he was prepared to sit through his entire collection of videos if he had to. He didn’t know what to expect, or even what he was looking for. One voice inside his head kept telling him that all he was going to see were a bunch of old homemade porno flicks and that he’d feel stupid as hell by the end of the night. But the other voice…

  Brian noticed the time on the VCR and stifled a yawn. He had wanted to start earlier, but had allowed himself to be talked into smoking a few hits of hash with some frat boys on campus. Their treat, of course. People were always eager to share a drink or a smoke with someone of Brian Lewis’s stature, and he’d not yet learned to say “no.”

  He finally pressed PLAY, and the screen came to life. Same setting—upstairs in the loft. Different angle, though. Lower and a bit fuzzier. This was an older tape, an earlier conquest.

  He was on top in the video, driving himself into his almost-hidden date. Long, shapely legs wrapped his back, taut arm muscles flexed as she clutched at him.

  As Brian watched, memories of Penny and their “date” came back to him. Blonde. Tall, almost six feet. A freshman from somewhere out west; Oregon, maybe. An art major, head full of foolish dreams and ideals. Too much of a talker. But she’d been incredible in the sack. A genuine virgin when she first arrived here, now one of the easiest and best lays on campus. They’d gone to a lawn party that night. Left early.

  The tape continued for twenty minutes, the two of them changing positions several times. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Then…it happened.

  The tape quality seemed to improve, grow noticeably clearer, as Penny climaxed for the final time, crouched on her hands and knees, head and back arched. Brian was just slowing down behind her when she pulled her hand out from underneath a blanket and the camera closed in tight on a shiny black revolver.

  Brian’s mouth dropped open, eyes widening. He leaned forward on the sofa, feeling the skin on his hands grow slick and clammy. Then, as the blonde twisted around and pointed the pistol, his image on the tape mimicked his real-life facial expression. The younger version of Brian opened his mouth wide in surprise, just in time to catch the full force of the gunshot. His head exploded like a watermelon dropped from a speeding car. A red and black fountain.

  Brian quickly punched STOP on the remote, hands shaking violently. Stood up. Began pacing the carpet. Despite the air conditioning, he was drenched. It’s the hash, he thought. It’s bad. Probably laced with something nasty. Making me see things that aren’t there. Same with the joints last night. Too many drugs, that’s all. Been doing too much lately. Especially the hard stuff. You’re letting this get to you, man. Means nothing.

  He walked across the den and took an unopened bottle of Scotch from the bar. This’ll help you relax, he thought, returning to the sofa.

  Two hours later, the bottle of scotch was empty.

  As was the pill bottle sitting right next to it on the coffee table.

  And Brian was bouncing off the walls. He had watched a dozen more tapes from start to finish, and in each instance, the story was the same. Each and every video showed Brian with a different date, and the action was always exactly as Brian recalled until the very end—until the grand finale.

  Then everything changed. Then everything went absolutely bugshit crazy.

  It was horrifying to watch. Murder. Mutilation. Torture. The end result was always the same, only the method differed each time. Knives. Guns. Razors. A power drill. Strangulation with nylon pantyhose. Poison in his drink. The last girl—one he’d truly thought he was falling in love with at the time—had actually bitten off his penis. He’d watched himself bleed to death, as the girl smiled and giggled for the camera, her pretty face dripping with gore.

  Strangely enough, despite watching himself being brutally murdered over and over again, the girls’ reactions were what bothered Brian the most. Somehow, they knew about the camera, were aware of its presence, and it was almost as if they were performing solely for the camera’s benefit. Smiling and waving and carrying on. Acting as if the whole thing was just a sick, sick joke.

  Sometime later, dawn still several hours away, something inside Brian Lewis’s mind snapped, and he fled into the dark embrace of night.

  5

  Two weeks later…

  Before Brian could close and lock the front door, his date ran into the den with a squeal and did a belly-flop onto the couch, her black mini-skirt bunched around her waist. He watched from the hallway and laughed.

  Her name was Bette, like the fat, redheaded actress whose movies his father liked so much, and she’d had too much to drink at the restaurant. She’d been drinking vodka tonics with her salad and stuffed shells, and Brian had lost count after four glasses.

  Unlike the famous actress, this Bette possessed wavy brown hair, a voluptuous, if not model-thin body, and the deepest, bluest eyes Brian had ever seen. He’d met her just yesterday at the Student Union Bookstore. She’d
been in front of Brian in the cashier’s line and when her credit card was refused at the counter, he’d valiantly stepped in and, despite her objections, added her charges to his Platinum Card.

  An hour later, after sharing a shrimp salad sandwich and a paper plate of potato chips in the cafeteria, they had agreed on a date for tonight.

  He’d picked her up at her apartment at exactly six o’clock. From there they’d gone to Giovanni’s, one of Brian’s favorite Italian restaurants, for dinner, and finished the night off with a moonlit stroll along the shore.

  Now, they were both ready for the nightcap.

  Brian tossed the keys on an end table and walked across the room and turned on the stereo. He felt good tonight…damn good. His head was clear, just a beer or two and a few lines of toot. He’d been strung out big-time for over a week following the video incident. A week of living hell, in which he’d missed classes, hadn’t slept, barely eaten, and spent over five thousand dollars on assorted dope. Each night had been a drug-clouded series of horror movie screenings…

  No matter how much he’d wanted to, he couldn’t stop watching the videos.

  Then, late Tuesday night, dangerously close to slipping over the edge forever, while waiting in a Burger King parking lot to meet his supplier, the solution to his problem wormed quietly into his fried brain like a heaven-sent prayer. And in a flash, he knew all the answers. Was no longer scared or confused. In fact, he’d thought at the time, I’m a friggin’ moron. I should have figured it out right away. It all made such perfect, logical sense.

  Yes, sirree, Brian thought, pulling a CD from its case, feeling just fine and dandy tonight. He slid it into the stereo and turned the volume up very loud.

  Bette rolled gracefully to a sitting position on the sofa and motioned with a curl of a finger and a lick of the lips for Brian to join her. She smiled, then crossed her legs, and flipped off her pumps to add incentive.

  Brian didn’t need any.

  He moved smoothly to the sofa, uncrossed her legs, and knelt down in front of her. Starting at her ankles, he nibbled and licked each of her legs, working slowly, methodically. When he finally reached the center of her trembling legs, he ran his tongue across the soft wet cotton of her black panties, and then stopped. She shuddered and groaned her disapproval, but before she could protest, he stood and lifted her from the couch. She melted into his arms, hands knifing through his hair, lips caressing his neck.

  As they worked their way up the stairs, Brian suddenly thought of the camera—waiting silently in the dark—and the little voice inside his head betrayed him, screamed out in terror: Don’t go! Stay away from the camera! Whatever you do, stay away from the camera!

  But then the other voice spoke to him, and it was so much stronger, and it was this voice that he listened to.

  6

  Daggers of bright sunlight slanted through the open windows. A strong breeze off the bay danced with the curtains, breathing clean, cool air into the condominium. The den vibrated with the frantic chatter of early morning cartoons from the television set.

  Brian Lewis, dressed only in a pair of red silk boxers, walked into the room and sat down on the carpet in front of the television. In his right hand, he carried a steaming cup of coffee; in his left, he held the remote control. He crossed his legs Indian-style, placed the coffee down at his side, and punched PLAY on the remote.

  Twenty seconds of blank screen. Then two figures clutching at each other in the shadows, pulling, ripping at each other’s clothing. A gradual close-up…Brian already naked in the bed; Bette dancing seductively, swaying, giggling, stripping off her bra and panties, tossing them aside, touching herself before climbing in beside him. A furious meeting of flesh; legs and arms intertwining, uninhibited screams of pleasure…

  His fingers itched to press FAST FORWARD, but he forced himself to be patient. Take it slow. Watch every second. Make sure there were no surprises.

  They were laying on their sides now, Brian behind and inside her. She was grasping his ass with an open palm, guiding his thrusts. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy as he worked at her shoulder and neck with his tongue and teeth…

  He watched silently, face expressionless. The mug of coffee sat untouched at his side, no longer steaming. The sunlight slowly crept to the far side of the den, leaving him in shadow, except for the soft, flickering light from the television. The digital clock on the VCR blinked the passing time in red neon. Brian noticed none of this.

  Then, after a short time, he shifted ever so slightly. Stretched his right leg. Cleared his throat. His eyes widened just a hint.

  The end was approaching.

  He playfully slapped her on the ass, tight flesh barely moving. She rolled over and pulled him on top of her, legs spreading to accommodate him fully…

  His hands came together, fingers interlocking. His heart raced. In several minutes, Brian knew, both would reach orgasm together, for the final time of the night. So far, so good, he thought. Every single movement, every word spoken—the same as the night before.

  Only the grand finale awaited.

  Brian was still on top. Backside glistening with sweat. Fingers gripping at the headrest behind her. Bette’s breathy groans the only sound on the tape. The rhythm quickening. Her voice growing louder. A quick close-up of their faces. Pressed together, pulled apart, pressed together, pulled apart…each time in rhythm with their movements. Tongues clashing together, then tasting only air. Suddenly, she convulses, her hands tearing at his slippery back. He releases the headrest and hugs her closer, tighter, climaxing in unison…

  This is it. Please God, let me be right, he prayed, his fingers squeezing still tighter.

  He watched…

  As the passion slowly subsided. As the movement finally ceased. As his hands moved slowly, tenderly, from her shoulders to the sides of her neck…and closed there. Cutting off the passage of air, the breath of life. Closing tighter. Crushing the windpipe. Still tighter. Until her arms fell limp to her sides, an expression of surprise and betrayal haunting her face.

  And he watched:

  As his video image looked up at the camera and smiled a tired but triumphant grin of relief.

  And, this time, Brian Lewis returned the smile.

  THE ARTIST

  The artist was dying.

  His cries had stopped almost an hour ago, and now the only sound we heard in the freezing darkness was the rhythmic pelting of falling sleet on our helmets.

  Word had spread down the line that Doc had managed to slow the bleeding, but he was out of bandages, out of morphine, out of everything.

  It was just a matter of time now—for the artist, and the rest of us, if help didn’t arrive soon.

  There were nineteen of us left. Scattered amongst a dozen foxholes. In the forest around us, a full company of Germans waited for daybreak to finish what they had started.

  The artist’s name was Henry Reed. He had red hair and wore wire glasses. He was from Boston. A thin, well-spoken boy of eighteen, he had three older sisters at home.

  Most of us replacements were eighteen, much to the disgust of our Sergeant. It had gotten to the point where I had started telling the new guys to lie and say they were nineteen, if only to save us all from the inevitable lecture. The Sergeant was a hard man. He didn’t speak so much as bark. And his eyes weren’t right; like he had seen and done too many bad things to ever find his way back.

  We called Henry the artist on account of the sketchbook he carried in his pack. Drawing was relaxing, he explained one day after Corporal Fleming questioned him about it. It calmed his soul and reminded him of home; it was a safe place to visit in a very unsafe world. Henry talked differently than the rest of us. He was educated, but it was more than that. He had a kind of peace inside of him the rest of us didn’t. Even here in the frozen forests of Europe. I asked him about it once when we were alone on guard duty. He got quiet and stared off at the distant treeline and didn’t answer me for such a long time that I started to think he’
d forgotten what I’d asked him. But then he’d blinked his eyes a couple of times, like he was waking from a dream, and looked back at me and said, “From the time we were very young, my father taught us that inner peace comes from understanding. Understanding one’s true self, and the world around us. I don’t pretend to understand this war, I don’t think any of us can, but I do accept my role in it. I have a duty to serve. A duty to my country, my family, myself, and to all you boys here with me. All I can control are my own thoughts and actions; the rest is up to something else entirely.”

  “You talking about God?” I asked, in awe of the words he had just spoken to me, with apparently no more effort than if he had just ordered lunch at a cafe.

  “I am,” he said and smiled. “Your God, my God, Bernstein’s God…it doesn’t really matter which. My path is set. All that remains now is to follow it.”

  I remember nodding my head, pretending to understand better than I actually did, and then we both went back to watching the distant treeline in silence.

  Parker looked up from cleaning his rifle and said without looking at me, “You think anyone will come?”

  I placed my pencil atop the journal resting on my lap. Nodded and tried to sound reassuring. “They will if they can.”

  “But I mean…do you think they will come in time?” he said, and now I realized he was scared to look at me. Scared to see the truth in my eyes.

  Parker was a good soldier, brave and decisive on the battlefield. We were all scared.

  I thought of Henry’s words before I answered. “They will either come or they won’t. We can’t control that, Parker. We can only control what we do in the meantime. But my money’s on them showing up before the sun comes up.”

  It was what he wanted to hear. He risked a quick glance at me, nodded, and returned to cleaning his M1.

  I picked up my pencil and started writing again.

  It was Henry’s idea that I keep a journal.