“You’re finding an argument behind every word I say.” She moved closer long enough to give me a peck on the cheek. “Take a nice hot shower and try to get some rest. I’ll be back in a bit, OK?”
Before I could agree or disagree, go along or scream for help, she was gone.
* * *
I’d washed my face and thrown on jeans and a sweater but hadn’t bathed before I left to meet Rick and Donald, so the hot water pulsing from the showerhead felt great. Wrapped in curtains of steam, I threw back my head and let the water cascade across my face and shoulders, savoring the quiet time, the peace.
It was short-lived.
The nightmare was back, replaying in my mind, and this time I allowed it to come, lost in the hypnotic warmth and resonance of surging water.
The ticking of that damn clock is driving me insane. It’s one of those fancy desk clocks, the kind with a sketch of the double globes on it; you know the type. It’s at least ten feet from the bed but in the small room it overpowers everything else, even the faint traces of traffic in the streets below and the occasional sounds trickling in from beyond the confines of my bedroom. A headache has settled behind my eyes and is making me nauseous. That damn ticking only makes it worse, as if the clock is counting off the gongs throbbing through my temples. I move my arm from across my forehead, my eyes focus on the low ceiling overhead and a hint of him at the edge of my peripheral vision. Folding my arms over my chest like a corpse, I draw a deep breath and slide shut my eyes. Returning to the darkness is easier somehow. I hear the floor shift as he moves deeper into the room, hesitating just inside the doorway. He is looking at me now—I can feel it—waiting to be acknowledged. My mouth is bone dry and I know sitting up will only make my headache worse, but I do it anyway. With one quick heave I swing my feet around and settle into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I rub my temples, look at him, then look away. He just stands there staring at me with those sad eyes. He looks…not sick exactly, but…he doesn’t look like himself. Pale. He looks pale and pasty, like he hasn’t slept in a very long time. I finally ask him what he’s doing there. He smiles, and it’s the saddest goddamn smile I’ve ever seen, and says he came to say goodbye, that they allowed him a few minutes to come and say goodbye. It’s only Bernard…why am I so frightened? Because he’s no longer alive, or because I sense he’s not alone? I clear my throat, reach for a small cup of water on the nightstand and take a quick sip. I nod to Bernard and tell him I’m sorry about what happened. I try to explain just how sorry I am but he smiles that sad smile again and holds up a hand like…like he’s telling me there’s no need for explanations.
I know the others are nearby, and just the thought of them stirs a terror in me the depth of which I have never before experienced. Tangible, choking fear, the kind I don’t want to explore because I know it is bigger and stronger and deadlier than I can ever be. Like some monster in a box. If I let it out, it’s over. I keep talking, babbling now in the hopes that maybe this will quell my terror. Again, Bernard holds up a hand, so this time I stop talking. I notice his hand is dirty, the nails a bit too long and caked with soil. He tells me he came to say goodbye and that he has to go. He kind of sighs and leans against the doorframe, like he might fall over if he doesn’t. I just stand there stupidly by the bed, watching him, not sure what to think. Then…they come. They just file into the room from behind him. My palms are sweating and my heart is thudding so hard I can hear it smashing against my chest. This is my bedroom and I don’t want them here, I don’t know any of them, they—they don’t look familiar to me at all. There are four of them; three men and one woman, and they all just walk in like they belong here.
Bernard tells me it’s OK but I’m so frightened. They scare me, these…people. They scare me because I know what they are. They never say a word, they just stand there staring at me with their black eyes, and Bernard never explains, but I know, I—I just know what they are and why they’re there. Bernard smiles again, but this time his lips crack and crumble like hardened clay, leaking blood and saliva and dirt in one hideous string of drool as his eyes turn cold like the others. I hear a scream but it dies quickly, strangled to silence before I realize it’s my own.
I turned the shower off and braced my hands against the porcelain, head bowed, body dripping as the drain gurgled and swallowed. My heart was racing but I felt that if I could just lie down for a while I’d sleep for days. As the last of the water and soapsuds vanished down the drain, I forced open my eyes and pulled back the curtain. The mirror was fogged over and sheets of heavy steam filled the bathroom. Rain hammered the lone window, shook the casing.
Through the mist the full-length mirror on the back of the door revealed my reflection. My hair seemed thinner every day. I needed a shave but liked the way my five o’clock shadow looked. It better defined my chin and brought out the light blue in my eyes. I continued to study myself as curls of steam rose gently toward the ceiling. Funny how age sneaks up on you, I thought. Gradually, softly—like any good seduction—it had a hold of you before you even realized it. I wasn’t yet forty—was three years away from it, in fact—but felt decidedly older most days. Somewhere within the reflection staring back was the man I’d once been, a man who’d never imagined he could be so tired, so worn down. Not at thirty-seven, anyway.
And yet sometimes it seemed like that man was a total stranger, a detached and isolated character in someone else’s story; someone I barely recognized.
I stood there dripping, until the mirror fogged completely over, then I stepped from the shower and snatched a towel from the counter. My headache had subsided but my muscles ached. I dried myself then tossed the towel over my shoulder, opened the door and stepped into the cool bedroom air. I rolled onto the bed, stretched out and nestled deeper against my pillow as my eyes slid shut. The nightmare had receded, and darkness took me quickly.
My eyes popped open. My back was tight and my stomach was in mid-growl. Had I fallen asleep? If I had, something had jolted me awake in a less than normal manner. I lay there a moment, listening, eyes staring at the faded ceiling and numerous hairline cracks traversing the plaster.
The weather had grown worse from the sounds. Wind whipped angrily outside, rattled the windows. My eyes immediately darted to the source of the sound, and although I recognized the cause it bothered me nonetheless.
Another sound crept in from the den, only this time I wasn’t certain wind had been the culprit. I remained perfectly still and strained to listen, but all I heard was the wind and rain. “Hello?”
I wondered if Toni had locked the door on her way out. She usually did, why would this time be any different? Yet something didn’t seem right. I didn’t feel alone. Slowly, I pushed myself up into a sitting position and slid down to the foot of the bed. “Toni?” I called. “Toni, are you home?”
I sat quietly for a few seconds. Although I heard no other noises, the relaxation portion of my day had clearly come and gone. I stood up; reached for the towel I’d brought with me and wrapped it around my waist. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, just enough to reveal a sliver of the den beyond, and as I moved silently across the carpeted floor, I suddenly realized what was wrong.
Due to the weather it was much darker than normal, and Toni had left lights on in the den and kitchen. Lights I didn’t remember shutting off before getting into the shower. “Hello?” A chill caused my body to visibly shudder.
And then the phone rang.
I nearly jumped out of my skin, staggered back and scrambled around the end of the bed to the phone on the nightstand. The receiver was in my hand and pressed to my ear before it could ring a second time.
“Alan,” a voice on the other end sobbed. “Alan, I—”
“Donald?”
“Alan, I’m…”
“What’s wrong?” I stared at the door. “Where are you?”
“I’m home,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’ve been drinking.”
“It’s OK. Listen,
let me call you back in—”
“I wanted to say something today, I wanted to, but—”
“Listen—”
“I couldn’t do it, I just—Alan, I’m having nightmares.”
I nodded into the phone. “It’ll be all right. I’ve—”
“You’ve had it too, haven’t you?”
Something in his tone caught my attention, shifted it from the darkened den to the sound of his voice. “It?”
“The nightmare you can’t get out of your mind, that won’t leave you alone.”
I could hear him crying, sobbing openly, and I knew he was not only drunk but utterly terrified. “I’ve had a nightmare.”
“Did Bernard say goodbye to you in it? Were those things with him?”
My grip tightened on the phone and my legs trembled so violently I thought I might collapse. “How—How the hell do you know that?”
“I’m scared, Alan. Christ, I’m so fucking scared.”
“How did you know that?”
“They never said anything but I knew—I know—just like you, I know what it was all about. They were taking him to Hell. There’s more to this than we know. Why were they taking him to Hell, Alan? Why would they take Bernard to—”
“Answer me, goddamn it! How did you know!”
Donald gagged and coughed. “Because that’s the only difference between our nightmares,” he said in a near whisper. “In mine, Bernard told me he’d been to see you first.”
* * *
I sped through the streets of town ignoring the black clouds perched overhead, the rain, and a level of darkness generally reserved for the dead of night. My mind raced, my palms were moist with perspiration, and I felt an odd detachment, as if I were more a passive observer of the reality surrounding me than an active participant in it.
Donald’s cottage was less than two miles from our apartment and located in a small settlement of mostly summer cabins nestled into a heavily wooded bluff overlooking the largest stretch of beach in town. I turned onto the dirt road and followed it through the forest. In summer, this corner of Potter’s Cove was bustling with campers and summer people, the cottages occupied, yards cluttered with lawn furniture and barbecues, people young and old following the dirt paths down to the beach while music played from boom boxes and car radios. But the summer season was still a couple months away, and as the area only housed a handful of year-round residents, most cottages were boarded up and abandoned. A seasonal ghost town of sorts, in dismal weather and at this time of year, it seemed a fitting location for recalling the past and exorcising the demons found there.
I pulled up in front of Donald’s cottage. His old Volkswagen was parked in a narrow side driveway, and faint light bled through the sheer curtains in the front windows.
The front door was open, so I gave a quick knock and let myself in, stepping directly into the living room. It was modestly furnished and somewhat disheveled, and it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment just how long it had been since I’d visited Donald at home. Magazines and paperbacks were strewn about, overflowing ashtrays, crumpled cigarette packs and empty vodka bottles littered most available coffee or end table space, and although the small kitchen at the rear of the cottage was clean, other than for the refrigerator, it was obviously seldom used. The bathroom and bedroom constituted the remaining area. Both were quiet and dark.
A television in the corner was on but muted, which explained the sparse light, and in a recliner on the opposite side of the room Donald had collapsed in a drunken heap, an ashtray balanced precariously on his knee, an empty bottle of vodka on the floor just beyond his dangling hand. His other hand still clutched the phone, which had since gone from dial tone to an annoying buzz. I pulled it free and hung it up. His eyelids fluttered a bit, then I noticed the cigarette he’d apparently been smoking when he’d nodded off had burned well into the filter and was still smoldering on the lip of the ashtray. “Christ,” I sighed, butting it out, “one of these days you’re going to burn this place down with you in it.”
His eyes opened, and he struggled to raise his head. “Alan.”
“You all right, man?”
Dry, chapped lips parted slowly. “I don’t know,” he said groggily. “Are you?”
I crouched next to the recliner. “How could we have the same dream?”
His eyes rolled about for a moment, then he blinked rapidly and seemed to focus somewhat. “I never believed in an afterlife, Alan, you know that. I…I never believed in any of it. You did but not me, not me…But…but this—I don’t…I don’t understand what’s happening.” He tried to sit up and nearly passed out. He wouldn’t be conscious much longer. His bottom lip quivered. “I don’t even quite know why but I…I’m frightened.”
“So am I.” I looked at the near-hysteria in his bloodshot eyes and wondered if mine looked the same. “It’ll be all right. There’s a reasonable explanation, we just have to find it.”
“You didn’t have to come over, I—I shouldn’t have called you like that, I…I’m sorry I—”
“Take it easy, man, it’s all right.” Past experience with Donald’s binges told me he’d only have limited memory of all this anyway.
He struggled to smile, but the alcohol and exhaustion took him, leaving him slumped forward in deep sleep.
I grabbed an old afghan from the back of the couch and gently covered him with it, then went to the phone and dialed our apartment. Toni answered on the second ring.
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I had to come over to Donald’s for a minute.”
“Is everything all right?”
“He had a little too much to drink, just wanted to make sure he was OK.”
“Something new.” When I offered no response, she said, “I thought you’d be here when I got back from the store.”
“So did I.” An old black and white movie flickering from the TV set distracted me. “I’ll be home in a few minutes, all right? Just heading out now.”
I quickly tidied up the living room and brought the ashtrays into the kitchen. As I emptied them into the wastebasket, I noticed the stack of pictures Rick had found in Bernard’s duffel bag fanned out across the counter. They looked as if they’d been frantically shuffled through several times. The photograph of the woman none of us knew was on top. I don’t know why, but I tucked it into my jacket pocket and returned to the living room.
Though Donald was out cold he was breathing normally. Even in alcohol-induced sleep his face bore an emotional torment that never fully left his expression, but he looked about as peaceful as he was likely to get.
Satisfied he’d be all right I quietly headed for the door.
* * *
The aroma of roasting chicken wafted about the apartment, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the day before, and that, coupled with a lack of sleep and the events of the day thus far, had left me in a less than jovial mood.
While Toni prepared a salad to go with dinner, I took up position at the kitchen table and explained the situation as best I could. Donald and I had somehow shared a nightmare, and even before we realized we’d had the same dream, it had taunted us both as much while we’d been awake as it had in the throes of sleep. She listened patiently; refraining from comment until I’d finished. For what seemed an eternity, she sliced a cucumber and added it to the bed of lettuce, nibbling her bottom lip throughout, a signal I had come to recognize meant she did in fact have a response but was thinking it through before voicing it. Eventually, she looked over at me, brow knit. “Alan, when Dad died I had that dream about him, remember? And a few days later when I spoke to my mother I found out she’d dreamt about him too.”
“This is different,” I insisted. “You both had dreams—but you didn’t have the same dream.”
“Honey, neither did you and Donald.”
“I’m telling you—”
“Listen,” she said, “in my dream my father came to me, talked with me and told me everyth
ing would be all right. The dream Mom had was essentially the same. He came to her, they talked, he promised he was fine and everything was going to be OK. It’s the same with you and Donald. You were both close to Bernard, you both dreamed of him in very similar ways, as if he were contacting you. It’s not an uncommon occurrence at all. People dream of loved ones after they die all the time, particularly soon after death.”
“This isn’t the same thing, this—”
“Have you spoken to Rick about it?”
“No, not about this specifically, but I doubt—”
“Maybe the dreams people have—yours included—really are those who have died making contact. Was it really my father who came to me in that dream? I’d like to think so—it’s comforting—and I believe in an afterlife, so assuming that’s true, why would a visitation through dreams be outside the realm of possibility? It wouldn’t.” She smiled. “Maybe that was the only way Bernard could say goodbye.”
“Fine. Then if that’s true why couldn’t we have had the same dream?”
“Essentially, you did.”
“Not essentially.”
Toni smiled. “Alan, first of all Donald’s account is unreliable because of his condition. When someone drinks the way he does you can’t—”
“It’s not like I told him about my dream and in some drunken stupor he claimed to have had the same one. I never even brought it up. Donald told me about the nightmare first—and before I said anything he already knew I’d had the same one.”
“OK, then what did he say when he described the nightmare? What were his exact words?”
I stared at her; already aware of the direction in which her questions were headed, and suddenly skeptical of my own certainty. “He mentioned a few particulars that sounded exactly the same as my dream,” I said, “but I didn’t question him on every little detail.”
The Bleeding Season Page 4