GARDENS OF NIGHT

by Greg F. Gifune

  He studies Brooke’s face, the lines and contours, the sculpted girl-next-door beauty of it, and allows all the wonderful memories to flood his senses. Warmth rises from deep within him. He embraces it and holds tight, knowing even then it will slip free and become pain and sorrow, a blade slicing to the bone and carving away whatever shreds of dignity and security it finds, leaving a wake of blood and horror, regret and fury. Rage.

  Spaulding finishes his wine, puts the glass on the coffee table and then casually leans down, scoops a hand under Brooke’s ankles and swings her feet up into his lap. She pivots on the couch, facing him now and laughing lightly as he pulls her socks off and begins rubbing her feet. She sips her wine, throws her head back, closes her eyes and thanks him through a tired sigh. His response is evidently a witty one, as they both have a quick laugh before he resumes the massage. Long and thin, Spaulding’s fingers engulf Brooke’s diminutive feet, and as he works on them she seems to slip into something approaching true bliss. They both become quiet. The rain keeps on.

  An odd buzzing fills Marc’s ears. He looks to the shadows a moment. Within the droning hum are consistencies… patterns… language. Suddenly he envisions thousands of bees stacked one on top of the other, crawling about with instinctual, communal purpose, his skull their hive. There is something unnatural here, something that allows him to experience, feel and hear things he is not meant to know or understand in such a visceral manner. This thing inside him is nesting like those bees, preparing him for the arrival of something extraordinary and beyond human comprehension. He wishes the whales would talk to him again. He needs their sad, comforting cries, their spirit voices speaking in tongues.

  As the buzzing fades, Marc remembers that night instead. He’d made reservations at a new Italian restaurant in town that had opened a few weeks before. Brooke was tired and didn’t really want to go, but gave in because she knew Marc had been looking forward to it.

  He remembers the picketers in town that night, passing them as he drove downtown and how they’d slowed up traffic. There had never been such a spectacle there before, but in the days preceding that night an organized group of protestors had converged on town, recruited many local citizens and gained considerable media attention. Bay State Tech International, a communications, manufacturing and engineering company that employed several hundred people, was one of the few companies in town and by far the largest. They had recently signed a contract with the Department of Defense, the details of which were said to be classified. But leaks to the media alleged the company was actually developing top secret equipment for The National Security Agency, and the more fevered the protests became, the wilder the stories grew. Claims ranged from the company being involved in everything from the production of computer chips designed to be implanted in unknowing human subjects, to mind control and psychological warfare experiments, to bombarding local citizens with bizarre sound waves, to the testing of extraterrestrial transmission technology.

  He and Brooke had discussed it like everyone else in town, but had fallen firmly on the side that believed the company was more than likely simply doing something closer to what had been publicly claimed, which was the development of communications and satellite software for the military.

  They’d touched on it briefly that evening over dinner, but conversation had quickly turned to happier things. Marc had the lasagna. Delicious initially, by the time they were on their way home it was sitting in the pit of his stomach like a bag of sand. He was so bloated he just wanted to get home, collapse on the couch and maybe watch television a while. He’d even joked about it. “I feel like a townhouse with legs,” he told her as they approached the house. “I’m so ashamed.”

  He could still hear Brooke’s laughter.

  There’s a man in the driveway.

  Even through the horror…

  What’s he doing?

  The agony…

  Just standing there.

  The protestors… could one of them have become lost?

  Who is it?

  Or perhaps they’d taken to canvassing neighborhoods in the hope of recruiting more local support?

  Not sure.

  There were an awful lot of strangers in town that night…

  * * * *

  Later, long after he has had his fill of memories and watching Brooke and Spaulding chat in the room below, her bare feet strategically left in his lap, moving slowly, subtly back and forth against his crotch, their heads back and eyes closed, pretending they are doing nothing other than quietly sitting together even when he casually releases his erection from his pants, Marc has tucked himself away in someone else’s bed. He sees Brooke’s silhouette cross the top of the stairs; hears her shed her clothing before she slips in next to him and spoons. She thinks he’s asleep. Marc closes his eyes and believes it too. The softness and warmth of her body pulses against his back, washes over him as she snuggles closer. Her lips nuzzle his neck then she lays still, breath slow and steady as she drifts off to places where he can no longer follow.

  There, in the dark, visions of the beautiful night nurse find him. Her gray snake tattoo comes to life, coils around her and constricts violently. Yet she responds as if touched by a lover, eyes rolled to white and mouth dropped open in ecstasy as others…two others…drift from the shadows behind her. But he cannot see their faces. Hidden beneath black shrouds, their heads bowed in what must be prayer, they reach for him with hands covered in wet soil.

  Like they’ve just clawed their way from fresh graves, Marc thinks.

  Noises downstairs interrupt, and the visions – or are they dreams, false memories sent to anger and frighten him? – burn and blister away like film stuck in a projector. Marc listens a moment, and just above Brooke’s breathing hears Spaulding down in the kitchen, no doubt getting the woodstove going.

  Rain drums the skylight. Marc looks up, meets its gaze.

  There are no stars.

  The night has gone blind.

  Five

  By morning the rain has stopped and the sun is out with promises of a bright, clear and beautiful day. Although Marc went to bed first, he is the last to get up. He awakens to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee, and as he staggers down from the loft and crosses into the kitchen he realizes Spaulding and Brooke have already showered and dressed. The woodstove is going strong, and unlike the night before, the chalet is filled with a stifling blanket of heat.

  “Morning,” Brooke says cheerily.

  Spaulding smiles at him from the head of the table, a half-finished cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes before him. He’s one of the few people they know who still smokes, though he’s a very light smoker – always has been – and is rarely actually seen indulging. “I know I said I’d quit,” he says, realizing Marc has noticed them, “I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. I keep hoping it’ll come back in vogue, you know? Anyway, promised Scott there’d be no smoking inside so I’ve been sneaking out to the deck for a puff now and then. I was telling Brooke I was out there first thing this morning, watched the sun come up over the trees. Breathtaking, absolutely breathtaking.”

  Marc wishes he’d stop talking but keeps his thoughts to himself.

  “We’ve got nada for breakfast,” Brooke announces, “so we figured we’d get something out.” She pours then hands Marc a cup of coffee and motions to the table, as if he’s somehow forgotten it’s there. “There’s got to be a diner or restaurant or something along those lines in town somewhere.”

  “Besides,” Spaulding says, “we need supplies, campers.”

  “It’ll also give us a chance to poke around a bit,” Brooke adds.

  “From what Scott told me that should take all of about ten minutes. Apparently there are a few shops and whatnot but not much else. He said the few chalets and cabins out this way are mostly owned by out-of-towners who only visit periodically, and that the townies tend to be somewhat insular and keep to themselves. Not unfriendly particularly, just not the warmest folks either. He said
he goes into town as little as possible.”

  Brooke frowns. “Well, that sounds delightful.”

  “Yeah, Scott warned me that it’s got a bit of a Deliverance-North vibe, but nothing too awful. Dasgar’s just a little backwoods town, so don’t expect the most heartfelt reception ever, that’s all.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference, we probably won’t be going into town again anyway.”

  “You guys go ahead,” Marc tells them. “I’m going to stay here.”

  Even before he’s finished speaking he can feel the tension in the room rise. Spaulding and Brooke exchange troubled looks. “Honey,” Brooke says, moving behind him and gently rubbing his shoulders, “won’t you come with us?”

  Spaulding takes his cue and stands. “Speaking of hideous addictions...” He pulls a jacket from the back of his chair, scoops up his cigarettes and heads out through the sliders to the deck. “Excuse me while I feed mine.”

  Brooke sits at the table. “Why don’t you want to go?”

  “I’m tired,” he tells her, “want to take it easy. Wasn’t that the whole point of coming here?”

  “Yes, but –”

  “Then you two go.” He sips his coffee. “I’ll hang here.”

  Brooke draws a breath and lets it out in a slow, shaky exhale. “Do you think it’s a good idea for you to be here by yourself, though?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He slams his mug on the table, causing it and Brooke to jump. “I promise not to turn the stove on, play with fire or run with scissors while you’re gone, OK?”

  She stands and moves away. “Don’t get angry.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Then stop treating me like one.”

  She swallows so hard it’s audible. “You need to calm down.”

  Marc realizes then that he’s clenching his fists so tightly his arms have begun to tremble. He nods, opens his hands and lets his arms relax. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I’m capable of taking care of myself, Brooke.”

  She looks at him, an eyebrow raised.

  He retreats to his coffee and traces of his reflection in the inky pool. “You’ll only be gone a couple hours, right?”

  “I can’t imagine it’d be much longer than that.”

  “Then I’ll be all right. I promise.”

  Brooke returns to him, leans close and from behind, wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. “Be careful and don’t go anywhere.”

  “Yes, Mommy.” He reaches up, touches her hand and melts into her.

  She unhooks her Blackberry from her belt and places it on the table next to him. “Spaulding’s number is programmed in there on the call list,” she explains. “If you need anything or whatever, just call and –”

  “Sure, OK.”

  “Well, you know. I mean, if –”

  “Brooke,” he says, twisting in the chair so he can see her, “OK.”

  Nodding, she runs a finger beneath her lower lash but fails to conceal the fact that her eyes are moist. Despite her carefully constructed façade, Brooke’s wounds are still as dangerously close to the surface as his are, and the slightest provocation can drop her to her knees. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

  “Yeah,” Marc sighs, no longer able to face her. “I know.”

  Where are the whales? He wonders.

  Speak to me… tell me your secrets… whisper them in my ear.

  Have they fallen asleep? Have they died?

  Free me. Heal me.

  Or is he the one imprisoned in dreamscapes of the dead?

  The familiar, the safe, the known, all of it has long-since evaporated. Yet alternate versions exist, taunting him with false gods and deceptive promises of salvation, deliverance from an infestation of demons well beyond redemption.

  “I’ll bring you some breakfast.” Brooke pulls on her jacket and smiles, disguise back in place. “I love you.”

  He answers without looking up. “And I love you.”

  * * * *

  Once they’ve gone, in the quiet solitude of the chalet Marc remembers a dream from the night before. With the whales mute his sleep was visited by lesser gods, and though most of the minute detail escapes him he remembers that Brooke and Spaulding were living together in a tiny cottage in the woods. These woods. In the dream the cottage was actually the chalet, but looked nothing like it. Everything unfolded like a movie in Marc’s head, playing out before him the way normal people dream, the way he’d dreamed before the night of the incident. A passive witness, he appeared nowhere in the dream. Perhaps he no longer existed. Perhaps he never had. He can’t be sure. He seldom feels real anymore. All he knows is that Brooke and Spaulding were happy, and that the entire dream was seen as if through a filtered lens, like his eyes had been smeared with a thin film of clear liquid. A bit thicker than water or tears, it left everything slightly blurred, askew and just out of synch.

  A while later, Marc finds himself in the shower, head bowed as hot water pounds across the back of his neck. The muscles there are tight and strained, and the pulsating water feels good. He braces himself, placing his hands flat against the back wall of the shower, and stays where he is for a very long time, countless thoughts, emotions and memories flooding his head.

  When it’s over, he remains in the shower despite the chill in the air. He watches the tiny droplets, fascinated by how they trickle down the walls to the drain below. It’s not as if he’s never seen this, perhaps he’s just never paid such close attention. When he looks long enough, hard enough, the water drops turn black, like ink or blood from very deep within the body, and stain the world as only he can see. He reaches out, touches the shower wall with crimson fingers, and wipes it all away.

  * * * *

  He is alone. Really alone, and lost in a new kind of quiet. Coupled with the newfound silence in his head, he notices other sounds as they slowly emerge from the hush…the cadence of his breath, occasional creaking noises as the chalet settles, and the crackle of wood burning in the cast iron woodstove. Marc looks through the sliders, beyond the deck to a pile of cut wood stacked neatly against the back of the chalet. He wonders who put it there and how long it took to cut and stack. He begins to count the pieces of wood as his mind searches for patterns and clues, listens for messages, but he catches himself and stops.

  Marc grabs his jacket and ventures out through the sliders to the deck. There seems little reason to lock the doors, as the odds of someone coming to call or snooping around the chalet are nearly nonexistent. Still, he has learned that what appears to be safe or even unlikely seldom is. It is a lesson he’s learned well, one he’s learned by fire. So it is with defiance rather than indifference that he moves down the steps to the yard, stuffs his hands in his pockets and leaves the property unlocked while he goes for a walk.

  The air is crisp and clean here, a bit cold but not too. It feels good in his lungs and makes his eyes tear. He pulls as much in as he can, taking one slow deep breath after another. At the back edge of the property, mere feet from where the forest resumes, he notices something he hadn’t seen the night before, a small wooden shed. Closer inspection reveals that the door has been secured with a padlock. He looks back at the chalet and the stack of wood. The ax must be in this shed, he thinks. Quickly, before he can think too much about it, he tells himself he can’t imagine why that would be of any interest or concern to him. In answer, a chill slithers along his spine and laps the back of his neck. He knows better but blames the cold anyway, and with Brooke’s voice running through his head, “Be careful and don’t go anywhere,” Marc wanders into the woods.

  The trees are enormous, living shadows looming over him he cannot be sure of. Looking up at them the way country bumpkins stare at skyscrapers in Manhattan, he studies their branches and tops and trunks like he’s never seen trees before. In some ways, he never has.

  At least not like th
is.

  When he stumbles and nearly falls over an enormous gnarled root he returns his attention to the path, one which is old, narrow, and, he guesses, probably the result of long-term migrations of indigenous animals, as it’s more subtle and natural to the setting than manmade paths tend to be. Funny, he thinks, how so many other animals can affect landscapes without altering basic aesthetics. Native Americans were able to live with the land, to exist alongside and in harmony with it. But for such rare exceptions, Man is consistently obvious, destructive and intrusive to the planet, a great trampling thing plodding across the Earth with total disregard for the balance of nature or even themselves. As Marc moves between the trees he tries his best to do so with grace and respect, listening to and absorbing as much of the world around him as he can. But while he would prefer to commune with nature, clear his mind and walk the woods alone, the past will not allow it. Following close behind, it clings to him, a long shadow skulking about with murderous resolve, a predator locked on the scent of its prey. And then the thoughts come so quickly. He tries to sort and listen to them – to hear – each and every one, but they crash into him with the shocking force of violent rapids and carry him away just as he realizes they’ve taken hold. Before he can scream for help he’s already drowned, so Marc walks harder, faster, tries to focus on the beauty around him, the power and magnificence of it. Surely there are animals here too, hidden and watching. Forcing his way through the memories and horrors he tries to listen for them. Maybe that’s it, he thinks. Maybe the universe hasn’t stopped speaking to him. Maybe he’s no longer listening. Yes, it’s all right there. I just have to hear it.

  Suddenly it feels like he’s falling, toppled into a bottomless pit. This must be what it’s like to forget how to fly, he thinks. The sensation of tumbling down grows worse as he plummets deeper and deeper, the victim of an endless freefall to nowhere, gaining momentum until the screech of air rushing through his ears becomes deafening and painful.