“Come on, Kim!” I shouted. I was so slick with sweat that my hands kept slipping off her chest. “Breathe! You can do it! Breathe, damn it!”
I saw her eyelids flutter. Her blue irises had lost their luster, but I sensed an exquisite joy in their depths as they fixed on me for a beseeching instant... the tiniest shake of her head, and then she was gone again.
I realized what she’d just tried to tell me: Don’t... please don’t.
But it wasn’t in me to kneel here and watch the life seep out of her. I lurched again into CPR but she resisted my best efforts to bring her back. Finally, I stopped. Her skin was cooling beneath my palms. Kim was gone
I stared at her pale, peaceful face. What was happening in that other place? Had she found her Timmy and the forgiveness she craved? Was she with him now and preferring to stay there?
I felt an explosive pressure building in my chest, mostly grief, but part envy. I let out an agonized groan and gathered her into my arms. I ached for her bright eyes, her crooked-toothed smile.
“Poor lost Kim,” I whispered, stroking her limp hair. “I hope to God you found what you were looking for.”
Just as with Beth, I held Kim until her body was cold.
Finally, I let her go. I dressed her as best I could, and stretched her out on the cushions. I called the emergency squad, then drove my car to the corner and waited until I saw them wheel her body out to the ambulance. Then I headed for the airport.
I hated abandoning her to the medical examiner, but I knew the police would want to question me. They’d want to know what the hell we were doing up in that tower during a storm. They might even take me into custody. I couldn’t allow that.
I had someplace to go.
***
I arrived in Marco Polo Airport without luggage. The terminal snuggles up to the water, and the boats wait right outside the arrival terminal. I bought a ticket for the waterbus--I could barely look at the smaller, speedier water taxis--and spent the two-and-a-half mile trip across the Laguna Véneta fighting off the past.
I did pretty well leaving the dock and walking into the Piazza San Marco. I hurried through the teeming crowds, past the flooded basilica on the right--a Byzantine toad squatting in a tiny pond – and the campanile towering to my left. I almost lost it when I saw a little girl feeding the pigeons, but I managed to hold on.
I found a hotel in the San Polo district, bought a change of clothes, and holed up in my room, watching the TV, waiting for news of a storm.
***
And now the storm is here. From my perch atop the Campanile di San Marco I see it boiling across the Laguna Véneta, spearing the Lido with bolts of blue-white energy, and taking dead aim for my position. The piazza below is empty now, the gawkers chased by the thunder, rain, and lightning--especially the lightning. Even the brave young Carabinieri has discovered the proper relationship between discretion and valor and ducked back inside.
And me: I’ve cut the ground wire from the lightning rod above me. I’m roped to the tower to keep from falling. And I’m drenched with rain.
I’m ready.
Physically, at least. Mentally, I’m still not completely sure. I’ve seen Beth twice now. I should believe, I want to believe... but do I want it so desperately that I’ve tapped into Kim’s delusion system and made it my own?
I’m hoping this will be my last time. If I can see Beth up close, see her throat, know that her wound has healed in this place where she waits, it will go a long way toward healing a wound of my own.
Suddenly I feel it--the tingle in my skin as the charge builds in the air around me--and then a deafening ZZZT! as the bolt strikes the ungrounded rod above the statue of St. Mark. Millions of volts slam into me, violently jerking my body...
…and then I’m in that other place, that other state... I look around frantically for a splotch of yellow and I almost cry out when I see Beth floating next to me. She’s here, smiling, radiant, and so close I can almost touch her. I choke with relief as I see her throat--it’s healed, the terrible grinning wound gone without a trace, as if it never happened.
I smile at her but she responds with a look of terror. She points down and I turn to see my body tumbling from the tower. The safety rope has broken and I’m drifting earthward like a feather.
I’m going to die.
Strangely, that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it should. Not in this place.
Then in the distance I see two other figures approaching, and as they near I recognize Kim, and she’s leading a beaming tow-headed boy toward Beth and me.
A burst of unimaginable joy engulfs me. This is so wonderful... almost too wonderful to be real. And there lies my greatest fear. Are they all--Beth, Kim, Timmy--really here? Or merely manifestations my consuming need for this to be real.
I look down and see my slowly falling body nearing the pavement.
Very soon I will know.
2
Thanatophobia
Fear of Dying
Jeff DePew
The apartment had one of the best views on the Las Vegas Strip. With the electric shutters raised, the panoramic windows on three sides commanded views from Mt. Charleston to the west to Boulder City and Arizona in the east, and the entire Las Vegas Valley, including the strip, in between. The casinos, new and old, the expensive towers, the giant observation wheel. Flashing lights shone through the windows, blended and altered the bluish light from the flatscreen TV, bouncing off the ceiling and creating eerie shadows on the walls.
Normally, the traffic on the Strip could not reach up here. Residents were supposed to feel as though they were removed from the rest of the world. The sliding glass door to the balcony was open, however, and the shrill cries of sirens echoed through the room. Sirens. All the time now, it seemed.
Logan Barnett sat on the arm of the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen. He held the remote and pushed the channel up button repeatedly. It was the same on most channels. If the station wasn’t showing the same footage of the president being quickly led from his helicopter to a motorcade, it was showing scenes of civil unrest, cities in flames, rioting, looting. Exhilarated newscasters reported on mass rioting, governments toppled, panic in the streets.
The crawls at the bottom of the screen varied from “The End of Days? …The White House calls for Martial Law… Paris in flames… Experts Have no Answers… “ and on and on and on… He thumbed the TV off. How had it gone so wrong?
He shut off the TV and went out to the balcony. He stood beside a chair that lay on its side and leaned on the railing.
The sirens were much louder here, more insistent. He could also hear voices; screams, really. And figures running through the streets, dodging cars, fighting. Some, he could just make out, were looking at him, pointing and gesturing. Others were lying down. On the sidewalks, in the streets. But they were all moving. They were all alive.
Three Days Ago
The room was bare of furniture, hardwood floor gleaming in the shimmering light of several dozen candles placed throughout the room. Large diagrams and circles within circles painted across every surface of the room. Symbols, runes, letters, in Latin, Aramaic, even Aklo, among other older languages along with unrecognizable inscriptions and figures, covered the walls and ceiling. Writing over writing. Patterns crossing over onto other designs. The closet door was closed and painted over, continuing the patterns. A stepladder stood leaning against the window, which was covered with newspaper and then painted over. Beneath lay several cans of spray paint.
A large circle was spray painted in the center of the floor. It was surrounded and accented by writing and ancient symbols. Barnett, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, was on his hands and knees, an ancient tome in one hand and a piece of red sidewalk chalk in the other. The pages of the book were patch-worked with sticky notes: pink, yellow, blue, white. Pages were marked with more sticky notes, napkins, newspaper clippings, highlighted Xerox copies and other makeshift bookmarks. He stared intently at the p
ages, his lips moving soundlessly, then drew a symbol, looked at it, back at the book, added a line, looked at it again. He picked up another book from a stack on the floor, undid the metal clasp, leafed through it briefly, and located a specific page. He read, looked back at what he had written, nodded, placed the book and chalk down, stood up, his arms pushing in the small of his back, and stretched. He glanced at his Rolex. Ten–fifty. Plenty of time. He had been at it for three days, barely sleeping, barely eating. Tonight should be it.
Picking up the chalk and the book, he looked around the room one last time. He grabbed a plastic trash bag and tossed in the cans of spray paint, leftover chalk and wadded up towels. No distractions. Everything neat and orderly. He looked around again. Nodded. It was time.
Closing the door behind him, he walked past a small bathroom, a laundry room, through a connecting door, and into a modern, expansive kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom off the kitchen were originally intended as a maid’s quarters, but he had a different purpose for them. Barnett dropped the trash bag beside a chrome trash can and continued up a flight of spiral stairs and entered a master bedroom. It contained a king-size bed and a dresser. Nothing on the walls. Barnett stripped off his paint- and chalk-smeared sweatpants and stepped into the shower. The cold water blasted his back and he shuddered, but stayed beneath the stream. If he couldn’t handle some cold water, how would he deal with what he had planned?
After his shower, he toweled off and pulled on a pair of jeans and a white Oxford shirt. He rolled the sleeves up and tucked it in. In all his research, Barnett had been unable to determine if what he wore made any difference. He knew that some of the ceremonies called for particular robes, or often, nothing at all. Since he had not found anything specific, he decided it didn’t matter, so he might as well be comfortable. As he finished getting dressed, he glanced down at his cell phone on the floor, plugged into a charger. He paused, debating whether or not to check his voicemail, but left it. No distractions.
In the kitchen, he threw a frozen pizza in the top oven and poured himself a large bourbon. Only one. He was nervous, but he needed to keep his wits. His head began to throb and he looked through a selection of pharmaceutical bottles on the counter. He found what he was looking for and swallowed several Tramadol. He twisted open a plastic water bottle, chased down his pills and topped off his bourbon. He walked to the window and stared out at the lights.
It was nearly midnight when he approached the adjoining door and opened it. He was carrying a butane lighter and a battery-powered lantern which he placed by his feet. He stepped inside and carefully closed the door and shot the deadbolt. He looked around to make sure everything was as it should be. A couple of candles had gone out, so he quickly relit them. With a piece of chalk, Barnett made some quick additions to several of the diagrams, solidifying a line here, thickening a line there, and he was ready. So much time, so much effort, so much money had gone into this… project. Time to see if it had all been worth it.
Midnight.
Barnett opened the book to a page he had marked with a 7-11 receipt. He placed three bells on the floor by his feet. They were small, roughly made and very old. It had taken him two years to find all three of them.
He began to read aloud, softly at first, finding his rhythm, and then with more power and ferocity. He felt something in the room change and he stumbled over a word. The room had grown noticeably colder. He looked around before continuing. One of the candles flared suddenly, revealing for a moment a shadowy figure in a corner of the ceiling. He heard a flapping sound for an instant, as if enormous wings were beating. He glanced upward nervously and then winced and put his hand to his temple. His headache was back.
Barnett continued reading, chanting, reciting. He could see his breath as the room grew steadily colder. He grew hoarse and he cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring one of his water bottles upstairs. His voice cracked and the flames danced. He knelt and picked up the first bell and rang it gently. The apartment shook for an instant. Another candle flared and he saw the outline again before it disappeared and the candle went out. This time, the shadow seemed more… solid. Barnett picked up the pace. He rang the second bell and recited the words. It’s working. A candle flamed up and the figure appeared again. Only this time it stayed. And the candle did not go out.
Barnett stopped reading and stared at the dark shape in the center of the circle. It seemed smaller than he was expecting. It was hard to make out exactly what it looked like. It was somewhat amorphous, but human shaped. It moved, but it was still. It was dark, but he saw flashes of white. Without taking his eyes off the figure, he knelt down and rang the third bell, said the words. The figure coalesced into a solid, discernible shape.
“By the power and word of--” Barnett began and the rest of the candles popped out, all at once. The room was plunged into darkness. He took an involuntary step back, and then another, backed into the door and cried out. The book tumbled from his grasp. Kneeling down, crawling forward in the darkness, he desperately felt around for the lantern. His fingers fumbled and found the power switch and twisted. Harsh white light filled the room. Barnett grabbed the book and clasped it to his chest.
He leafed through the book, looking for the page where he had left off. He continued: “By the power and word of--” and began listing gods and beings whose names had not been spoken aloud for thousands of years, if ever at all.
Release me, said a voice (in his head, in his ears--it was impossible to tell where it had come from.)
This was hard. He was more frightened than he expected. Deep breath. Be strong. He closed his eyes, his face screwing up in concentration. Deep breath in. Hold it. Now out. Focus. He continued reading, reciting the words. He read carefully, hitting all the syllables and the harsh, discordant consonants.
“Release me,” repeated the voice. (This time it was in his ears.) The figure glided toward him. As it moved, it seemed to clarify, to grow more solid. It looks like a kid! He had time to think before it reached the edge of the circle. A bright flash. The building shook or maybe it was just the room. He heard something crash to the floor in the kitchen. Blue light shot around the floor, tracing the circle he had drawn on the floor. The dark figure stumbled back and righted itself. The room smelled like burning plastic. The circle continued to glow blue for a moment, then went back to its original red.
“What have you done?” came the voice again, but this time it was clearly audible. The voice was soft, speaking softly accented English. Or is that just what it sounds like?
A boy stood in the center of the room. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. He was dark, with sharp cheekbones and large black eyes. His hair was short with tight curls. He wore dark pants and coat with a white shirt, open at the collar, tie loosened. His feet were bare. He stared at Barnett. His face showed nothing. No pleading, no anger.
“Let me go. This should not be happening.”
Barnett strode towards the barrier, feeling more confident with every step. He turned back to the book and continued.
The boy winked away and in his place stood an ancient, horrible woman, hunched over, dressed in filthy rags. She gnashed her teeth together, which made an odd clanking sound. By the glare of the lantern, he realized her teeth were iron, filed to a point. Eyes, white and milky, regarded him hatefully. She held a broom in one claw-like hand, and pointed a bony finger at him with the other. Her nails were long and broken and filthy.
Dat' mne svobodu. Her voice was a husky rasp, barely audible. A thread of saliva hung from her tongue, which dangled over her black and blistered lower lip, as if there was only room in her mouth for those terrible teeth but nothing else.
Barnett was horrified, but held his ground. He had been warned that this could happen. He turned back to the book. Don’t think. Just read.
The crone leered at him and licked her cracked black lips. More drool fell to the floor. It pooled blackly beneath her.
Then she was gone and in her place stoo
d a great, tall figure, clad entirely in a heavy black shroud and carrying a scythe. Its face was a bleached skull, eye sockets blazing with internal flame and the empty jaw gaped at him. Despite the absence of any sort of breeze, the shroud was waving and fluttering.
RELEASE ME! blasted through his brain, intensifying his headache.
He looked away and kept reading the words; the alien, somehow wrong, words that left an oily taste in his mouth. He sensed, rather than heard something change. He looked up.
Thick, writhing tentacles crawled from beneath the robes. They moved with a purpose, like enormous greedy worms, searching for something. They were covered with suckers, each ringed with what looked like dozens of tiny hooked teeth. The shape slid across the floor toward him. The scythe was gone, and beneath the hood, instead of a skull, there was… nothing. Just an emptiness, a void, leading… nowhere? Everywhere? It was beautiful.
He forced himself to look away. Continued to read.
Logan. A woman’s voice. Soft, seductive, with a hint of an accent.
He turned back, cautiously. A stunning young woman stood before him. She wore a black fur cape, which she held close at her throat. Her dark red hair framed an elegant, seductive face. Her mouth was half curled in an amused smile. Looking at him as if he was a child. Green eyes looked him up and down, then stared boldly at his own eyes.
Gi meg min frihet, she said softly, still smiling and toying with the clasp on her cape.
Without realizing it, Barnett took a step forward. The woman released her cape and it fell silently to the floor, exposing her nude body. Barnett’s eyes traced down her neck, shoulders, firm, small breasts, taut stomach, but--from the waist down her body was withered and grey, the desiccated body of a corpse. He could see ropy muscle and tendons move through ragged tears in her flesh. She held her hands at her sides, palms open, offering herself to him. He looked up at her and she met his horror-struck gaze, mouth still curled in a smile. A wave of nausea surged through him as he stared, horrified, at her corpse-half. He fought back the urge to run. He had to breathe through his nose to avoid vomiting.
Never Fear Page 5