Unhinged

by Reed, Rick R. ;

  “And what would that be?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Sluggo rolled his eyes. Of course, you can’t. That’s because there is no such tradition. “You’re quite the mystery man, aren’t you?”

  “You couldn’t even begin to guess.”

  Suddenly, Sluggo’s spine stiffened as another shiver washed over him. But this was no chill as the result of the temperature in the apartment lowering because of a thermostat. No, this one—Sluggo could swear—had the feel of icy fingers caressing, just barely grazing the raised bumps of his spine, like long fingernails moving down his back. He took a quick glance around the tiny office, wondering where the cold came from and then glanced up at his screen, where the instant message from seconds ago still remained. The cursor blinked at him, almost as if waiting for his next move. And then his heart almost stopped…

  The words “bespectacled piglet” jumped out, as if highlighted. The description, unflattering as it was, was true nevertheless. Suddenly, the lack of spit in his mouth impeded Sluggo’s attempt to swallow. A trickle of cold sweat ran down his spine.

  “Do I know you?” he typed, fingers beginning to tremble, causing him to have to key in the simple query three times before getting it right.

  “We’ve spoken in your dreams.” The words, innocent enough on their own, hung suspended on the computer monitor. Somehow, when strung together, the words took on an eerie menace.

  “Seriously,” Sluggo pleaded in his electronic voice, the one he thought of until this moment as throaty and seductive. The game had suddenly lost its allure, its humor, if it had had any to begin with. Now he realized his voice was wheedling, whining, a little too low pitched and dense to be heard distinctly. “You seem to have picked up certain of my physical characteristics, and I wondered if you were just a good guesser or if you’re someone I know.” Sluggo racked his brain, trying to recall who at the bank he might have told about his after-hours “social life.”

  And came up blank.

  “I told you. We’ve spoken in your dreams. For the last several months, I’ve visited you there, in that gossamer world, where I found the two of us to be highly compatible.” The fine hairs on Sluggo’s neck stood up.

  “And why is that?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “I can tell you that I can see your worth.”

  “Wonderful,” Sluggo keyed in, rolling his eyes. There’s no reason to be afraid. This is simply someone playing with you, someone intuitive, and they’re having a good time at your expense.

  “Would you like to know more?”

  “Knock yourself out.” Bed—with its lack of Internet connection—suddenly seemed like a more viable alternative to what he was doing.

  “I don’t think you take me seriously.”

  “Should I?”

  “Dead serious.”

  The word dead floated before Sluggo’s eyes. Again, he had the prickly sensation of cold, as if something large and icy stood just behind him, casting a black shadow. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing more than a painted white bookcase, filled with paperbacks that leaned toward horror potboilers and pop psychology and a framed poster above it: two tabby kittens on a red sweep, one atop the other. Sluggo contemplated shutting off the computer and banishing this prick to cyberspace where he could play mind games with some other unsuspecting soul.

  “Feeling a chill, Sluggo?”

  The room shifted just a little, as Sluggo might imagine the movement of a room during the first tremors of an earthquake. Seconds passed while he tried to quell the shaking in his fingers enough to be able to type again. He called me by my name.

  “Again: do you know me?”

  “Better than anyone, I’d guess.”

  “How did you know my name?” Nothing in Sluggo’s member profile reflected the real him, so he knew the only answer must be—had to be—that this guy knew him. Sluggo didn’t know how, didn’t know where, but there had to be some way this man knew who he was. Or perhaps he wasn’t speaking to a man at all, but one of the young girls who worked at the bank, one of the ones who whispered and snickered when he passed by. It would be just like them to play a cruel trick on him. Although he had never done a single thing to harm any of them, they seemed to regard him as an object for ridicule.

  “Your name is written on my heart.”

  “Oh stop it!” Sluggo typed back, weary now of this assault. He questioned his motives once more as to why he didn’t just stop, but something kept his fingers glued to the keyboard. And he suddenly realized the reason could very well be the simple fact that for the first time, in years, he was feeling a little excitement. For the first time since he could remember, someone was taking an interest in him, no matter how twisted or mocking that interest might be.

  “You know you don’t mean that. You don’t want me to stop. If you did, you would have walked away long ago and gone to the safety of your pathetically empty little bed.”

  “Oh, what do you know?”

  “Everything.”

  Sluggo rubbed his arms together, trying to dispel the completely unreasonable cold that overwhelmed him. He stood and dashed into the living room, where the programmable thermostat was mounted on the wall. It read 70 degrees. He sat back down at the computer.

  “No one knows everything.”

  “I know everything about you: all about the loneliness, all about the hours spent in front of the computer or, barring that, the TV, or your nose buried in some god-awful Gordon Merrick novel.”

  Sluggo shut his eyes, feeling as if a bright light had just been shined on him, exposing everything he thought hidden from the world. “You know nothing. I don’t know who you are, but you’re certainly not right about anything. I couldn’t even begin to abide this creature you describe.” And then, despair threatening to overwhelm him, typed: “I am Sir Raven, master of the night.”

  “If you’re master of the night, honey, I’m Barack Obama.”

  Sluggo barked out a short burst of laughter. He realized he was being backed into a corner and knew no way to escape from… what had he said his name was? TepesAllure. Sluggo peered at the screen, thinking that Tepes held some familiarity, but in spite of mentally searching his memory banks, could come up with no match for the name. He wanted to ask again who this person really was but knew he would get no less a cryptic response than he already had.

  He changed his tack. “So what brings you to your keyboard tonight?”

  “You do.”

  “Why me? I don’t think we’ve spoken before.”

  “Not like this.”

  Sluggo flashed on the few pathetic sexual encounters he had had over the years, encounters he could easily count on two hands—okay, one hand. All of them with men older than himself, who followed him home, buoyed up by alcohol, satisfied themselves, and never called again. Could this be one of them? It had been two years since the last unsatisfying liaison; Sluggo had bought his computer within the last year. This screen name, even his e-mail postdated his last sexual encounter, with a mailman from Berwyn.

  “How then… how have we spoken?”

  “Your desire speaks to me. It reaches out. Sometimes I thinks its hunger exceeds my own.”

  “I’m not horny.” Sluggo typed, bland, to the point.

  “I wasn’t talking about that kind of desire, although that sort of exploration does hold its charm, does it not?”

  What would Sir Raven say to that question? Sluggo wondered. And then berated himself for being such a fool. Things had gone beyond Sir Raven. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “I’m sure that together, we could find out. But let me tell you: your body is not what I’m after, at least not in the sense you’re thinking.”

  “What then are you after?”

  “Your blood.”

  “What are you, a hemophiliac?”

  “You’re very funny, Sluggo. A hemophiliac, actually, is a fantasy partner of mine. Mmmm�
�� imagine, blood that doesn’t clot. Are you getting the picture?”

  “You’re in the wrong room. There’s a vampire chat room. Just go back to Member Rooms, locate it, and double click. Have a great time. But I have to warn you: some nights that room is really dead.” Sluggo chuckled at his wit. Tepes didn’t seem to appreciate it.

  “I’ve located what I want.”

  “I don’t think you have. I have to be getting to bed. It’s late, and I need to get up early.”

  “Don’t leave. We’re just beginning to scratch the surface.”

  “Go scratch yourself!” Sluggo typed quickly and even more quickly pressed the Command and Q button to quit System Up. He hit the Return key hard when the prompt came up asking him if he was sure he wanted to quit. “Yes, damn it, I’m sure!” Sluggo even went so far as to power down his computer. He tried to get hold of himself. He was panting, his heart was racing, and a thin line of sweat had formed at his hairline.

  * * * *

  Later, Sluggo awakened from a restless sleep, filled with shadowy images and strange beasts, unidentifiable, lurking around just this or that corner, waiting to pounce.

  He sat up in bed, looking down at the silver slats created by his mini blinds and the full moon outside conspired together. He wiped a hand across his damp face, wondering what it was that had awakened him so abruptly.

  Then he heard it.

  Gong.

  The sound was familiar but seemed to have no place in this restless landscape.

  Gong. That chiming again.

  And then Sluggo recognized the sound for what it was. He lay cautiously back down, thinking the noise had to be a fragment of dream lingering just past wakefulness. If there was such a thing as “lucid dreaming,” then perhaps dream images, aural or not, could be a little slower in dispersing than his waking mind could dispel them.

  Gong.

  And finally Sluggo realized he should have become aware of the sound long before, but the sound was so out of place in his little night-quiet apartment that his mind didn’t accept it. When the gong chimed again, Sluggo arose, putting sheet and blanket warmed feet to a chilled floor, and shivered.

  The sound was so familiar because he heard it most every night. It was the sound alerting him that he had an instant message, as part of System Up’s online service.

  “God, did I forget to turn off the computer?” Sluggo wondered, groggy, thinking with dread of how he would function at the bank the next day on so little sleep.

  As he headed toward his den, he knew with a certainty beyond doubt that he had shut things down before retiring. Some sort of glitch maybe? But what sort of glitch would turn the computer back on and sign him on to the service once more?

  The door to the den was open. Inside, Sluggo could see the pale glow from his monitor screen, and the memories of TepesAllure rushed back. He paused at the door, afraid to go inside, for fear of what might be waiting. Perhaps, he thought, anxiously gnawing at a nail that was already bitten down to the quick, someone had broken in and was using his computer.

  Perhaps it was TepesAllure himself. After all, he knew Sluggo’s name, knew what he looked like. Was it really such a stretch to imagine that he knew where Sluggo lived and had come to call?

  Briefly, Sluggo considered tiptoeing back to the living room, where he could dial 911 and report an intruder.

  And then what? What if the authorities came out to find a lonely man who had forgotten to shut off his computer before going to bed?

  Sluggo stepped inside the room.

  The den was empty.

  He sat, feeling weak and dizzy, in front of the computer, where a message flickered on the screen.

  “Don’t sleep, Sluggo, the night is winding down, faster and faster, like water going down the drain. Dawn approaches.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am TepesAllure, master of the night.”

  “I thought I was… Oh never mind. What’s going on here? What do you want from me?” Sluggo’s eyelids burned. He needed sleep.

  “I told you what I wanted, my dear. I’m simply waiting for you to give it to me.”

  “My blood?”

  “Yes, that hot, pumping life juice.”

  “Well, let me slit my wrists to make you happy.”

  “What a perfectly mundane idea. I have in mind a more sensual connection.”

  “Look, it’s late and I don’t have time for this.” Sluggo pulled the plug from his computer, causing the monitor to go blank. He sighed with relief, or perhaps disappointment. But pulling the plug was the sensible thing to do and Sluggo always did the sensible thing. It had gotten him where he was today.

  He headed back toward the bedroom.

  And froze.

  Gong.

  Rushing back to his den, where the interior was once more warmed by the glow of the monitor, Sluggo froze in absolute terror, eyes moving from the glowing screen to the empty electrical socket in the wall, back and forth, back and forth.

  “This has to be a dream,” he whispered, a pounding starting at his temples and his respiration coming more quickly. He sat heavily in the desk chair, because his legs would no longer support him.

  “You’re not rid of me that easily.”

  “What do you want?” Sluggo typed again, weary and nauseous.

  “You.”

  “Then take me,” Sluggo typed, fingers hitting the keyboard uncertainly. “Just come over here, waltz through the door, and take me. I’m tired.” He looked outside his den and made sure his front door was locked with both deadbolt and chain.

  No instant message came, and Sluggo sat staring at the screen, wondering what had happened to TepesAllure. Perhaps Sluggo had been too direct. Perhaps Tepes had tired of the game.

  Perhaps I’m going insane, he thought, uncomfortable with the feeling that his last thought was most on target.

  Sluggo typed. “Where have you gone, my precious? TepesAllure, you’ve allured me and left me high and dry. Is that all there is?”

  The screen remained blank, taunting him.

  Isn’t this always the way? Sluggo thought, shivering and snatching together the collar of his pajamas in a futile attempt to keep warm. A weird sensation overcame him, as if something cold and dark were moving behind him, just out of sight.

  But this time, the chill, the presence, seemed more real. Sluggo could have sworn he heard a whisper of movement behind him. Goosebumps formed; his heart began to pound. Part of him wanted to turn and look, and the other part wanted to remain frozen, staring at his unanswered message on the computer screen.

  More whispering movement, then a chill ran up his spine, like a cold draft blowing in.

  Sluggo gnawed his lower lip. “Please don’t make me look,” he whispered.

  And then, he shuddered because he felt what he could swear was a touch on the back of his neck. Yet this touch—feathery and dry—did not seem human; its icy chill seemed so far removed from human that it could make him scream.

  But Sluggo was not the type of person to scream. He was far too sensible for that.

  He whirled in the chair, thinking that at last he would dispel this late night nonsense and return to bed. Everything would look different, laughably different, in the morning.

  A gorgeous man stood behind him. Tall, pale, with a mane of coal black hair, the man looked as if he had been chiseled from alabaster, a frieze of male beauty so perfect that it appeared monstrous.

  Sluggo froze, voice caught in his throat by an unseen hand, which squeezed, squeezed until all the air in the world vanished. Before the man came nearer, Sluggo knew he had seen him before. Had seen him every time he typed out a description of Sir Raven to some lonely soul out there in cyberspace, who wanted to believe so much that he did.

  And then, with movement not even perceptible to Sluggo’s human gaze, the man was upon him, all fangs and wild, feral eyes, biting and ripping Sluggo’s flesh, drawing his blood from him so quickly Sluggo didn’t even have time to scream or raise a weak
hand in defense.

  He heard, though, the vampire’s passionate whisper, “You invited me in, my sweet. It was all I needed. I’ve waited so long.”

  The last thing Sluggo saw was the impossibly beautiful ashen face rise up to his own, the vampire’s fangs glinting in the dull light from the computer, Sluggo’s own blood a crimson splash on the creature’s chin. The last thing he heard was the sound his own head made as it hit the hardwood floor—a dull squishing sound.

  * * * *

  He had never tried any of the chat rooms before. He likened them to personal ads and phone sex lines, ploys for the desperate, ploys for the unattractive who needed to hide behind a veil of electricity to attract a suitor.

  But tonight, Heath was bored. And, as he ran his fingers through his spiky red hair, he knew—at the very least—this would be good for a laugh.

  In the Chicago M4M chat room, he typed. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  A gong sounded. Heath looked up to see an instant message, from someone called Sir Raven.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. In fact, I’ve been waiting all my life.”

  The Ghost in #9

  This story is about ghosts of two different kinds. A real ghost, of course, the kind that can’t seem to leave this mortal plane for whatever reason, appears here in our sad little motel room. And then there’s a second kind of ghost that’s here too. But this one is more metaphorical. This is the kind of ghost that harkens back to bygone times and represents something one might think common sense and compassion would have wiped out in our modern times, but sadly hasn’t.

  The Ghost in #9 is both of these.

  My inspiration for this story, other than the ghosts who hide in the closet, is Seattle’s Aurora Avenue. It’s a long north-south stretch that once was the throughway through the city before the I-5 Expressway was built. It’s not one of Seattle’s prettier places. You can find hookers, drug dealers, gas stations, convenience stores, and other things that the tourist guides won’t show you when you google Seattle.

  It’s also home to many, many seedy no-tell motels. Some of these, in close to the city, where you can catch glimpses of the Space Needle from Aurora, are leftovers from the 1962 World’s Fair. They were hastily built to house tourists for the Exhibition.