The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

by Taylor Grand

  Mason laughed, but his eyes remained serious. “Doctors can’t help, Sara. Meds either. Believe me, I’ve tried every antipsychotic available. I’ve seen two psychiatrists and one well-known psychologist, too.”

  “You’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

  “Of course. Do you think anyone in the medical profession would consider for one second that the voices are real?”

  “No…I suppose not.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. I know they’re real. And they want me dead.”

  “Who? Who are they?”

  Mason set his cup firmly on the coffee table. “Look…I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to tell you any more details. I never would’ve involved you in the first place, but they were chasing me, and, well…you were the only person I knew in this area.”

  Sara felt her chest tighten. “I see. So…I was just the most conveniently located ex-girlfriend.”

  “Sara, it’s not like that. I was desperate—not thinking. I should go. If they find me here, you’ll be in danger too.”

  He started to get off the couch, but Sara stopped him with a gentle hand. “No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’m being childish. Please…forgive me.”

  Mason looked tired, the kind of tired that might kill a man if he went too much longer without sleep. He rubbed his stubbly jaw with his hand, as if trying to decide what to do, yet unable to come to a suitable conclusion.

  “I want to help you,” Sara said, a little more desperately than she’d intended. “Let me help you. I want to understand.”

  And that was true. She did want to understand. She wanted to know how a man such as Mason Tanner could have fallen so far. God help her, she genuinely wanted to understand.

  A single teardrop rolled down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away. “I’m going to die soon—and the only thing people will remember about me is that I lost my mind.”

  “Mason, I can’t pretend that I understand any of this, but I’m a good listener.”

  Mason looked into her eyes, and for a moment she saw them soften. “Yes,” he said, “you always were. I took a lot of things for granted back then.”

  Sara took his hand, held it firmly.

  He said, “Honestly, if just one person I knew understood the truth…that would give me some peace.”

  Sara tightened her fingers around his. “I’m listening. Who is it you think wants to kill you?”

  “Not who…what.”

  “Okay. What are we talking about then?” Sara said, trying not to sound patronizing.

  “What they are exactly is debatable, but I can tell you what I know, based on the work of Richard Nakamura, who spent years doing his own research.”

  “The serial killer.”

  Mason sighed—as if anticipating her skepticism. “The research predates his psychotic break, back when he was still a renowned psychiatrist. He had taken extensive notes when it became clear that several of his schizophrenic patients were hearing the same types of voices. He was convinced these invisible beings were real and not from our world—not even from this plane of reality. On a quantum level, he believes their existence is of a different vibration, which is why they are almost imperceptible. Yet they’ve somehow found a way to intrude on our dimension.”

  Sara wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, the things Mason was saying or the conviction with which he said them. “And…what do you think they want?”

  “To experiment and observe. The people who hear their voices—like me—we’re part of a large control group—and it’s growing. New York City is one of the focal points.”

  “Why here?” Sara continued to probe, hoping that if Mason discovered a flaw in his own logic the whole delusion might begin to unravel.

  Mason rubbed his eyes as he spoke, “There are several hubs around the world: Cairo, Mumbai, Buenos Aires, Madrid, and New York—the noisiest cities in the world. The excessive sound pollution—traffic, sirens, alarms, jackhammers, crowds, and everything in between—covers their activities. The higher the baseline decibel level of a city, the better it masks their voices and communications, making it easier for them to hide in plain sight.”

  Mason leaned forward, looking deep into Sara’s eyes, “Don’t you get it? These things walk among us all day, every day, experimenting on us…studying the effects. But that’s not the worst part: their test subjects kill or harm others, suffer from extreme schizophrenia, or eventually kill themselves to stop the voices. No one notices it here because people are used to seeing crazies wandering around New York.”

  Sara had to admit that his delusion was well thought out. And in some perverse way, she was intrigued at how deep the story went. “What kind of experiments are they doing?” she said.

  “A form of mind control. They test our strengths and search for weaknesses.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To pit us against each other. It’s strictly small scale for now—a testing phase—they don’t want to draw too much attention. But eventually they’ll be able to set entire countries against each other. And once that happens, they’ll control everything.”

  “But why? To take over the world?”

  “Look, I don’t know exactly, Sara. I’m not privy to their agenda. But based on the work Nakamura did with his patients, and my own experiences hearing the voices, it wouldn’t be that far a stretch to imagine an invasion of some kind.”

  “So, you actually hear these voices?”

  Mason finished his drink with one last gulp. “I didn’t hear them at first because I thought it was all bullshit. I just assumed that the killers I interviewed were indeed schizophrenic. But after extensive interviews with Nakamura, I began to see that there were too many coincidences, too many patterns that couldn’t be denied. Nakamura is an intelligent, lucid man—and despite his homicidal tendencies, a charming fellow to boot. Over time, I gained his trust, and he confided things to me that he’d never shared with anyone else.

  “He told me to start observing the ‘crazies’ in the city; you know, the ones that talk to themselves. Since the average person avoids them like the plague, this has given the intruders a false sense of security. He told me to get as close as I could. And eventually, the intruders would slip up and I would hear the voices, too.

  “It wasn’t long after that I started noticing people talking to themselves all over the city. They had always been around, of course, I just hadn’t been attuned to it. There were a lot of homeless people, as you would expect, but I also saw everyday-looking people, too. One day I’d see a man dressed in a business suit, waiting at the crosswalk, murmuring to himself, and the next I’d see someone yelling and screaming at invisible entities—having arguments with thin air.

  “And then something happened on the subway that changed everything.”

  Mason seemed to look within himself, as if watching some invisible film being unspooled in his mind.

  “There was this decrepit homeless woman on the train in a corner by herself. She wore a pair of filthy pajamas, and had wrapped herself in a tattered old blanket. Her hair was gray and wild and she was just crouched there, facing the corner. I couldn’t quite make out her face. No one wanted to sit next to her—so I did.

  “And I listened.

  “Most of what she said seemed nonsensical at first, end of the world stuff mostly. Something about an ‘invasion’ and how God had forsaken her. I’d heard this kind of talk before from crazies on the subway, so I wasn’t surprised. But then another voice responded…in between her rasping breaths. It was deep—like a man who had been smoking his entire life. But it was off somehow, like it had been synthesized to sound human—but wasn’t quite right.

  “The woman was turned away from me, so I assumed she was making the second voice too, as people with mental illness often do.

  “When her stop came, she practically raced off the train. I caught a glimpse of her face as she passed and there was terror in her eyes. I started to take down some notes about the experi
ence, when something stopped me cold.

  “The rasping sound—the breathing I’d heard before—it was still coming from the empty corner of the subway train. There was no one else even close to us. I stared at the corner, feeling my heart thudding in my chest, when suddenly I heard that deep voice again. But this time it was some kind of alien language, a series of grunts and chirps.

  “I didn’t wait around to find out what it was. I got the hell off that train.”

  The level of detail in Mason’s story stunned Sara. As she looked into his fearful eyes it was clear that he believed every word of it.

  “As I researched more about schizophrenia and all of its various types,” Mason continued, “I discovered that there has been a steady increase worldwide since the 60s. There is plenty of speculation and controversy over it; some say it’s environmental, others say it’s genetic, and it’s been linked to everything from drug use, to nutritional deficiencies, to vaccines.

  “I suppose there may be truth in all of it, but only with classic cases of schizophrenia. What I’m saying is that the worldwide increase is due to these goddamn voices driving people mad—not chemical imbalances. Hell, for all we know, driving humans mad is the whole point.”

  Sara said, “But not everyone who hears voices goes mad. Some people are able to manage the illness.”

  “With drugs, yes—if you mean traditional schizophrenia or psychosis. But I’m talking about sane people like you or me, driven to madness by the voices. Nakamura’s research showed that some are highly susceptible to the voices—others aren’t. But even the most peace-loving person can be driven to violence—all humans are capable of it.”

  Sara was almost afraid to ask the next question. “What do they…you know, the ‘voices’…say to you?”

  Mason looked away, as if suddenly self-conscious. “Deviant things. The kind you think about, but would never actually do. Revenge fantasies, that sort of thing. Much of it better left unsaid.”

  Sara didn’t like where this was going. There was something hidden beneath Mason’s vulnerability—something malicious. She thought about their break-up five years ago; it had been ugly to say the least, some might even say hostile.

  It was clear now that he was schizophrenic, but was he also psychotic? She moved uncomfortably on the loveseat, suddenly aware of Mason’s proximity as he faced her. Her body language gave her away.

  “Don’t worry, Sara. I would never hurt you. They’ve tried and failed to convince me to hurt others. But now they’ll stop at nothing to kill me because I have proof of their existence.”

  “Proof?”

  Mason nodded solemnly. “I’ve been recording them for a while now. I sewed a mini-video camera into my coat. Sometimes I hide the camera in strategic places and just let it record for hours, particularly in places where the homeless congregate. I’ve captured the intruder’s voices on videotape, several where you can see a person talking to thin air, and a disembodied voice responding. This isn’t the first time people have recorded bodiless voices. There are entire books and countless websites dedicated to it. Parapsychologists call it ‘electronic voice phenomena.’ But they mistakenly think the voices are ghosts or spirits.

  “Sometimes they speak in English and other times in some unknown language. I took my recordings to a specialist and was told that it would be physically impossible for human or animal vocal cords to create some of the sounds.”

  Mason touched Sara’s hand, startling her. He said, “Do you want to see it?”

  Sara’s cheeks blanched. “What do you mean? The videos?”

  Mason looked at her as if she’d asked him the most ridiculous question in history. “Of course. I keep the masters with me—there’s nowhere safe to hide them. They’re always watching me.”

  Sara’s chest tightened uncomfortably. She noticed that her glass was empty and didn’t even remember drinking from it. “I really need another one,” she said. You want a refill?”

  Mason shook his head. “You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?”

  “I believe that you believe it, and that’s all that matters right now.”

  Mason reached into his backpack and pulled out pen and paper. “It’s time for me to go. I was able to lose them temporarily, but they’ll find me soon enough—they always do.”

  Sara felt a pang of guilt, letting someone she once cared about leave in such a state…and yet, she knew she’d be relieved when he did.

  “Listen,” Mason said, writing furiously. “I’ve backed up my videos and uploaded them to a secure storage database. I’m writing down the URL, my username and password. I want you to look it up after I’m gone. Just don’t use your home IP address. Use a computer at a public library or one of those Internet cafés.”

  Sara just stared at him, unsure of what to say.

  Mason finished writing down the information, folded the paper and handed it to her. “All I ask is that you watch the videos. If you think there’s something to it, and I live long enough, maybe you can help me. I have a few government contacts that might know what to do with the evidence, but I can’t get to them while I’m on the run. Just watch the videos, Sara…please. Don’t let me die for nothing.”

  A loud thump came from above—something on the roof.

  What the hell was that?

  “Oh Jesus…” Mason said, frantically collecting his things. “Physically, they’re intangible, but they can make susceptible people do whatever they want. Right now there’s a whole group of crazies hunting me.”

  A large shadow moved across the window next to the front door. Sara held back a scream. She heard hushed whispers, but couldn’t tell where they were coming from. The roof? Outside her front door?

  She raced to the kitchen counter and yanked a butcher knife from the rack, then thought better of it and grabbed the meat mallet.

  “Call the police!” Mason yelled.

  He started toward the door, but never made it. His left cheekbone was crushed instantly by a metal hammer. Screaming, he fell back through the glass coffee table—smashing it in half.

  He tried to raise his hands defensively, but it was too late. The hammer came down relentlessly…again, again, and again—pulverizing his face, until it looked like it had been run through a meat grinder.

  And then, as quickly as it had overtaken her, the rage began to drain from Sara. It was as if a valve had been released inside her and she was suddenly purged from the pain of that traumatic breakup five years ago.

  As she stared at the blood pooling around the remains of Mason Tanner’s head, it dawned on her that despite years of therapy, she had never really forgiven the bastard.

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “Everything is going to be fine now.”

  And then one heart-stopping moment later, she realized that the voice that had spoken wasn’t hers.

  THE DARK AT THE END

  OF THE TUNNEL

  “Can he hear me, Doctor?” the incorporeal voice asked.

  A second voice answered with a direct tone. “Brain activity is now normal. Give him a few more moments to adjust—after all, there hasn’t been any brain activity in ten years.”

  What the hell are they talking about? he thought.

  Suddenly he felt tingling throughout his body. Smells rushed at him. Cheap aftershave. Some sort of industrial antiseptic agent. The unmistakable aroma of cigarette breath. Shapes began to form.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Jackson,” the first voice said.

  ****

  Matt Jackson had no memories of any kind. Everything he’d learned about himself came from Bob Wheeler, his Wealth Management Consultant, and apparently, the only man on Earth who knew anything about him. Matt had no living family, no friends to speak of, and was, to his pleasant surprise, in the top 1% of the wealthiest people in America.

  Matt discovered he was one of the ultra-rich; his investment portfolio included gold, high-dividend stocks, real estate and foreign currencies; he would never have to work another
day in his life. His home was a secluded mansion in Malibu Canyon surrounded by 30 acres of breathtaking land.

  Where had the original wealth come from? Not even Wheeler knew; he wasn’t paid to know anything more than what was absolutely essential, namely manage and grow Matt’s investments.

  Wheeler had been the first voice he’d heard when awoken. He seemed familiar, but there were no specific memories of the man. This was to be expected, he was told by Dr. Smythe, the lead medical advisor at The Cryonic Group. Fragmented memories were a common symptom when awoken from suspended animation. It was a temporary issue, nothing to be concerned about. Smythe expected a full recovery within a matter of weeks.

  The memory loss was disturbing, but he took some comfort in knowing it was temporary. Certainly his luxurious lifestyle eased the burden. He was healthy, wealthy—and from this point forward, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.

  He wandered around his immense home for several days, trying to get a sense of who he was. There were photos of him throughout the house, traveling the world with various beautiful women on his arm. He searched the Internet for more information on himself, but his personal life was an enigma; he had no blog, website or social media presence to browse. It was downright maddening. He was also stunned at how much had changed in the world during his decade in stasis. The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the ascension of China, the recession, the first African American president, high-speed Internet, Wi-Fi, smart phones…he could barely keep up with it all.

  As he examined the trappings of his life he felt no connection to it. It was unsettling to walk through a stranger’s house when the stranger was you. The most disturbing thing was he had no idea why he had voluntarily spent ten years in a stasis chamber. Generally, that was reserved for terminal patients or those already deceased.

  Dr. Smythe had informed him that, despite some minimal muscular atrophy that would be addressed with a few months of physical therapy, he was in perfect health. When Matt tried to probe further as to why he had willingly gone into suspended animation, Smythe told him that it was recommended he let his memories return naturally. Forcing them back could cause unnecessary stress and emotional trauma.