Down To Sleep

by Greg F. Gifune

  Just beyond the far end of the park, movement caught my eye. Some yuppie asshole in a designer sweat suit jogging through the rain, moving slowly up across the grass before turning onto a path that cut through a cluster of trees. I looked at Cowboy; he’d seen him too.

  I stuck my hand out, and he helped me to my feet with that look he always has right before we do our thing.

  “Let’s get it done,” I said, that high already tingling, tempting me.

  “Then Boston.”

  I nodded. “Then Boston.”

  “We stay here afterward, we’ll get caught.”

  But just like everybody else, what Cowboy never understood was, couldn’t nobody ever catch me. Like the rain, once you had me I was something else. The magic gone. And just like the shit floating in them coffee cans, wouldn’t nothing ever get me clean.

  Without another word, we left the safety of the tarp and headed for the path.

  Bathed in the tears of God.

  DARK HALO

  Eruptions of flame burst forth, spraying and spilling over into an endless ocean of crimson. In the center, two small opaque pools slowly bled through, a spattering of ink against a mindscape of churning lava. The pain, throbbing in the pit of his skull, fanned out and stabbed into his temples, pulsing in time with the rhythmic beat of his heart as it reached a nearly unbearable crescendo.

  He blinked open his eyes, escaping the fire, and saw the darkened room slowly blend into focus. The black spots remained, swirling across his vision before finally dissipating, but there was no respite from the pain. A once-cool washcloth draped across his forehead now clung to him like a slimy appendage, no longer offering comfort, only a reminder of his helplessness.

  Another sound joined the pulsing beat in his temples. Foreign at first, he tried to concentrate and identify it, but the moment he did so it faded, retreating into shadow and insufficient light. His eyes slid shut, returning him to the inferno, and the sound resumed in a slow and deliberate series of gusts, like a sudden but steady rush of wind. He forced a swallow, and, feeling rather silly, realized it was only his own heightened breathing.

  Any attempted movement—even something as fundamental as raising a hand to massage his temples—caused the pain to increase. He forced open his eyes a second time, focusing on the foot of the bed cradling his outstretched feet. Somewhere just beyond was the bedroom door, and though he couldn’t turn his head, he knew the only window lay on the other side of a bureau to his left, blinds drawn but leaking tiny slits of dusky light that crept across the walls like drifting, vigilant apparitions.

  After readying himself for the stabbing pain, he drew a deep breath and shifted his eyes to his right. At some point he had changed into pajamas, and the clothes he’d been wearing earlier were now draped across a wicker-back chair. He found himself wondering what time it was, how long he had been there, and if Stephanie was at home or still working.

  A feeling of dread coursed through him as his gaze met the section of open ceiling above him, the black spots fogging his vision all but gone now. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something horribly wrong this time. Even in his disoriented state, he felt as if something or someone was with him—if not literally, then certainly nearby. The sensation reminded him of the experiences he’d often had as a child, while when playing alone in the isolation of his room, he’d been confronted with an unmistakable feeling of being watched. He would stop suddenly and look about, fully expecting to find some menacing figure staring at him, only to realize he was alone.

  It’s all in your head, his mother used to say, an explanation he’d had no idea then he would continue to hear his entire life. Even now, as an adult, when Stephanie had finally insisted he seek medical help for his increasing bouts with migraines, the doctors had run their tests only to conclude that they were brought on by stress. None of their fears had come to fruition. No blood clots. No tumors. Nothing.

  Psychosomatic, the psychiatrist he’d eventually ended up with had labeled it. A nice tidy professional way of saying, it’s all in your head, little boy. But if it were true, if this was all some psychological experience he brought upon himself, then certainly he could get a handle on it and control his behavior.

  Still, they’d been severe enough to cause him to take a medical leave from his position at the agency, and for an advertising executive, any lengthy period of work missed equaled death. There was probably already some smug bastard sitting at his desk and handling his accounts, helping to push him a bit further out the door, and this time, permanently.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a clicking sound so loud it caused him to wince and squeeze shut his eyes. A sigh wrapped in a moan escaped him, and he heard motion—the movement of someone approaching.

  Nausea throttled him as the pain increased. He opened his eyes to see Stephanie standing next to the bed, her features blurred by remnants of swirling patterns of black and red. “Dennis,” she said in a tone that was probably soft but sounded to him like a deafening screech.

  “I can’t take this much longer,” he heard himself say, his voice raspy and unfamiliar.

  He felt the bed shift as his wife gently sat next to him. “I called Doctor Russell,” she whispered, leaning closer. “He called in a prescription for something that will help you sleep.”

  From habit, he shook his head then grimaced in pain. “How long have I been here?” he managed.

  “Since this morning. It’s almost six, it’s getting dark.”

  He risked a peek at the light struggling through the blinds and noticed the stripes of white had faded considerably. His ghosts were losing power as day gave way to night.

  Ironic.

  Stephanie offered a loving smile; her presence a welcome touch of beauty on an otherwise hideous vista. “Stay put, I’ll only be gone a few minutes.” She took one of his hands in her own. Unlike his cold and clammy flesh, her palms were warm and soft. Her big brown eyes blinked at him through the dim light. “You can’t go on like this, sweetie. You have to let the doctors help you.”

  “The migraines, when did they start? I…I can’t remember.”

  “Two months ago,” she said in a tone signaling it should have been evident to him.

  Two months, he thought. What was happening two months ago? Had there been some incident he’d buried, something unpleasant that might explain his increased stress and the emergence of these “psychosomatic” episodes? A trigger, the doctor had called it.Had something triggered all this?

  He squinted up at his wife and felt like crying. This had to be hell for her as well. Her once strong, vibrant and healthy husband reduced to an incapacitated, pain-wreaked blob sprawled out on their bed for hours at a time nearly every day. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispered.

  She removed the washcloth from his forehead and put it aside. Her hand returned to gently stroke his hairline, delicate fingers and long nails running across his damp scalp. “We’ll get through this. We just have to be strong, Denny, we have to…we have to be here for each other.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, but pretending she hadn’t noticed, Stephanie leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “You try to rest,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “I’m going to the pharmacy.”

  Before he could object again she had pulled free of his grip and had already headed away from the bed, swallowed by the growing darkness even before she’d reached the door. He knew better than to even attempt sitting up and going after her, but the knives stabbing at his brain seemed to deepen their thrusts anyway, as if assuring his paralysis beforehand. A quick patch of light flooded the room, then vaporized as the door closed, leaving him alone with his confusion and pain. Again.

  Something had happened, but what? And if this event had been stressful and traumatic enough to induce crippling migraines like he’d been enduring ever since, why couldn’t he remember it? Surely he’d remember something so horrific.

  With the graceful force of waves breaking against a rocky shoreline, the fe
eling that he was not alone in the room washed over him again.

  Dennis moved with caution, ignoring the pain as he raised his head from the pillow, propped himself up on both elbows and blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus. The phantoms seeping through the window were now produced by moonlight, but still painted the wall in tiny narrow bands.

  The door opened slowly, this time offering only darkness.

  “Steph?”

  Tires crunched gravel as the car pulled out of the driveway.

  Swinging his feet around onto the floor, Dennis gently rubbed his temples, but the pain refused to weaken. He forced himself into a standing position, and with his legs still trembling beneath him he shuffled to the doorway. The hall was dark, sprinkled with feint traces of light somewhere beyond the bedroom. Reaching blindly along the wall he found the switch and flicked it. Nothing. With a sigh he ignored the pounding in his head and moved down the hallway, stopping at Jessica’s bedroom.

  Jessica. Had Stephanie taken her along for the ride?

  Dennis leaned in for a closer view. Her bed sat undisturbed, still made. Against one wall was an assortment of stuffed animals, dolls, and other toys, all staring back at him like some silent council. Her small desk against the opposite wall was unoccupied, a pile of coloring books stacked neatly to one side, an extinguished lamp on the other. Countless cherubic faces of winged angels lounging or playing innocently among puffy white clouds covered the walls, and he remembered the day the three of them had gone to the store and how Jessica had picked that wallpaper pattern out herself.

  Kid always loved angels, he thought, smiling fondly through his discomfort.

  Satisfied Stephanie had taken their daughter with her, he retreated from the room and turned toward the stairs.

  But for a single light in the kitchen, Stephanie had left the house in darkness, and that, combined with his weakened condition, made negotiating the staircase far more adventurous than it should have been. Thankfully, moonlight bleeding through the windows in the living room seeped across the base of the stairs, giving him at least some visibility. Once at the bottom he continued through the darkness to his study. He switched the light on and scanned the area, his head spinning, eyes struggling to adjust. He’d once done all his overtime work here on the weekends and at night, but just as that memory returned a single shooting pain, launched from behind his ear, exploded into his right temple. Groaning, he brought a hand to his head as if to catch the pain with his fingers, and slumped against the doorframe. It passed as quickly as it had arrived, and he raised his head, eyes focusing on the large mahogany desk and leather swivel.

  * * *

  Dennis shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk. Already exhausted from a full day and irritable over an earlier argument with Stephanie, he leaned back in his swivel and clamped shut his eyes in an attempt to ward off the headache that had settled behind them. Where the hell had he put—

  “Daddy?”

  He opened his eyes to see Jessica standing to the side of his desk. Dressed only in a matching T-shirt and underpants, her tiny bare feet sunken into the thick shag carpet, his daughter nibbled her bottom lip and grinned at him pensively.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” he sighed. “Daddy’s very busy. Why don’t you have your pajamas on? It’s almost time for bed.”

  Her big brown eyes—only one of the beautiful features she’d inherited from her mother—widened as she raised her hands, palms upturned. “I have to take my bath.”

  “Tell you what, you can skip it tonight. Just go get your jammies on and—”

  “But Mommy said—”

  “Yeah, well your mother is too busy with her monthly night out with the girls, so…”

  Jessica folded her arms, creased her eyebrows, and frowned. “Mommy said—”

  “All right, all right,” Dennis said, unable to prevent a smile. “Go on upstairs, get your pajamas and robe, and I’ll be up to help you in a minute, okay?” He swiveled around and grabbed the phone. “But if Daddy doesn’t remember what he did with his paperwork he’s in big trouble.” He glanced over his shoulder at his daughter, who was still staring at him with a wide, mostly toothless grin. “Go on,” he laughed. “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Dennis blinked and the vision dissolved. That night hadn’t been that long ago, it—

  Giggling interrupted his thoughts, and he whirled around, tracing the sound to the floor above. He moved from his study to the base of the stairs and looked up through the shadows and moonlight. Another burst of muffled laughter followed by shuffling sounds—the sounds of little slipper-covered feet scurrying down the hallway.

  “Jessica?” he called, the dull ache still tapping his skull. “Jess?”

  A small dark form hurried across the top of the stairs, vanishing quickly into the darkness of the hallway, giggling all the while. “Jessica Lee Thompson!” he snapped, rubbing his temple. “Answer me this instant!”

  A second form, roughly the same height sprinted across the stairs and into the hallway, followed by more giggles and then a rather odd silence. Dennis sighed.Wonderful, he thought.Not only did Stephanie leave her here unattended, she’s got one of her friends spending the night. “Jess, you know the rule,” he called up the stairs. “No running in the house. You guys go play in your room, you hear me? Do something quiet, Daddy has a headache.”

  Darkness and silence answered him.

  “Jessica, did you hear me?” He moved closer to the base of the stairs, lifting a foot onto the first step and gripping the banister with his hands. “This isn’t funny. Daddy doesn’t feel well.”

  Then he heard another sound, this one more familiar: the rattling of pipes, the running of water. Something whispered to him from deep within, and he turned and looked back at the study. When…when had that happened?

  Despite his exhaustion, Dennis forced himself up the stairs, his heart racing. The water was running, the water—the bathtub. “Jessica, no!”

  He staggered to the top of the stairs and turned toward the bathroom, his feet slipping and sliding out from under him. Before he could regain his balance he was in midair and had crashed to the hardwood floor with a resounding thud. Water…his pajama pants, his hands, the back of his shirt—all of it soaked with water.

  Dennis struggled to his feet and pushed himself down the hallway, closing in on the pool of light cutting the darkness from beneath the bathroom door.

  In one fluid motion, his feet splashing the thin film of water, he sprinted to the bathroom and slammed open the door with his shoulder.

  Slipping on the tile, he steadied himself, and saw his daughter’s lifeless body floating face-up in the overflowing tub, her eyes open but sightless, her long chestnut hair fanned out and floating about her head like a dark halo. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he wept, charging for the tub, “not my baby, please not—”

  Giggles and the shuffling of feet in the hallway stopped him in his tracks.

  His world blurred with tears, Dennis spun around in time to see a small dark form scamper past the door. Before he could react he heard water splash tile. Turning back, he saw Jessica slowly sitting up in the tub, her small body breaking the surface, hair matted and soaked against her pallid skin, eyes now little more than moist black orbs. “Daddy?”

  “This…this isn’t happening,” he mumbled, slowly backing out of the room. He looked away, only to see Jessica now standing at the far end of the unlit hallway. On either side of her stood two dark, dwarf-like forms, approximately the same size, each holding one of her hands. With fear wracking his body in heavy convulsions, Dennis shifted his eyes back to the bathroom, which now stood empty, a single light over the sink offering the only light. The tub was bone dry.

  “Come on, Daddy.” Jessica said, turning with her companions and walking slowly into his bedroom.

  * * *

  The darkness moved past him in waves, the ache behind his eyes and in his temples growing steadily more painful. He escaped the fire aga
in, the rafters of the open ceiling above the bed gradually whirling into focus as his eyes struggled to verify his surroundings. He hadn’t left the bed after all. Had he been dreaming just then? Had he fallen asleep, or were hallucinations and madness a new phase of these horrible migraines?

  “Jessica,” he heard himself whisper, emotion catching in the base of his throat as memories slowly trickled through the veil of pain, confusion, and denial. “I…sweetheart, I’m…”

  A subtle weight against the mattress and a sudden dagger of pain across his forehead stopped him in mid-sentence, and he noticed the moonlight, briefly masked by shifting clouds, had formed a pattern across the foot of the bed.

  Jessica sat by his feet, dressed in a pair of fuzzy red pajamas. Two small dark forms had taken position behind her, concealed in shadow. “Are you still busy, Daddy?” she asked.

  Still certain none of this could be real, still certain he was only suffering the visions of a mind wracked with agonizing, exhausting pain, he struggled to control his breathing as tears streaked his face and his throat constricted, causing him to gag. “Jess, I’m…I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sad, Daddy,” Jessica said, a slight smile creeping across her face. “You can come with me now.” Her arm extended, a single tiny finger pointing toward the center of the room.

  He pawed the tears from his eyes. A small stool sat a few feet from the bed. Above it, fastened to a rafter in the open ceiling, hung a noose fashioned from a series of his neckties carefully knotted together.

  “My friends said you can come with me.”

  His eyes darted between the noose and his daughter. “Honey, they…”

  Jessica pointed to the two small forms shuffling about, as if in eager anticipation. “They don’t look like we thought,” she said. “But it’s ok, Daddy. They’re my friends.”

  And as his head sank back into the pillow, he closed his eyes and embraced the fire, preferring it to the vision of the two forms hobbling toward him. He felt their small leathery hands take his own and pull him slowly to his feet. Standing at his side, leading him to the noose, carefully helping him onto the stool, giggling and fidgeting even as he obediently secured it around his neck. Screams—horrible shrieks of terror—filled the room, blending together with the giggles and whispery growls until…until he heard her voice again. That same tiny sweet voice he’d missed so terribly.