The Delusion

by Laura Gallier

  I had access to the funds in the savings account my mom had built up for me. I figured I could withdraw some cash and live off that for a while until I got a job doing . . .

  Whatever lonely, uneducated, tormented people do.

  I knew better than to think I could outrun the Creepers or my sadistic sightings, but at least I could remove myself from the constant torture of seeing people I cared about be abused. And I could stay away from everyone who hated my guts and, quite honestly, never wanted to see me again anyway.

  There was just one thing I had to do before I started my nonlife.

  I learned Ray Anne had been released from the hospital, so I went to her house. Just showed up unannounced and rang the doorbell. She flung the door open.

  “Ray Anne, you’ll never have to look at me again if you’ll just do one—”

  She hugged me so tight I almost fell forward. Then she jerked away fast. “They’re freezing.”

  My chains. I felt hideous, like a metal-clad Cyclops.

  “Owen, I’m so sorry for the way I reacted to you this morning, but don’t worry. We’ll get you out of that shackle. You’ll see. And oh my goodness, the Creepers are terrifying! You told me they were awful, but I never dreamed they would be this horrific. But you’re right. They do avoid me and my family, thank God!

  “And I can see the glow, Owen! It’s all around my feet!” She lifted one foot, then the other, reveling in her new superhuman senses.

  She didn’t seem to be holding a grudge against me. Still, I kept my head down. “I need you to do one last thing for me.”

  “Last thing?”

  “Please. Tell me the names on the cuffs of my chains. And the words on my cords. I’ve got to know.”

  She crossed her arms, then pressed a balled fist to her mouth, as nervous as I had been weeks ago to examine my mom’s.

  “I know it’s disgusting.” I turned my back to her. “But I need you to do this.” I waited, as tense as a convicted felon facing sentencing.

  “You have four chains.”

  The mere thought made me weak in the knees. “What do they say?”

  She dropped to the ground. “The first one says Susan Lynn Edmonds.”

  My mother.

  “Next?”

  “It’s Lance. Lance Gregory Wilson.”

  No surprise there. I had no way to prove it, but that chain was probably less than twenty-four hours old. Attached during the few hours I’d slept.

  “Keep going.”

  “Daniel Quinton Bradford.”

  Dan. Of course. I popped my knuckles. “And the last one?”

  “Stephen James Grayson.”

  I drew a blank. That name meant absolutely nothing to me, except the middle name was the same as mine. I kept my back to her. “My cords now.”

  She stood, and I felt her step closer, studying my head.

  “Don’t touch them,” I said. “Just read.”

  Then came the character assassination.

  Deceptive.

  Unrepentant.

  Proud.

  Cynical.

  Lustful.

  Judgmental.

  Six cords? That was practically twice the average. I balled my fists, anger boiling so hot it was all I could do not to walk over and bash Ray Anne’s garage door.

  Everything in me wanted to defend myself—launch into lengthy justifications about how those labels were all wrong and I was seriously misunderstood. Misjudged. But I recognized that for what it was. I knew from living with my mother that human nature despises admitting guilt.

  I was no different. If the powers that be pronounced those as my transgressions, what could I do?

  I turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Ray Anne called out after me. “Where are you going?”

  I climbed onto my motorcycle and began walking my bike back, out of the driveway.

  She tried to grab the handlebars but missed. “Stop! We need to talk. I need your help with all this!”

  I wasn’t trying to abandon her—I was doing her a favor. Ridding her of my inferior presence. And I had to get home and settle something with my mother. Right now.

  I didn’t allow myself to look in the rearview mirror. Just sped off.

  Look at you, so full of selfish pride. My own thoughts turned against me, allying with the dark side.

  “Shut up!” As I argued back and forth with myself, I was aware I’d plummeted to an all-time low, into the hostile mental territory where psychopaths and schizophrenics live. More confirmation that I needed to leave town and live an isolated existence.

  I burst through the front door of my house like a SWAT team officer and walked straight over to my mother. She’d been working on her computer with her back to me but turned, startled. I dropped to the floor, inspecting each of her numerous cuffs among the mess of chains.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sure enough, on the eighth cuff, I found it.

  FORTY

  “WHO IS STEPHEN JAMES GRAYSON?”

  She stood, leaning so far away from me that she was practically on top of her desk, eyes wide.

  “Who is Stephen James Grayson? Tell me, Mom!” My newfound admiration for her took a sudden backseat to my frustration over her never-ending secrecy.

  She started crying.

  “Where did you—?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mom. Just tell me who he is and what his connection is to us.”

  She walked away. “It’s complicated.”

  I followed her. “Try me.”

  She suddenly started sobbing uncontrollably, turning and collapsing into my arms. But I pulled away, not willing to let her use me as a crutch.

  “I’m so ashamed. I have so much regret. If I could go back, I swear to you, I would do things differently, Son—I swear!”

  I knew now what was going on here. Exactly who that man was.

  I stepped within an inch of her. “Are you going to tell me who Stephen Grayson is, or do I have to say it?”

  She caught her breath but still didn’t have the guts to speak.

  “He’s my father. Isn’t he?”

  She sank backward onto the sofa. I bent down and vented in her face. “You told me his name was Robert—why? I don’t understand!”

  “Because I promised his parents.”

  “What are you talking about?” My body was shivering even though I felt like I was burning with rage.

  She asked me to give her a moment while she grabbed some tissues from a box across the room. I paced in circles, hands digging through my hair. She motioned for me to sit, then lowered herself onto the floor by my feet.

  “I loved your father very much. We were young and in love and anxious to get married. Neither of us cared about having some big, elaborate wedding, so we eloped, just the two of us. I never intended to get pregnant right away, but I did.”

  “And he left, Mom—I already know this.”

  “No.” Her face crumpled with grief. “I was afraid, nervous about how he’d take the news. He was attending an Ivy League university, and we barely had two pennies to rub together. He had high hopes of becoming a successful doctor someday, like his father.

  “I knew his mother wasn’t very fond of me, but I decided to confide in her about the pregnancy, thinking perhaps his parents would be supportive and offer to help us through what was sure to be a challenging time. But instead, she was cruel to me. She told me I was not an acceptable match for her son. Even accused me of getting pregnant just to trap Stephen so he’d have to stay married to me. Oh, that infuriated me!

  “I spent the next few days agonizing and started thinking perhaps they were right—he deserved someone more refined and intelligent than me, someone from a stable, wealthy family, someone who wouldn’t hold him back. And I convinced myself he would resent me for the pregnancy.

  “That week, while Stephen was at school, his parents came over. Drove across three states to come talk to me. They said they had the perfect solution and made me an off
er that would benefit everyone.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  She turned her face away. “They agreed to pay me a sum of money every year for eighteen years, ensuring you had a good childhood and received a quality college education. It was enough for me to get my education too.”

  “Under what condition, Mom?”

  She slouched over, still avoiding my face. “Providing that I left town, legally terminated the marriage, and never said another word to their son. Ever.”

  “So—you’re saying my dad didn’t . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to accept it.

  “He never knew about you, Owen. I’m so sorry. Your dad never knew he had a son.” She shook with each violent sob while I sat there, doubled over now, piecing together a few of the countless loose ends that had troubled me since childhood.

  I stood and released nearly two decades of pent-up anger and confusion. “Now I understand why you cried for three days when I told you I wanted to become a doctor. I was following in the footsteps of my father and his father and I didn’t even know it! And now I get how we’ve always had plenty of money! And why there aren’t any pictures of my dad. You didn’t want me to know what he looks like. You didn’t want to run the risk that I might go looking for him and tell him what you’d done! That’s why you kept his real name from me!”

  “Please forgive me.” Her voice quaked as she begged, on her knees. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I know now that his parents were wrong, and I should have told the truth and trusted Stephen to love me and accept me—to accept us. I just couldn’t at the time, and then it was too late to go back. He eventually remarried.”

  She wiped her soaked face with her sleeve, then made the most wretched confession I’d ever heard in my entire life. “We needed the money, Owen.”

  I dropped to the floor and grabbed her shoulders. “How dare you! What I’ve needed is a father!”

  She wailed, then pleaded with me again. “I told myself that when you grew up, I would help you find him, and you could know each other. I had no idea he wouldn’t make it.”

  “What did you say?” I let go of her, more bruised inside now than out. “What happened to my father?”

  She struggled to talk through involuntary gasps. “About a year ago, he traveled to a dangerous part of the world, in Africa, and he was never heard from again. He’s presumed—well, they think he’s likely . . .”

  She was too weak of a person to say it.

  “Dead.”

  “I’m so, so sorry, honey.” She reached out to hug me, but I twisted away. “Can you please forgive me?”

  Just hours ago, I’d made a shamed confession to Ray Anne, but my dishonesty spanned a matter of weeks. My mom had been lying to me my entire life. “You expect me to just let this go?”

  I grabbed the last of my things and strapped them to my bike. She chased after me.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m taking off for a few hours.” By the time she realized I was gone for good, there’d be no finding me.

  She stood in the driveway bawling, begging me not to go. I drove away, content to never speak to her again.

  Just like she’d done to my father.

  FORTY-ONE

  MY RESOLVE TO LEAVE forever didn’t waver as I drove beyond Masonville city limits on a one-way trip to isolation. It felt like the gray storm clouds brewing above my head were escorting me, eager for me to leave. Now that I’d heard my mom’s confession, even the scenic Texas hills along the winding highway looked hideous to me—like splotchy lumps lining a crooked spine.

  I drove for miles, lost in thought, trying to reprogram my brain to the idea that it was my mother who had abandoned my father, not the other way around. All this time, I’d believed he resented me—thought so little of me that he didn’t care to know even one thing about me. And now that I knew the truth, it was too late to see what he would really think of me.

  By late afternoon—after a few unsuccessful stops to clear my mind—I reached San Antonio and took a random exit heading north. I noticed there were just as many shackled people in this part of the state as there were back in Masonville. And there were Creepers scattered around—not all concentrated like they were at my school, but still haunting this region.

  After about seventy more country miles, I ended up at a mediocre motel in Kerrville, Texas—a hick town where people weren’t likely to look for me. Assuming anyone would come looking.

  I dropped my bag on the dilapidated bed and stood silent awhile. I was supposed to start college in the fall, begin my journey toward medical school. Instead I’d fallen out of life.

  The ambitious young guy with no end to his potential was spent at eighteen. Limited at every turn.

  I bought my dinner from a vending machine and yanked my motel curtains shut. Why watch the sunset? Nothing was majestic anymore.

  My antique room actually had Wi-Fi, but I wasn’t ready to research my father. My worst fear was that we’d look alike—that I’d see myself in him with no chance to show myself to him.

  I checked my phone. A flood of voice messages: some from my mom, others from Ray Anne, then one from Detective Benny.

  “The lab results are in,” he said.

  I dropped onto the stiff mattress and listened so hard that my eyes pressed shut.

  “We found no trace of contaminants or toxins on any of the specimens collected at the site.” His tone was flat. Zero enthusiasm. “And the well water is pure enough to drink. Pure enough to bottle and sell. Imagine that.”

  He paused so long I thought maybe that was it.

  “So Owen, we have no evidence to prosecute you.” He cleared his throat. “At this time.”

  I let out a really long sigh. The jacked-up water had pulled it off again—managed to conceal its toxic, transcendent nature from analytical minds.

  Guess I was a runaway now, not a fugitive.

  Jess texted me that night to let me know she’d followed through and reported Dan to the police. Good, I texted back. You did the right thing.

  I had a miserable night’s sleep, thinking nonstop about all the brutal ways my father could have possibly been killed in Africa. Adding to the torment, I kept rehearsing the accusations etched on my six cords, handwritten by Creepers. I couldn’t stop rubbing the back of my scalp. And wincing.

  The next morning, my ringing cell woke me—a number I didn’t recognize. Another voice mail. I played it and was surprised to hear his voice. “Masonville’s finest.” Dan’s abusive father, Dr. Bradford.

  He obviously didn’t know yet that his son was being charged with a crime. Or maybe he did, and he’d disowned him completely. Or figured he could get some big-name attorney to make it all go away.

  Dr. Bradford practically begged me to reconsider allowing him to mentor me. “It’s what your grandparents wanted,” his voice mail said. “I’m prepared to teach you things you’ll never learn from someone else. Powerful things.”

  It made sense to me now, why my mom’s parents had willed their estate to me. Even though they were dead, they were still recruiting me—luring me to Masonville so Dr. Bradford could single me out and entice me into their sinister world.

  I wasn’t exactly a God-fearing person, but I knew better than to get caught up in that occult stuff, even before I could see hell’s creatures. And how stupid would I be to let someone who raised a son like Dan be any kind of father figure to me?

  I deleted his message, then showered and left the motel.

  It was a long day of driving unfamiliar roads, aimlessly mulling over where and how to begin my secluded life. Before moving to Masonville, I had felt so in control of my decisions. Now I was like the ball in a pinball machine.

  At nightfall, I sat in the corner of a Starbucks, clutching my laptop and a grande vanilla latte—extra hot, with no foam. I marveled that the dreaded date was nearly here: 523. Mass attack day.

  I remained content to leave the situation in the hands of fate. I’d watch from
the sidelines, which in my case meant I’d tune in to the news tomorrow to see if anything really even happened.

  I sipped my drink, plagued by curiosity about my father. How tall was he? What kind of doctor? What kind of man?

  I tapped my fingers on my closed laptop. Should I . . . ?

  Eventually I opened my Mac. It felt weird typing his name.

  Waiting for the search engine to populate, I could feel my heart pounding in my neck—erratic uncomfortable thumps. Like a bass drum was lodged in my throat.

  Then, just like that, I saw him. Images of my father’s face.

  It took my breath away. My eyes pooled before I even had a chance to register the emotion.

  Had I run into him in person, I swear I would have known he was my father. The resemblance was undeniable. I looked a lot more like him than I did my mother—a realization that hurt just as much as I’d feared it would.

  The sense of loss was crushing. We’d probably have been the most important persons in each other’s lives, if only . . .

  I had to look away. Take some deep breaths. More sips of my drink.

  I spent hours there, reading all about him—articles about his humanitarian efforts, his bio on multiple physicians’ websites, the reports that he’d gone missing.

  He was a cardiologist with a thriving practice, and he frequently traveled to Third World countries to perform surgeries for impoverished people. He was married and—

  I nearly choked on my second cup of coffee.

  He had two daughters.

  I wasn’t an only child after all. That was hard to comprehend.

  What I read about his disappearance matched what my mother had told me. He’d traveled to Uganda fourteen months ago and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Some of his belongings had been found strewn in the brush outside a village ransacked by a militant regime. Among his items, a blood-soaked shirt.

  I had to take a break, walk around and pretend I actually wanted to look at a display of coffee mugs. I asked for an ice water and didn’t sit until I’d downed the whole thing and chewed every piece of ice.