I nod but am hardly convinced.
“Tell me everything.”
After the waitress delivers two fresh beers, calmly as I can, I explain about the young man in the yard, the homeless man and what I saw expelled from his eye, about how I saw the same type of creature moving under the sheet at Shelly’s apartment, about the writing on the bathroom mirror, the visions of bloodied knuckles that came true, the horrific visions and agonizing cries of Hell, and the voices laughing and whispering in growls and tortured howls to me that my life is a lie. Then I tell him about the strange temperature drop in the house, the strange experience and lack of memory regarding what happened at Copeland’s apartment, the beating I gave the man at the bar and how the young man had apparently warned me about it well before it happened, and finally, the ravenous eating spell. Hearing it all myself, I know that if it were Cliff telling me these things, I’d assume he was either crazy or outright lying, but he sits there patiently, listening and occasionally sipping his beer, offering no reaction and refraining from comment until I’ve finished.
“Let’s start with what you’ve seen,” he finally responds. “This guy in your yard isn’t a hallucination because hallucinations don’t leave physical evidence behind, which he did with the cigarettes. So this is a real person who obviously knows you or knows of you through someone else. I’d say he’s potentially dangerous because he could be connected through one of your registrants, and with the whole watching you through the phone thing he clearly sounds like a loon, so if he appears on your property again, or if you see him anywhere near you, I say you call the police immediately and let them handle it. Bottom line, if he’s on your property uninvited, then he’s trespassing.”
“But how did he know what was going to happen at the bar?” I ask.
“He didn’t, Cam. He guessed, or he meant something else, or it’s a coincidence.”
“But—”
“Now the homeless guy, I think odds are there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that too. He’s homeless, God only knows what kind of filth and disease the guy’s dealing with. Maybe he really did have a maggot on his face, is that really so farfetched?”
“It came out of his eye,” I remind him. “It was bigger than any maggot I’ve—”
“Okay, it was in his eye. Again, is that such a stretch? And maybe because you were upset and already paranoid and stressed out of your mind, you saw something bigger or worse than it actually was. Happens all the time, dude.”
“But I saw the same thing at Shelly’s.”
“No, you saw something moving under the sheet, something that startled and frightened you and that just as easily could’ve been the cat, or her adjusting her position and shifting the sheet in a way that made it look like—”
“It came out from under the sheet,” I insist. “I saw it.”
“Did you really, though? Or maybe did you see something you couldn’t explain or weren’t sure of, and fear and confusion set in and filled in the blanks, as the human mind does all the time, and due to exhaustion and stress and fear—not to mention the experience you had with the homeless guy—you saw what your mind put there to fill the space. Again, happens all the time, man. It’s how our minds work, especially under high levels of stress or fear. The human mind fills spaces, choosing from a file of images and explanations it already possesses, in order to make sense of things.”
I shake my head, unconvinced.
“Think about it a minute,” Cliff says. “Don’t those explanations seem far more reasonable and likely than what you’re suggesting? And maybe when you were at this Copeland guy’s place, you really did have some sort of breakdown or something. Look at what you deal with all day. I see some sad stories and people with issues all day long too, but you’re dealing with some pretty horrific stuff day in and day out. Just the case files you have to read alone are enough to do psychological damage to anyone over time. Maybe it just all caught up to you, man, and you needed a break and didn’t take one and something had to give.”
He has a point there. “What about the rest?” I ask.
“The writing on the mirror, the sounds and visions and the whole bloody knuckles thing, in my mind, can be chalked up to the condition you’re in. You’re exhausted and stressed. Maybe you’re depressed and don’t even realize it. I’m not saying there may not be chemical issues here—who knows—I’m not a doctor, I’m just saying I think there are clearly issues you’re dealing with right now, and they’re emotional and psychological ones, Cam, not real experiences, though they obviously seem real to you in the moment. It could also explain the violence you took out on the asshole at the bar and the whole gorging on food thing. When people are under tremendous amounts of stress and also dealing with exhaustion, they do and see and hear strange things. It’s really not that unusual. Now obviously this sounds excessive, but that’s why they have shrinks, my friend. You’re right, the psych evaluation is a good idea, and not because you’re insane or losing your mind. It doesn’t have to be that extreme, okay? It just doesn’t. People suffer from emotional and minor psychological issues all the time, there’s no shame in it and it doesn’t mean they’re crazy. Sometimes chemicals in our brains can just be a little off, and maybe with some meds or whatever, a qualified psychiatrist can get things leveled off again where they need to be. I’m telling you, man, that’s all this is. Once you go talk to someone, get some serious rest and let them help you get this back under control, you’ll be fine. The last thing you want to do is freak out or buy into the fear, okay? All that’s going to do is continue to confuse you and make you feel like you can’t distinguish between reality and bullshit. Level heads prevail, right? So that’s what you need to focus on, staying as level as you can.”
Everything he’s said makes sense to me, and he’s right, it certainly sounds more reasonable and likely than the other possibilities coursing through my brain. But even as I sit there and process that, I know he’s wrong. This is something else. Something worse, because whatever it is or isn’t, it’s happening in reality. It’s alive and moving inside me. I can feel it.
“Besides,” he says, “reality’s overrated. It’s all perception.”
I look out across the bar. Nothing seems out of place or unusual. “Not all of it.”
“Let me tell you a story. When Jenny was little, I don’t know, like nine or ten, she went to Gloria and told her she’d heard at school that Santa Claus wasn’t real and wanted to know if that was true. So Gloria dodges the question and tells her to ask me. She does. Is Santa real? she asks. Do you think he’s real? I ask her back. Yes, she says. Because there’s evidence of him everywhere, she says, he’s on TV and in movies and in books. He’s at the mall. Every Christmas morning there’s proof he was here. I believe in him and I know he’s real, she says. You believe in him, I say, so you think he’s real. But how do you know? How do you know he’s real? I ask. The kid looks me dead in the eye. Because you told me he is, she says. Bottom line, dude, reality is what we think it is, what we believe it to be, what we’re told it is.” Cliff kills his beer. “And when that falls apart or no longer makes sense, then we have to pick up the pieces and figure out what it all means again.”
“Only problem with that story is that Santa Claus was never real.”
“Wasn’t he? To her he was. Think back to when you were a kid. Wasn’t he real to you as anything else?” He sighs. “You had a misstep with Shelly, but since then you’ve had a great life, Cam. Good job, beautiful and awesome wife, nice home—Christ, you were even smart enough not to have kids—you’re living the dream. But sometimes those dreams get sidetracked, knocked offline, you know? And just like when you reboot your computer, we have to reset, get our shit straight again and figure out what’s what. No shame in it. That’s life. If there’s a devil living inside you, it’s no different from the one living inside the rest of us, and it sure as hell isn’t something out of a horror movie or anything literal. We all have our demons, Cam. Usually we can out
run them, but now and then the motherfuckers catch us. It’s not the end of the world, you just have to shake them off and start again. Not saying it’s easy, but it’s not impossible either. You ought to call Roz and ask her to get you those appointments ASAP,” Cliff says. “Get it done, get your head straight, and you’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
Cliff is doing his best, and I expect nothing less. He’s always been good at calmly making sound judgments, and is extremely skilled at organizing things into neat little categories so they seem to make sense even when they may not. And as that’s exactly what he’s doing, I let it go and nod, doing my best to convince him that his efforts have not been in vain. He’s listened and he’s helped. “You’re right,” I concede, though I feel more alone than ever, like I’m sinking even deeper into a dark and deadly hole from which there will never be any escape. No one understands because no one’s capable of it. It’s beyond understanding and comprehension because it’s beyond belief. But things beyond belief happen all the time, and most of us conveniently dismiss that. More handy little boxes and explanations that sound good, make sense, and should provide the answers we need. But they don’t. Not always. What then? For now, I gaze up helplessly at the edge of that hole, watch sand trickle down from all sides, the dirt walls threatening to implode, collapse in and bury me at any moment. “Of course you’re right. I let this get away from me and I need to rein it back in, not buy into the uncertainty and the fear.”
“And another thing,” he adds. “Stay away from Shelly. She’s trouble, never been anything but, and she’ll drag you down sure as I’m sitting here. It’s what she does. It’s what she’s always done to you. With these other issues going on right now, she’s the last thing you need in your life right now. Besides, you don’t owe her shit. She’s not your problem anymore. Not to mention you’ve got the perfect wife at home, so worry about her. Let her help you through this. She’ll be there for you, Remy always is.”
“I know I should, but I haven’t really talked to her about it,” I explain, “because I didn’t want to worry or upset her.”
Cliff gives me a stern look. “She can’t be there for you unless you let her.”
I look around, waiting for something to happen, some hideous vision or odd behavior from the patrons. But everything is as it should be. “You’re right.” I offer a smile I hope appears genuine. “About everything. Happy now, you smug bastard?”
“Been telling you for years I’m not just eye candy,” he chuckles, signals the waitress and mouths to her that we need the bill. “But one thing I was wrong about is those appointments with the doctors. Make them soon as you can. The mind’s very powerful, and it’s easy to let our thoughts run wild. I’m sure you’ll find none of this is as bad as it seems at the moment, but it’s also nothing to take lightly, ignore or play around with. And don’t play games with that kid. He comes around again, call the fuzz.”
The waitress returns with our bill and Cliff asks her to wrap the wings up to go.
“Thanks for coming out,” I tell him, “and putting up with me and this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. You need to take care of yourself, that’s all. I’m always here if you need me, you know that. Day or night, I got your back.”
“Right back at you,” I say, throwing a couple bucks down toward the bill. “And for real, thanks. But I promised Remy I wouldn’t be late, so I better get back.”
“Me too,” he says. “If the couch doesn’t fart soon, Gloria’s gonna know I’m gone.”
As we laugh and shake hands, I catch a glimpse of the cocky young college kid he was when we met, a mischievous wiseass everyone loved. That all seems so impossibly long ago now, maybe because that’s exactly what it is.
“And remember what I told you,” he says, unusual intensity in his eyes. “Reality is what we think it is, what we believe it to be, what we’re told it is.”
Yeah, I think. Until it isn’t.
CHAPTER SIX
I should go home. But I don’t. I drive into Boston and head for the Back Bay. The lights from the cityscape are magical, the energy coming from them palpable even from a distance. I park a few blocks from my office, lock the car and begin to walk with no idea why or where I’m going. I only know I want to walk. After a moment I realize I’m moving at such an accelerated pace I’m almost running. Making a conscious effort, I slow down as I move by South Station. It’s chilly out, the air sharp and sobering, and though it’s later now, it’s also a weeknight, so this part of town is mostly quiet and deserted, the streets empty but for the occasional walker like myself or the sporadic appearance of a car or truck. I know this area well, yet it feels as if I’m only vaguely familiar with it. Everything seems slightly off, like the world itself is askew. Maybe it’s gone crazy and I’m fine. Either way, the night is liquid and alive, moving all around me and luring me toward something else, some other I cannot yet discern. It’s as if every possible reality is present and occurring on this night, unfolding in unison, as one, each separated by and hidden behind the sheerest curtains of darkness.
At the corner, the bright lights of a convenience store draw my attention.
I stand outside a moment, staring at the signage in the windows and trying to remember if I’ve ever been inside. Probably, but doesn’t matter, so I yank open the door, slip inside and head directly for the counter.
A skinny college-aged kid with unruly locks and scruffy facial hair sits behind the counter slumped on a stool and reading a dog-eared copy of Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit. He glances up, and realizing I won’t be grabbing anything else before approaching the counter, puts the book down with a questioning look.
“L’enfer, c’est les autres,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Hell is other people,” I say, motioning to his book. “The famous Sartre quote.”
“Oh.” The kid nods vacantly, staring at me with empty, glassy eyes. “Yeah, I don’t really speak French, homey.”
I feel myself grin, but I find nothing humorous about his response. In fact, he’s making me angry, far more than seems warranted. I can feel the rage rising, bubbling up toward the surface, boiling in my veins. I want to hurt him. “Let me get a pack of Marlboro box,” I tell him, quickly searching the counter area until I find a display of disposable lighters. I grab one and place it on the counter between us. “And this.”
He reaches up to a large case suspended above him and pulls a pack of cigarettes free. After scooping up the lighter, he scans them both, then returns them to the counter and mumbles what I owe him.
I pay while trying desperately to ignore the sudden desire to grab him by his pencil-neck and slam his stupid fucking apathetic face into the counter. I can almost hear the sound of his teeth breaking off at the root, can almost see the blood flowing.
And it’s wonderful.
What the hell is the matter with me?
Before it gets any worse, I snatch up my items and hurry out the door.
Once outside it occurs to me that I haven’t smoked a cigarette in ages. I smoked when I was married to Shelly, but quit a long time ago. Quitting was so awful, and I felt so much better once I got through it, I’ve never had a desire to smoke again. Until tonight, when it feels as if I’ve never stopped.
Rather than paying attention to where I’m going, my focus is on unwrapping the pack, tearing it open and lighting up a cigarette as quickly as possible. Suddenly it feels as if I’m in the throes of the worst nicotine fit I’ve ever experienced.
I hesitate. I can’t. I don’t want to start smoking again.
Just smoke one, you fucking pussy. Do it. Do it now.
At the corner I fumble a cigarette free and fire it up. Inhaling greedily, I take a long and violent pull. The smoke burns the back of my throat and sets my lungs on fire as I hack out the first drag. Undeterred, I take hit after hit until I can inhale deeply without coughing. My head spins and my chest wheezes like a chew toy just like it did when I had a two-pack-a-day habit, yet it fe
els good to me. It feels right.
Disgusted with myself, I flick the cigarette away, stuff the pack and lighter into my pocket and keep moving. Wait. Where the hell am I? Apparently at some point I took a side street or alley, because I find myself in a neighborhood I’m unfamiliar with and to my knowledge have never been to. Consisting of abandoned warehouses and largely unused commercial space, it is deathly quiet, and most of the buildings on either side of the street sit dark and vacated. There aren’t even streetlights here, but as I walk on, at the next block I see a faint red glow seeping through the darkness from a set of stairs that lead below street level. Once closer, I see that the light comes from a modest sign above a door at the base of the steps that reads: AMORPHOUS LOUNGE.
Before I realize it, I’m down the steps and pushing through the door.
The place is small and intimate with lighting so limited it takes my eyes several seconds to adjust. Once they do, I realize no one is here. All the tables are empty, and the stage at the rear of the club is dark and quiet. The bar on the far wall is stocked with an array of the finest liquors and nicely backlit, but there are no patrons, only a male bartender in a black tuxedo manically wiping down the already pristine counter. Just inside the door stands a host’s podium. As if on cue, a maître d’ type appears from the darkness behind it. Also dressed in a black tuxedo, his dark hair is slicked back and held in place with a generous amount of hair gel, his moonlike face gaunt and badly pockmarked, eyes beady, black and small, like a rat’s. He bows formally, just coming up short of clicking his heels together.
“Good evening, sir,” he says, voice smooth and laced with a slight European accent, “how very nice to see you.”
“Are you open?” I ask.
He presents a smile that is either accommodating or condescending, I can’t be sure which. “We’re always open, Mr. Horne.”
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