Rogue

by Greg F. Gifune

  My blood runs cold. “How do you know my name?”

  “You’re such the jokester, sir.” The man laughs politely. “I know your name because you’re a regular, of course.”

  I have never set foot in this place before, and have never laid eyes on this man.

  “Would you like your regular table, Mr. Horne?”

  Mystified, I stand there nodding idiotically, my mouth dry as sand.

  The maître d’ leads me through the numerous empty tables, each outfitted with expensive white linen and a single candle in the center encased in intricate red glass globes, some burning but most extinguished. As we arrive at a table directly in front of the stage, he bows and sweeps his hand at my chair with a grand motion so over-the-top it would be comical were it not so creepy.

  As I sit, the man slides the chair in gently behind me. “Will you be having a drink this evening, sir?”

  “Yes,” I manage. “Please.”

  “Right away, Mr. Horne,” he says, then before I can tell him what I want, turns on his heel and glides away toward the bar.

  Before me is a small, dark and empty stage. It seems out of place to me, as it is dusty and old, unlike the rest of the place, which while dated, is immaculate to the point that I wonder if any of it’s ever been used before tonight.

  A glass and small napkin slide onto the table before me as the maître d’ delivers my drink. I take a sip and it feels good on my parched and sore throat. Vodka and cranberry juice, not my usual drink, but he seems to think it is.

  “I hope it’s to your liking, sir.”

  “Thank you, it’s fine,” I say quietly. “What is your name?”

  He smiles again, but this time it looks almost evil, partially hidden in the shadows beyond the reach of the candlelight on my table, his black eyes piercing even in scarce light. “You know my name just as well as you know your own, Mr. Horne.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Why it’s Anthony, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Forgive me, Anthony. I’m afraid I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “I certainly hope your time with us here will help you with that, sir. Will there be anything else for the time being?”

  “No. Thank you, Anthony, that will be all for now.”

  With a formal nod, he retreats to his podium near the entrance.

  A loud sound shatters the silence, a toggle being thrown, and suddenly a spotlight appears on the stage before me. I have another sip of my drink. It’s delicious, the best cocktail I’ve ever had. I notice a small glass ashtray on the table, so I dig my cigarettes from my pocket and light one. Unlike earlier, the cigarette is smooth and tastes great.

  A strange squeaking noise echoes through the room as vines of smoke spiral around me and snake through the spotlight. Two men dressed in white appear from the darkness at the rear of the stage. Looking like attendants from a mental hospital, they wheel out an old industrial-style bed with a rusty iron frame and position it in the center of the stage. Without a word, they fade back into the darkness from which they came.

  After a moment, a man emerges from the darkness and crosses the stage. Barefoot, he wears a long black satin robe, the hood pulled up and over his head to hide his face. Still as stone, he stands next to the bed, head bowed. From behind him, a woman, also barefoot and dressed in a satin robe—this one red—walks into the spotlight and stands on the opposite side of the bed. A hood covers her bowed head as well.

  Silence returns until the steady thump of a drum and the smooth whisper of cymbals can be heard, the music evidently piped in through hidden speakers all around me. As the music begins, the man peels back his hood, then opens his robe and drops it to the floor. He is completely nude, his pale, plump and hairy body pockmarked with cellulite and patches of red and irritated skin. Bald but for sprigs of unwashed and unruly hair jutting out from either side of his head, he remains motionless and keeps his head bowed, but I know now who it is.

  Alfred Copeland.

  Taking a final angry drag on my cigarette, I crush it in the ashtray as the woman follows suit, peeling back her hood, then dropping the robe to the floor. Nude as well, the moment my eyes move to her, I realize I know that body well. I’ve touched and tasted every inch of it. Refusing to look at me, Remy climbs onto the bed and lies on her back, her movement robotic and her face void of expression.

  I spring to my feet, but before I can charge the stage I feel an unusually strong hand on my shoulder, and suddenly Anthony is there, standing next to me and holding me in place. “Come now, Mr. Horne,” he says evenly, gently pushing me back down into my chair. “You know how this works.”

  Helpless, I watch as Copeland climbs onto the bed and Remy spreads her legs to accommodate him. He glides into her, his dimpled and scarred buttocks pumping as he fucks her, his dangling and jiggling gut slapping her belly and breasts. Both remain expressionless—neither lustful nor disgusted—their movements mechanical and lifeless as they switch positions and he begins slamming into her from behind.

  I power down the remainder of my drink, then smash the glass down on the table.

  Remy’s small breasts jump, bouncing in time with Copeland’s increasingly violent thrusts.

  “Stop this,” I tell Anthony, my anger giving way to crippling sadness, a level of sorrow I have never before experienced. “Please. Stop this, I—”

  “That which has been preordained cannot be stopped,” Anthony says; powerful grip still clamped on my shoulder. “And who should know that better than you?”

  Copeland grabs Remy’s waist, his thick hands and sausagelike fingers sinking into her soft flesh as he pumps harder. Their bodies, slick with sweat, slap against each other even harder. The nauseating sound it produces nearly drowns out his grunts and groans, until he empties himself inside her, crying out as if mortally wounded. Sated, he collapses onto her with his full weight. Lying atop her, his ample girth rising and falling in rapid succession, he gasps for breath as drool escapes his mouth in a long string and trickles down the back of Remy’s neck.

  Finally, Copeland rolls off her, his flesh jiggling and pasty. He slides from the bed, regains his feet, and still without looking at me, turns back and takes hold of his wet and now flaccid member.

  An arc of urine shoots through the air as Remy rolls onto her back, spattering across her belly, chest and face. She lies there without protest, staring up at the dark ceiling like a corpse.

  Once finished, Copeland turns and gazes out at the empty tables and chairs, never looking at me, and bows like an actor at a curtain call.

  Anthony finally releases me and begins to clap maniacally. “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Copeland takes Remy’s hand and helps her from the bed. She stands next to him, dipping sweat, cum and urine, then bows too, her expression still lifeless and flat.

  “Brava!” Anthony shouts, clapping even harder. “Brava!”

  The music stops. Remy and Copeland bow their heads and the spotlight disappears, the darkness swallowing them whole.

  So cold now, as if long dead myself, I point at the stage. “I’m going to kill him. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’re so silly tonight, Mr. Horne,” Anthony says, smiling at me with his demonic grin and soulless black eyes. “You already have.”

  * * *

  My drink, there…there’s something in my drink…

  “What do you want with Remy? Why would you involve her in this? Whatever this is about it has nothing to do with her. Let her go, leave her alone, she’s never done anything to anyone. Leave her out of it. Whatever I’ve done, I—obviously it’s me you want, not her—I, just leave her alone. I’m the luckiest man in the world, she—she’s the kindest, most loving, intelligent, loyal and patient human being I have ever known. A perfect mate, a flawless wife, I could not love her more than I do and she—just leave her alone…”

  “You’ve no need to be concerned with that right now, Mr. Horne. You have more important things to worry about.”
>
  I try to see Anthony’s face but it’s gone now, it’s…it’s become something else, his black eyes bottomless pits, pestilent caverns, passageways to another place and time, another reality…

  Where is he taking me? Where are we going?

  Holding me tight by the arm, he leads me deeper into darkness…lower…beneath the nightclub and into the sewers and shadows, where unclean things watch from the darkness, the filthy dripping darkness…

  I have never felt so alone, so goddamn alone.

  “Help me…”

  I don’t want to go where he’s taking me…I…I’m afraid…there are things here, clinging to the curved and cavernous walls and ceilings, floating and swimming in the dirty water, waiting in the filth…horrible things…frightening things…

  “None more frightening than you, sir.”

  “What have I done? God help me, what have I done?”

  “You don’t believe in God,” Anthony reminds me. “But He believes in you.”

  The water is deeper now, up beyond my knees and—and I can feel things moving in it—brushing up against me and—biting—they’re biting they—they’re biting me, tearing chunks of flesh from my legs, dropping me down as Anthony releases me and…and I’m sinking…sinking into this horrible water that smells like death and feces and blood.

  “He believes in your blasphemy…He believes in your betrayal…”

  I cannot stop it, I—please—I’m sinking lower, the water splashing up over my face, my mouth and nostrils, the sewers so dark I can’t see anything.

  “So do we…and it’s beautiful…”

  Down. Down. I cannot see, but I can feel. Down beneath the filthy water I fall.

  Broken…by my master.

  * * *

  The sun slowly rises, breaking over the trees as night burns away, taking my nightmares along with it. At least for now.

  I have no memory of driving home. All I know is once I got here, I ran into the house like a madman, bounded up the stairs to our bedroom and checked on Remy to make sure she was all right. She was still awake, but barely, under the covers and dozing with the television on. When she saw me, she smiled, so beautiful and free of all the darkness and horror I’d been lost in. Still fully dressed, I crawled into bed with her, kissed her, held her in my arms and whispered how much I loved and needed her.

  “Have you been smoking?” she asked blearily. “Your breath smells like cigarettes.”

  “It’s all right. Go back to sleep, my love.”

  Later, once she had, I left her there, went downstairs, made myself a drink, then went out to the backyard. Sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, I waited, watching for the sun and the return of the young man.

  And return he does.

  My eyes close. Perhaps I nap for a moment or two, I can’t be sure, but when I open my eyes, there he is, sitting in the other chair just feet from me with the same sad face and disheveled look he always has. And in the distance, through the trees, the phantom car alarm begins to wail.

  “No more games,” I say. “What’s happening to me?”

  He stares at the ground, and in his whispery voice says, “They gather when something bad is about to happen. They wait and watch, like they’re doing now. Slowly, they get stronger. Eventually, they usher it in. They don’t make it happen. They’re just there to help it along. Same way sharks swim to blood.”

  “Sharks are more than ushers. They’re predators.”

  “So are they.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Not who,” he says, “what.”

  “What then. What are they?”

  He glances at me with his sad, teary eyes. “Exactly what you think they are, what you’re afraid they are, what your mind tells you they can’t be.”

  “I’m changing.”

  “I know.”

  “Can I stop this? Can I stop them?”

  He looks away.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him.

  He seems baffled by the question. “Call me Mac.”

  “How do you fit into all this? Are you ever going to answer that? Who are you?”

  Standing, he lights a cigarette, leaves it dangling between his lips, then gazes out at the forest behind us. “You’ll see.”

  I watch as he wanders out of the yard and into the trees. And then he’s gone.

  Head in my hands, I rub my temples as the cries of the distant car alarm drone on, splintering the slowly breaking dawn of a new day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The rain brings me back. Running, spraying, spattering, dripping from the eaves of the house and gushing through the gutters, it is alive and vibrant and speaks to me like the ghosts in my head, whispering in ancient and long-dead languages I will never decipher. Yet I understand. On a level primal in its simplicity and pure in its raw fear, I understand. There is no escape from what’s happening. Running away from it will only destroy me faster. I must run toward it, straight into its teeth, and confront it with every fiber of my being if I’m to have even the slightest chance of survival.

  Although it is morning, the rain and storm clouds leave the house unusually dark. Without bothering to turn on a light, I sit on the edge of the couch in the great room, lowering myself onto it gradually like a slowly deflating balloon. Having been born and raised in the city, this quiet and modest house in a cozy small town has always represented my dream. Until recently, this house and this life has been a dream, a dream come true. But I’m coming to despise that word. Dream. So innocuous yet so devastating, as this place now feels more like a prison, a place I want to flee from whenever possible, because maybe if I’m not here, then none of the darkness stalking me will be either, and Remy and everything else I care about will be safe again.

  I can hear Remy moving around upstairs, preparing for work, and I feel safer somehow, connected to her in ways I cannot even begin to comprehend, much less explain. I only know I love her so much it hurts, and that this is where I belong.

  You belong with us…

  “No,” I say aloud, my voice foreign and odd in the otherwise silent room.

  The rain saves me a second time, once more bringing me back and away from the fires burning in my mind. Back. Maybe that’s the key. I have to go back. Back to before this all began, back to the beginning, when things first changed, because that’s where the answers to this mystery lie. They must.

  Alfred Copeland, I think. Everything changed after I went to that bastard’s apartment.

  Remy comes down the stairs like a vision, showered and rested and ready for work, bouncing with each step and happy as can be.

  It rained that day at Copeland’s apartment too.

  “So glad you got together with Cliff and worked things out,” she says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying into the kitchen. “He was worried about you.”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

  Liar…

  “Oh, and don’t forget, that thing at Sue and Dario’s is tonight,” she calls from the other room.

  “What thing?”

  Remy pokes her head around the door frame. “They’re having a get-together, just a small cocktail party at their place. We talked about it last week, remember?”

  “No, I—sorry—no, I forgot.”

  “We’re still going, right?” she asks hopefully.

  “I don’t know, Rem. Not sure I’m up for it, to be honest.”

  She frowns playfully. “I kinda sorta already told them we were coming.”

  “I haven’t been feeling well lately, and with being off work and all, I…”

  Remy crosses the room, squats before me and takes my hands in hers. “Sitting in this house all day and night is the last thing you need to do, sweetie. Maybe getting out and mixing with other people and having some fun would do you a world of good. Might be just what you need. It’s just a harmless little cocktail party.”

  I smile for her like a puppet, force away visions of her on that stage, her legs spread in the spo
tlight. Bile gurgles at the back of my throat. “Maybe,” I tell her. “We’ll see how I feel when you get home from work, okay?”

  “Okay.” She kisses my hands, then brushes them tenderly against her cheek, holding them there a moment.

  Behind her, through the rain-blurred windows, I see something large, dark and similar to a human being watching us. It shifts, moves and begins to quake, trembling at impossible speeds. Then it’s gone, absorbed by the storm.

  Or maybe it was never there at all.

  As a chill prances across the back of my neck, I tell Remy I love her, but find myself wondering if I really know her as well as I think I do. And does she know me?

  I know you, Horne. I know you.

  Remy’s eyes sparkle. “I love you too,” she says.

  I can only hope that’s enough.

  * * *

  The rain has gotten heavier by the time I arrive in Boston. Parked a few blocks from the office, I sit in the car watching the rain sluice along the windshield and windows. The steady drum of raindrops echoes off the roof and hood, making me feel safe and protected within my cocoon of plastic, steel and glass. I embrace it, listen to the rain and watch it wash over the car as my thoughts shift to Alfred Copeland.

  In time, I dial Marianne Feeney’s cell. She answers on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” I tell her.

  “Cam, hi—hey—how are you?”

  “I need a favor. My work account’s been frozen so I can’t access our site or any registrant files.” Ghostly apparitions glide beyond the rain-blurred windows, phantoms disguised as passersby and traffic. “And I need to get into one.”

  “Um, okay,” she says, her nervousness evident. “Which file?”

  “A registrant named Alfred Copeland.”

  Marianne breathes heavily into the phone. “Isn’t he the one that made the complaint against you?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”