Rogue

by Greg F. Gifune

  Although no one answers, I can hear the faint sound of measured breath, slow and steady…or is it…wind? An ancient wind from another place, another time…

  “Hello?” I say again.

  The last thing I remember is a blinding flash of light and a high-pitched screech that feels as if it’s tearing through my skull and piercing my brain.

  * * *

  It raced through the wires, raw energy—impulse and consciousness in one—alive and firing, employing the same door it entered through to make its escape. Using the wires as a pathway, it charged on, spiraling into the ether, surging through time and matter like a stone skipping across the smooth surface of a pond. A predator unseen, it bled into the atmosphere, dragging its kill to immeasurable darkness just beyond the sky, the reaches of reason and the somber face of God. Oblivion, it wanted nothing less, a kingdom of fire where trophies kneel before altars of blood and bone like the lapdogs they were.

  * * *

  Lights crash and explode all around me. Headlights blur and glare through the darkness beyond the windshield, the horrible screeching silenced, swallowed by my own sudden, gasping intake of breath.

  “What is it?” Remy asks from behind the wheel.

  I don’t answer until I realize I’m in the car, the front passenger seat, and that the lights belong to a truck passing us from the opposite direction. I bring a hand to my face, run it across my mouth, wipe it free of spittle and give my wife a sideways glance.

  “Did you fall asleep?” Remy presses, smiling at me awkwardly, her face bathed in the eerie green glow of dashboard light.

  How the hell did I get here?

  “Yeah, I…I must’ve dozed off,” I say.

  We cruise down a quaint, tree-lined suburban street, the headlights illuminating the sidewalks and portions of neatly trimmed yards and shrubbery. The homes on either side of us—most much nicer than our own—sit in darkness but for an occasional porch lamp or light-filled window. I recognize the neighborhood. We’re still in town but a good ten to fifteen minutes from the house.

  I search my mind for memories but all I can remember is answering the phone and hearing that horrible shriek. At some point since then I have changed into a fresh pair of khakis, a casual sports coat and a pair a loafers. I can smell aftershave on my neck, so I touch my face. I am clean shaven, and my mouth is fresh and clean, my teeth having apparently been brushed fairly recently.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Remy slows the car and makes a left.

  “Not really,” I tell her. “I’m so…tired.”

  We pull into the paved driveway alongside an older but meticulously maintained saltbox clapboard house. Remy turns off the engine, turns to me and takes my hand in hers. “We don’t have to stay long. Let’s just make an appearance so there won’t be any hard feelings, then we’ll go, okay?”

  I want to tell her to start the car and get us out of here. The world is crumbling all around me and she expects me to attend some ridiculous cocktail party? But the optimistic look on her beautiful face stops me. She wants—needs—so badly for me to be there for her, to come through, to take part in things like this that are important to her, and I’d rather die than disappoint or hurt her. She saved my life, gave me happiness I never knew was even possible, and despite all my shortcomings and struggles, Remy always believes in me, even when I don’t deserve it, and has always had my back. How can I let her down? How can I break down and confess my sins to her, tell her I have no memory of how I got here and that I’m so scared I can barely think or breathe or—

  “Sweetie, if you’re seriously not up for this, we can leave now,” she says, her expression shifting to deep concern as she caresses my shoulder. “You look…off.”

  “I’m okay, just not feeling terribly sociable.”

  “No,” she says, considering me the way I imagine she considers her students at school when she suspects she’s not being told the truth. “There’s something more, I can feel it. You haven’t been acting like yourself for awhile now. What’s the matter? You can tell me, it’ll be all right.”

  I take her hands in mine again, kiss them and press them against my cheek. It feels wonderful. It feels…safe. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “Aw, Cam,” she says, her face flushing. “Of course I do, and I love you too, sweetie, more than anything in the world.”

  I clear my throat and steel myself. “Promise we won’t stay long?”

  A smile slowly surfaces. “Cross my heart.”

  I look to the house. Unlike the others on the street it is lit up and welcoming, and through the light-filled windows I can see a few people milling about, chatting, holding drinks and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. “All right then,” I tell her. “Come on.”

  * * *

  “Well look,” Dario says, swirling the red wine around in his glass and holding it up to the light as if he’s never seen it before, “Bauldelaire maintained that literature and evil are inseparable.”

  Remy and I stand listening, along with two other teachers from her school, Jeffrey Stanton and Isabella Costa.

  Jeffrey chuckles. “Bauldelaire’s full of shit.”

  “That seems a bit harsh,” Isabella says.

  “But it’s true. Talk about drawing parallels where none need exist. The thought process that allows one to arrive at his conclusion is so infantile it’s breathtaking.” Jeffrey sips his drink and looks to Remy and me for support. “Jump in at any time.”

  I shrug awkwardly. A bunch of high school teachers sitting around pretending to be college professors, and pretentious ones at that, I can’t imagine why I loathe socializing with these people. Dario’s real name is Darren, but he changed it because he felt his birth name wasn’t exotic enough and therefore didn’t properly convey who he truly was. His wife Sue, an unassuming and pencil-thin mousey brunette with a penchant for cardigan sweaters and long skirts, is equally irritating, but mostly due to her misguided worship of her husband. I often wonder what someone like Remy sees in them, colleagues or not. “Sorry,” I say, “this is a bit outside my wheelhouse.”

  “You claim it’s an infantile stance,” Dario says before Remy can respond, ignoring me completely, “but Bauldelaire himself said on several occasions that there were many childish aspects to literature and evil—so he admits this—he just refuses to condemn either, and to me, not only is that bolder, it’s infinitely more interesting.”

  “But he also blames the writer for penning anything that could be perceived as having a dark—or evil as he describes it—theme,” Jeffrey counters. “Which, come on, is nothing short of preposterous.”

  “Hold on,” Dario says, adjusting his position on the arm of the couch but remaining seated. With his tweed jacket, grandiose gestures and mop of salt-and-pepper curly hair, he reminds me of a host from some local PBS pledge drive. “He also admits that it’s exactly that kind of theme that makes the writing interesting.”

  Jeffrey, a tall and gangly sort, balding but with a full beard, responds, “Yes, while holding the writer culpable for what’s being written.”

  “Are you suggesting artists have no culpability whatsoever?”

  “It depends on the work, but generally, no, I don’t think they—”

  “For God’s sake, Dario,” Isabella jumps in, “much as I think calling Bauldelaire full of shit is too harsh, he was of the belief that writing wasn’t real work and that writers were evil because they didn’t hold real jobs. What sort of archaic nonsense is that?”

  Dario waves at her with his free hand, as if swatting away an insect. “You’re oversimplifying his stance.”

  “Is that even possible?” Jeffrey barks with laughter while Isabella, his girlfriend, gives him a conspiratorial pat on the shoulder.

  Remy, still having not gotten a word in, looks at me and winks.

  I smile vaguely but feel very uncomfortable. There’s something here with us, in this shadowy house, and it’s not human. I can feel it slinking about just out of sight.


  “He claimed that Kafka, for example, was on the side of evil because of what and how he wrote,” says Isabella, she of the giant earrings, heavy makeup and 1970s polyester pantsuits. “And so he felt guilty about it. I’m sure Kafka felt some guilt but it wasn’t because he believed he was on the side of evil. It’s a ludicrous stance, so as much as I adore you, my dear, I have to agree with Jeffrey on this one.”

  Dario playfully rolls his eyes, then takes a sip of wine. “You’ve got to go home with him, so of course you do!”

  “Well I don’t have to!”

  As the three burst into laughter and Remy and I play along, Sue emerges from the kitchen carrying a small tray of cheese and crackers and places it on the coffee table. “What sort of mischief are you up to now?” she asks her husband in her typically squeaky voice.

  “You know me,” Dario says, slipping an arm around his wife’s tiny waist and drawing her closer, “always up to no good.”

  Isabella selects a cracker and nibbles. “Why so quiet tonight, Remy?”

  “Just taking it all in,” she says with her usual flair.

  “Planning a sneak attack, no doubt,” Dario says with a grin.

  As they continue talking, my discomfort increases, so I drift away, moving subtly toward the other side of the room, where another couple, Leigh and Wayne, sit on a love seat in front of a vast bookcase. While Leigh works at the school with Remy and the others, her husband Wayne is an executive at a clothing store chain, and like me, attends these things purely as labors of love. I find both he and Leigh easier to talk with and much more down to earth, so I continue my slow escape until I’ve reached them.

  Wayne looks up from what was a quiet conversation with his wife and flashes a brilliant smile. “Bailing on the Bauldelaire debate, huh? Whoever the hell that is.”

  “I somehow managed to tear myself away.”

  Leigh, a statuesque woman with Nordic features and blonde hair so light it’s nearly white, smiles at me with what appears to be considerable effort. “You timed it perfectly,” she tells me. “They’ll be talking shop in no time, and that’s even worse, trust me.”

  I smile politely. “Hope you don’t mind me interrupting you guys.”

  “Not interrupting at all,” Wayne answers. Always impeccably dressed in suits and ties, he has the square-jawed and somewhat vacuous good looks of a movie star, and although he and Leigh are about five or six years younger than the rest of us, I’ve always found them far more intelligent, interesting and witty than the others. “We were beginning to feel a little left out.”

  “If I wanted to discuss Bauldelaire, I could,” Leigh informs us. “But it’s been a long week. I’m not up for one of Dario’s debates tonight.”

  “Let’s talk football and really freak him out,” Wayne suggests.

  Leigh, laughing lightly, gives her husband a playful slap on the arm.

  “Organized sport is about nothing more than the male organ,” Wayne says, quietly doing his best Dario impersonation, “and the exploitation of minority youth.”

  “Stop,” Leigh says in a loud whisper, “you’re terrible. Dario means well.”

  “He does?” The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Nice.” Wayne raises his glass to me in mock salute.

  “He’s not so bad,” Leigh says. “It’s just his way.”

  “And what’s up with these tunes?” Wayne mumbles, referring to the classical music playing softly from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. “Sounds like a funeral dirge, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Wayne,” Leigh says, this time gripping his arm. “Stop, honey, seriously.”

  Since Leigh and Wayne are the only ones among us who have children, to deflect the conversation away from our host, I ask how their two sons are doing. Leigh responds by unleashing a tsunami of information, gleefully updating me on their activities and accomplishments. Thankfully Wayne rescues me by asking how my job’s going. I give him the standard answer and the small talk continues. I struggle to stay focused, but my mind is elsewhere, and my eyes are drawn to the windows again and again, as if there’s something out there that needs my attention as well.

  In time more people arrive, filling the house with several couples I’ve never met. With my head fogging over and my body beginning to feel sluggish, my eyes drift through the growing horde until I locate Remy on the other side of the room chatting with Isabella and another woman I don’t know. She sees me and gives a rather guilty smile, as if to say she hadn’t realized so many people would be coming. I offer a subtle shrug, then turn back to Wayne and Leigh, who don’t seem to notice I haven’t been listening to them for the last few seconds.

  Leigh suddenly excuses herself and slips away through the crowd, disappearing upstairs, presumably to use the bathroom.

  “Let’s get another drink.” Wayne rises from the love seat. “Come on, we can’t be expected to face these people sober.”

  I look into my glass. Melting ice. “Think I’m going to pass, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says, moving away.

  A young woman with deathly pale skin, dreadlocks, several tattoos and sad, dark eyes outfitted with black liner and shadow separates from a small group of people to my left. She looks wildly out of place here, more like a student than another teacher or contemporary of our hosts. Silver earrings in the shape of crosses dangle from her ears, catching the low light from a nearby lamp. She walks by and smiles at me in a way that seems almost familiar. I nod and smile back. Dressed in a loose but heavy gray sweater, jeans and knee-high black boots, she stops as if planning to speak to me, but then seems to think better of it and walks on, taking up position in front of one of the windows facing the street.

  Outside, a very light snow has begun to fall.

  I head for the couch and locate my wife not far from where I last saw her. She, Isabella and the other woman are chatting, but Remy excuses herself from their conversation just as I arrive and joins me instead, slipping her arm around my waist.

  “You okay?” she asks softly.

  “Fine, you guys get the whole Bauldelaire thing worked out?”

  Remy rolls her eyes and sips her wine.

  “I thought it was just going to be a few people?”

  “That’s what I was told,” she says. “Want to get going?”

  “Would you mind? I’m still not feeling well.”

  Remy smiles and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Sue’s been putting coats upstairs on their bed, I’ll go grab ours.”

  “I’ll get them. You let Sue know we’re leaving, okay?”

  As I start for the stairs, Remy gently touches my arm. “Are you all right, Cam?”

  “No, I told you I’m not feeling well.”

  “But is there something…more?”

  “I’d just like to go home, lie down and get some rest, okay?”

  “Oh, look,” Remy says, pointing toward the windows with a bright, childlike smile. “It’s snowing. How beautiful, isn’t it—sweetie—isn’t it beautiful?”

  I glance over my shoulder, see the snow falling through darkness. The woman with the dreadlocks is gone. “Yeah, it’s…yes, it is.” I casually search the room but cannot locate her. How could she have vanished so quickly?

  Remy touches my forehead. “You’re a little warm again.”

  “I’ll go get the coats.”

  As I move through the room, excusing myself as I go, everything seems to change. Nothing seems right. The people, their faces, the sounds of their voices; none of it seems as it should be, but rather distorted, corrupted somehow. There is darkness here, and it is slowly draping itself over the entire house and everyone in it, absorbing and changing everything. My heart races and my palms begin to sweat. Why is it suddenly so goddamn warm in here?

  I slip into a short hallway, turn to my right and ascend the stairs. A winding staircase leads me to another short hallway with a series of doors on either side of it and a single door at the very end I know to be t
he bathroom. There is a light fixture overhead but I can’t seem to locate a switch. The only light comes from an open door about halfway down the hallway, a small swath of dull yellow spilling free. The other doors are closed, so I assume the open one must be Sue and Dario’s bedroom.

  Downstairs a burst of cackling laughter erupts, followed by the hum of numerous voices. I look back, but I’ve gone too far down the hallway and can no longer see the bottom of the staircase.

  “Come on!” a woman’s voice yells from downstairs, and suddenly the soft classical music is replaced with something far more sinister in tone, a raging guitar riff that is so loud it shakes the entire house. A booming baseline follows, then a pounding drumbeat and vocals that sound more like the growls of an animal than the singing of a human being. More laughter wafts up the stairs as the volume of people’s voices increases to compensate for the deafening music.

  Temples pounding, I close my eyes and rub them a moment.

  There is danger here. I’m in danger, Remy’s in danger. We have to get out.

  I open my eyes and move quickly for the open door. As I approach, I can see someone standing on the far side of the bed, which is covered in an enormous pile of coats and jackets. I hesitate just outside the doorway. The person has her back to me but the dreadlocks give her away. How did she get up here before me, and without ever passing by me in the living room?

  The sound of another door opening turns my attention to the end of the hallway. The bathroom door slowly swings open to reveal Leigh standing just inside. She is completely nude and has a baffled look on her face. At her feet, on the tile floor, is a fresh pile of excrement. She looks at me and cocks her head as if confused. Urine seeps from between her legs, running down onto the floor in a steady stream.

  I take a step back, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

  “Leigh?” My voice sounds foreign to me as it drifts down the dim hallway.