by Brian Kirk
Reverend Drake turned and smiled—a bright smile with sparkling eyes that said, Boy, aren’t we about to have some fun! His name was Glenn, but he insisted that everyone call him by the formal title of his ordained profession. Even family.
The memory began to lose its linear narrative. Inner thoughts and emotive overlays began to intrude on the scene, like some omniscient narrator reading a scrambled script.
The scene soured. It darkened, the colors blanching out and burning inward at the edges. The priest’s smile became the sinister sneer of a carnival barker inviting kids to see the horrors within the funhouse. His centipede-like mustache scampered above his lips, millions of whiskered legs marching.
He walked towards her, placing a hand first against her neck, and then sliding it down, tracing it along the arched curve of her lower back, palming her underdeveloped behind, pinching it in jest and giggling as if playing a game. Grabbing it painfully before letting go.
But fear was not the emotion sensed within the memory. Nor dread. Certainly not fun.
It was guilt. It was shame. A confused search to determine what she had done to provoke what was to follow. Some flirtatious gesture? Some suggestion of lust? Or, perhaps, some unspoken agreement between the priest and her mother, permitting it to happen? Because there was no other explanation. No way a holy man, no way her uncle would violate her in such a way. No way her mother would allow it. Unless it was her fault. Unless she deserved it.
Young Angela’s mind was under duress. It was squirming, trying to cope with what had happened and trying to understand why. Trying to pinpoint some moment that would explain it all away. But, in order to do so, she must live through it again. Let it all play out in this exaggerated reenactment which had been warped by the revolting reality of the act.
She knew the word for it: INCEST. And she knew it was a dirty word. And that it made her a dirty girl.
Stained. Tainted. Covered in filth that would never wash away.
Angela felt her younger self cringe under her hands, trying to escape from the memory of her uncle undressing her. Of his hands caressing the prepubescent buds growing from her breasts.
And, at the same time, trying to dissect it to figure out what, if anything, she could have done differently. She had permitted it. But had she encouraged it? She shivered. She screamed in silent frustration.
No, Angela thought, and she heard her voice enter into the mind of the memory. It sounded calm and comforting. It was the voice of compassion Eli had taught her to use when consoling patients. You didn’t encourage it. You didn’t bring it on yourself.
She began to run her fingers through the little girl’s hair, letting the silky strands flutter back in place. She combed the girl’s hair back from the sides, pulling it into the small nub of a ponytail, while she stroked the soft skin exposed on her neck.
It was not your fault. He was disturbed. He was sick. There is nothing you could have done differently. If you had fought, it would have only made it worse.
The darkness of the memory began to diminish. The point of view zoomed in on her uncle. It showed his feverish eyes, his manic, desperate gaze—windows into a mind at war with itself. A mind disgusted by its own depravity. A weakness of constitution unable to overcome its perverted urges. A self-loathing deeper and more despairing than anything Angela had ever experienced. Even in her most compromised moments. Even when she felt she could fall no farther.
He needed help, but there was no one to help him. Even if help meant separation from society. Even if help meant death. He would have preferred those things to being who he was.
His face was contorted in an animalistic expression of hunger, of predatory lust. But it also showed anger and revulsion and shame, all directed towards himself. It was an act of self-flagellation, as much as sexual gratification. He knew Scripture well enough to believe that he was damning his soul. And still he couldn’t stop.
You were his victim, and there’s nothing that can be done to minimize how awful that was. But he was a victim too. Of faulty genetics, of a damaged brain. He was broken and needed to be either fixed or destroyed.
But you, little Angela, you did nothing wrong. You were a strong, brave girl. You survived. And look at us now! We’ve gone on to help fix the broken people. We have so much to be thankful for. You’ll get over this. You’ll move past it.
And what, replace it with booze, blackouts and one-night stands? The connection was so blatantly obvious it was professionally embarrassing that she had never made it before. Well, she had, but in a more general, abstract sort of way. She had never considered that she was still punishing herself over something that was not her fault. That she still harbored all the guilt and the shame.
I will not remain a victim any longer. It’s time to move on.
The memory began to fade, losing its immediate potency. It fast-tracked to her mother returning home, exhausted from a sixteen-hour workday. But still making the time to check in on Angela. To make her something to eat. To lay her down to sleep. Only then shutting her own eyes for the few hours she had until it was time to wake up and do it all over again. All for her little girl. All for Angela.
The little girl stirred on the footstool. Outside, a golden shaft of sunlight had penetrated through the clouds and was spotlighting the statue of the lady standing in the empty fountain. It made her glow.
Angela could see the little girl’s face reflected in the windowpane. Her eyebrows were still knitted together in deep concentration, but there was a one-sided smile on her lips. Almost a smug, little grin. The girl was smart. She was tough. Angela had a feeling she would make it just fine.
She leaned down and wrapped her arms around the little girl, resting her head against the small crook of her shoulder.
I love you.
And she heard the voice of a young little girl say “I love you too”.
Tears blurred her eyes. She wiped them away as she stood, peering out through the window again at the lady in the fountain. Wait, she had seen this before. Of course she had. It was the courtyard back at Sugar Hill.
Chapter Fifty-One
“We’re all dead here. We’re caught in the in-between.”
Randall’s voice came through the speaker in a burst of static, as though from a station that was just out of range. But this wasn’t a radio. It was a CD player. There was no signal to pick up.
Eli shut his eyes. What have I done to deserve this hell?
“We’re dead, but we cannot die. We’re stuck out here, without eyes to see.”
The static made it hard to understand what Randall was saying, but when he played the guitar it came through crystal clear. He was picking the strings, a slow, discordant rhythm that produced a formless beauty, almost an anti-song. His static-laden words, then, became a kind of poetry.
“We’ve already been here forever, and we’re ready to come home.”
Eli was intent on waiting out this new, strange scenario. It too would pass. Just like the others.
“Eli, we’re scared. This place is scary. We’re alone with just our thoughts. Together, but alone. Our thoughts have gone on forever. Will you help us?”
Eli leaned towards the CD player, which as far as he knew didn’t have a microphone, and said, “Randall, is that you?”
The speaker exploded with static. Laughter? A scream? He couldn’t tell. Then, this crackly but audible “whooo-hoooo”.
“Yes, Dr. Alpert. It’s me, but there are others. We’ve been here for such a long time.”
“Where? Where have you been?” Okay, now I’m talking to my stereo, Eli thought.
“The in-between. Stuck in nothingness.”
“Randall, I don’t understand. Can you please explain?”
“He sent us away, but didn’t give us anywhere to go.”
“Who did?”
“The killer at the end of the w
orld.”
“Who?”
“The killer of Raptures.”
“Randall, I don’t understand.”
But then he did. It clicked.
“Do you mean Crosby? You mean the Apocalypse Killer?”
The speaker rattled with static.
“Randall, I don’t understand what is happening. How am I speaking with you?”
“We are a part of nothing, but know everything. It’s all here. All the information there ever was or will be. I can’t explain. But you can control it. You are in control.”
“Control what, Randall?”
“Your mind. Your reality. You are in one of the infinite tributaries branching off the river of existence. You need to come back. Come back and bring us back.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Let go.”
“Let go?” Eli looked at his hands, which held nothing. “Let go of what?”
“You must let go.”
It was a saying he had heard throughout all of the Buddhist teachings: Let go. But he had never understood what it meant. His life was one of service to others. That wasn’t something he could just give up. He needed to apply himself, not surrender. What good would he be then?
Besides, he had already lost too much through ambivalence. People had died because he had not shown enough strength. Letting go had not saved any of them. And it would not save Randall now. He needed to fight back against whatever force was afflicting him, whether it was his own mind or something else. That was the only way he would overcome it. Not by letting go. Not by giving in.
“I’m going to figure this out,” he said, feeling ridiculous for having a conversation with a CD player.
The first thing I need to do is stop indulging in my fantasy, he thought.
He reached out and turned the stereo off.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The sense of vertigo was so strong Alex had to hold his arms out for balance. He was back in the conference room, standing before the U-shaped table in the same spot he had been before…
Before what? What the hell happened?
His heart was racing. Just moments ago his dead brother was lunging forward to bite him, and now he was back here. His return was just as abrupt as his departure. Just as disorienting. Return from where?
And to his dismay, everyone was staring at him. Looking at him with stunned, horrified expressions.
I must have had some kind of a stroke, he thought. Oh God. What a nightmare!
Then he realized that the faces staring up at him weren’t moving. They were catatonic; their only movement was the occasional blinking of their wide-open eyes. It was like looking at some strange business exhibit in a wax museum.
Alex surveyed the room. Crosby was gone; otherwise, everyone else was accounted for. He approached the table, watching to see if anyone’s eyes tracked his movement, but they did not. They each continued to stare at some image in the distance that he could not see.
That must have been what I looked like, he thought. They must all be having the same lucid dream.
He stared down into Bearman’s rigid face, looked right into his bulging eyes. He held his fingers up and snapped them in front of Bearman’s nose. There was no reaction.
He walked to the right, scanning the frozen faces. He stopped and slapped his hand down onto the wood table as hard as he could. The smack resounded like a gun blast, but no one moved. No one even blinked in surprise.
The room was silent, completely still. There wasn’t even the soft hiss of centralized air coming from the vents overhead. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop just to hear a sound. It had the same hollow resonance as Jerry’s coffin lid. His skin prickled and he suddenly felt cold.
There was a gasp to his right—a sudden intake of air. He turned his head. Angela was looking at him, but no longer with that petrified stare. She was looking at him. She was there.
Angela opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She closed her mouth, swallowed and looked around. The deep lines forming between her brows looked like they would remain there forever. Then she bent forward, placed her head in her hands and began to shudder as she silently cried.
Alex didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure whether or not to admit what had just happened to him. But, whatever it was, it appeared to be happening to the others as well. Something was, at least.
His mind scrambled to figure out the best way to handle the present situation. It came up blank. Then it offered this: What would Eli do?
He realized it was true. Eli would know precisely what to do, even in this puzzling situation. And he would somehow make it look easy and obvious. Eli was in no condition to help now, however. His face looked like it had been fossilized. Except for every so often when his eyelids would blink—lightning quick—and then return to that disconcerting vacant stare.
Angela’s crying was still silent. He wished she would sob. He wished she would contribute some sound to the vacuum of the room.
Then she raised her head back up and looked at him again. It was the most confused and vulnerable he’d ever seen her. She looked like a lost little girl.
“What’s going on?” she said.
Alex shook his head. He turned his back on her and paced the room. He couldn’t stand the frightened look on her face. He was afraid it was on his face too.
“Alex?”
He turned. His hands were clasped behind his back. If he couldn’t come up with anything encouraging to say, at least he could appear calm. He raised his eyebrows in an invitation for her to continue.
“How long have I been out of it?” Angela asked. Her speech was barely audible. It was all breath.
Alex shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
They both looked at the row of vacant stares.
“It’s happening to them too,” Angela said.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Bearman slammed back against his chair. It came up on two legs, like some boardroom wheelie, and nearly toppled over. His hands crashed against the table when he came back down.
Alex jumped, and Angela yelped. It sounded like a hiccup.
“Holy hell,” Bearman said, fully animated now, his head swiveling, chest heaving, greasy sweat streaming down his quivering face. “Did I just have a goddamn heart attack?”
Impatient with the lack of response he was getting from Alex and Angela, he turned in his seat towards Linda. He shook her by the shoulder. Then he pinched her cheeks in his fat hands and shook her by the face. Her eyes never left that distant place that appeared to be a world away. And maybe was.
His fingers were digging into her cheeks, creating white dots where they looked like they were about to punch through. “Linda,” he was saying over and over again. “Linda, Linda, Linda!” If he squeezed any harder he was sure to dislocate her jaw.
“Stop it!” Angela cried. “Let go of her!”
Alex rushed forward and pried Bearman’s hand from Linda’s face.
Bearman swung his arms and brushed him off. “What’s wrong with her?” he said.
No one answered.
He looked around, observing Steve and Eli, both still in their catatonic states. “Christ alive.” It came out as a whisper, in a reverent tone.
Until he had a better handle on the situation, Alex figured it was best to keep silent. He knew Bearman couldn’t stay quiet for long.
“Anyone care to tell me what the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of sick psychiatry experiment?”
“I don’t know,” Angela said, and looked up at Alex for an answer. So did Bearman. They were now both staring at him expectantly. He could stay silent no longer.
What would Eli do?
He would tell the truth.
Alex unclasped his hands and brought them around in front of him. It gave him something to look at. He couldn’t meet their m
anic, pleading eyes. “Look, I’m just as confused as you. I don’t know what is going on. I…” Then he did look up, just briefly, to make sure they were still attentive. To make sure they were still there. “It’s like I slipped into a dream. I was somewhere else. And it felt like I was there for a long time. I can’t explain it.” Looking at his hands, with their neat, manicured nails, felt surreal. The sensory experience, the feeling of this being the one true reality, was indistinguishable from how he had felt while locked in the prison cell. He was now unsure which reality had been a dream and which one was real. “Is that what happened to you too?”
“It wasn’t a dream,” Angela said in a faraway voice. Her eyes had glazed over again. She was distracted by something in her mind. “But it couldn’t have been real either.”
“I’ll tell you what it was,” Bearman said. “It was mass hypnosis. That crazy fella, what’s his name, somehow hypnotized us all.”
“Crosby?” Alex said. He looked around again. “He’s the only one who isn’t here.”
Angela was shaking her head. “Crosby doesn’t know how to hypnotize anyone.”
“How the hell do you know?” Bearman said. He stood up, wiping the sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve. He took off his suit jacket, tossed it on the table and shivered. “How’d it get so damn cold in here?” He didn’t look cold. Around his collar there was a ring of sweat that went all the way down to his chest.
“I would have known if he knew how to hypnotize. It would have been a major security concern.”
Alex was nibbling on his thumbnail. “What was it he said? Right before we…went away?”
“Some crazy bullshit about his defenses against evil being stripped away,” Bearman said. “Clearly, he’s not cured. That was a major misjudgment on your end, Dr. Drexler. It don’t get much more fucked up than this.”
Alex dismissed the insult. He barely heard it. He was thinking back to the moment right before he had been transported away. “Right. He said that he could no longer hold it at bay. That he was forced to let it in. And he couldn’t control what it wanted him to do.”