What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  “Aaarrgh!” Something wasn’t right. Whatever was releas-ing from his body wouldn’t stop. He looked down to see an endless stream of white material projecting from his penis.

  What the hell is that? Clive stared in disbelief. It looked like nylon, maybe silk.

  He glanced at Morgan, confused and panicking. What he saw only heightened those emotions. The silky substance had somehow attached itself to her. With a life of its own, it wrapped around her ankles and kept on wrapping. The more of it Clive released, the more Morgan became engulfed.

  She screamed as it circled her torso, quickly drawing closer to her face. It reached her neck, and she struggled to break free, but its binds were far too strong.

  “Make it stop, Clive!”

  “I can’t!” Clive shouted. An invisible force held him in place, compelling his body to continue. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was watching him. Watching and laughing.

  At last, Morgan was swallowed by the unknown substance and encased in a hardening, suffocating shell. She fell to the ground, squirming desperately inside her unnatural cocoon.

  Clive tore at the material covering Morgan’s mouth without success. Every bit he removed clung to his hands so that when he would try to remove more, the part on his hands would rejoin the whole like Velcro. Morgan’s movements slowed. Eventually, she went still.

  Zipped up in a giant cotton-white sleeping bag, perhaps Morgan was only sleeping. Clive shook her as he sobbed and called out her name. As he recognized her fate, at his hands no less, he screamed out her name in overwhelming despair.

  “Morgan!”

  The sound of his own voice startled Clive awake. It was followed by a thud against the wall, his roommate’s way of telling Clive to shut the fuck up. He felt something under his eye, and he swiped at it frantically. Whatever it was slid down his cheek, where it was caught on his stubble. He drew in his breath and squeezed his eyes shut as he grabbed it. Feeling no cause for alarm, he calmed, rolled up the threadlike substance into a little ball, and tossed it onto the floor.

  Just lint. He picked up his phone, dialed a number, and let it ring a long, long time.

  A barely awake yet annoyed voice eventually answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Morgan. I just had the weirdest dream.”

  “Clive, do you have any idea what time it is?”

  Clive ignored the question. “I dreamt that we had sex, and I submerged you in my semen.”

  “If this is your way of trying to get a girl into bed, you’re doing a terrible job.”

  “Seriously, it was scary. My junk, it wasn’t liquid or anything. It was much more like thin angel-hair pasta. And it wrapped you up like a caterpillar. Fucked-up, no?”

  “Was it white?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was it sticky?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clive, I’m no dream expert, but could it be that your little adventure into that wall of cobwebs the other day messed you up a tad bit more than you let on?”

  “Spiderwebs? Yep, I think you may be onto something there. That’s exactly what it was like. It was so gross having that shit wrapped around my face and in my mouth. Thanks, Morgan.”

  “Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Clive awoke to the sound of his alarm clock and a peculiar itch in his nose. It felt as though he needed to sneeze but couldn’t. The sensation was familiar—he felt it each time Morgan slept over. She always left loose hairs on his pillow, and somehow, they would make their errant way up his nasal cavities while he slept. But Morgan was miles away. He figured it was one of his own hairs this time.

  He scratched his nose, and sure enough, there it was. His hand lightly brushed against the hair, and its gentle movement sent a tingle up to his brain.

  He scrunched up his nose and wiggled it from side-to-side. That’s got to be what it feels like to snort coke. It must be lodged way up there.

  He grasped the hair between his fingertips. It was gooey and off-putting. Gently, Clive began to pull on it. But his fingers, not the hair, gave way. They slid down the length of the protrusion, a good four or five inches.

  What the hell? That isn’t one of my hairs unless it’s one exceptionally long nose hair. It’s caught in my snot something good too. Thanks a lot, Morgan. That’s all I need. I bring a girl back here, and she finds one of Morgan’s long brown hairs—relationship over. Then again, it’s not like I ever have any girls over here besides Morgan.

  Clive hopped out of bed, determined to remove the new source of frustration. He ran to the bathroom mirror. The protrusion was clearly visible, but it wasn’t a hair. It was something far more sinister.

  “Oh, fuck no.” Clive grabbed the strand firmly and gave it a hard yank. An intense pain immediately followed, simultaneous with a snapping sound in his forehead. A few drops of blood ran from his nostrils. Instantly, the ringing returned, echoing throughout his brain and numbing his senses. He staggered from the resulting headache.

  Clive tossed aside the remnants, a broken dragline. He couldn’t help but wonder which end of the line its owner had occupied.

  “You can’t be serious!” Clive screamed at his reflection. “That’s what has been clogging my ear? A fucking spider?”

  Acid reflux kicked in strong, goaded by the thought of creepy crawlies living in his cranium. Clive dry heaved over his sink until he could settle his mind and his stomach.

  He looked back up at his reflection. The tired and watery eyes and the blood drying on his upper lip heightened Clive’s anxiety. His fear quickly turned to rage and thoughts of revenge.

  “You motherfucker! You’re coming the fuck out of my head, now!”

  Clive threw open his medicine cabinet and grabbed the Q-Tips. He fumbled open the package, hastily pulling a cotton swab from it. Closing the cabinet door, Clive stood poised with Q-Tip in hand. He glared defiantly at his glass counterpart.

  Without hesitation, he drove the Q-Tip deeper into his ear than was reasonably safe. It was the type of action Mr. Q-Tip cautioned against on his box. His head felt as though an explosion occurred inside of it. His headache instantly quadrupled in intensity, causing his body to crumple upon the sink. Nearly fainting, Clive steadied himself against the wall. On its own, the cotton swab held firmly inside his ear.

  But something else inside him changed. The ringing grew louder and lost its monotone quality. Ironically, Clive’s pain lessened with the ringing’s increased volume. The sound was almost like elevator music, like a little voice humming show tunes beneath his skull.

  How is that less annoying? Clive wondered. His nervous laughter slowed his heart just a little. When he managed to calm himself, Clive grabbed his phone from his bedroom. He remained there, steadily pacing back and forth. He dialed the Harcourt Insurance Company.

  “Harcourt Insurance. How may I help you?”

  “Connie?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Clive. What are you doing there so early?”

  “I’m always here this early. You’re just not.”

  “Oh. Anyway, I won’t be able to make it in to work today. My ear is getting progressively worse.”

  “Really? Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m getting it checked out the day after tomorrow. I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, I’ll let Judith know. I’ll tell her you need tomorrow off too. Don’t worry, I’ll play it up a bit, make it convincing. The nastiest of ear infections, incapacitating. You need your rest. Doctor’s orders, right? At least as far as Judith’s concerned, anyway. In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

  “Thanks, Connie. That’s why I love you. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Get well soon.”

  “I will. Bye.” Clive returned to the bathroom, still paranoid but starting to feel silly. He hadn’t actually seen a spider. Maybe it was just one of Morgan’s hairs after all.

  His eyes had
n’t deceived him, had they? It looked and felt like a spider’s line. Even so, just because he had the dragline in his nose didn’t mean he had its owner up there too. He didn’t know what to think.

  Clive ran the faucet in his tub. He blocked the drain and filled the tub with lukewarm water. Thoughts of arachnid armies marching in and out of his orifices led to considerable unrest. They say you swallow a spider in your sleep something like eight times a year or some bullshit, he told himself, trying to rationalize.

  It didn’t help. Clive couldn’t shake the feeling of infestation. He disrobed and submerged his entire body underwater, save for his nose. He felt both his ears pop from the change of pressure, a good sign perhaps. If anything were inside him, he hoped to drown it out. He closed his eyes and prayed for Friday to come quickly.

  Physics, chemistry, engineering—the bomb maker didn’t have a rudimentary knowledge of any of them. He wasn’t learned in architecture, construction, or demolition. He didn’t need to be. A red-flagged copy of The Anarchist Cookbook, borrowed from the Westport Public Library, and some basic Internet research would be sufficient to turn his turpentine into Columbine.

  Over the last few nights, he’d manufactured his products. He obtained all he needed through both legal and illegal means, visiting hardware stores and digging through landfills. Obtaining the rarer ingredients was more challenging, requiring more devious methods. When all the necessaries had been acquired, he assembled and reassembled his amateur artwork until all was ready. And when they were ready, he added gunpowder and jagged metal for extra gratification.

  Then he began his testing. Rodents were his first victims, but he graduated to much larger wild, and sometimes domesticated, animals. Afterward, he never bothered to clean up the mess, which grew in size with the growth of his skills. He didn’t fear detection. There would be no extensive investigation into the murder of lesser, soulless beings. It wasn’t like he lived in Texas, where he imagined they still hanged horse thieves and hog rapists. Or were they hog thieves and horse rapists? He couldn’t be sure. Besides, he’d been careful. And his art, though noisy, left little evidence intact.

  Somebody should shoot Jeff Foxworthy, he thought, blaming the comedian for his opinions on redneck Texan pig sex. Maybe I should make one of these for him. He grimaced as he forced the end of a torn wire into a flimsy metal box. Black powder dusted his forearms.

  Despite his elaborate preparation, he managed to keep everything secret. His family and friends, what few remained, knew nothing of his educational failures, his affinity for explosives, or his desire for infamy. He knew his motives would later be questioned, overanalyzed, and ultimately misinterpreted. Yet he cared not for the means but only for the ends they would justify. Anyway, the authorities could only pick him apart if he got caught. That was never part of the plan.

  Start small—simple, easy targets that won’t cause too much fuss. I still need to perfect my trade. A Cheshire-cat smile overtook his face as thoughts of destruction danced across his mind.

  Seriousness returned. There was work to be done. He flicked a switch, testing his shabby connections. Dark-red numbers began to count sequentially backward. A timer, but for what? He couldn’t decide. It was time to make his presence known, to begin his path toward notoriety. For the first time in years, perhaps ever, his future was susceptible to greatness. And he felt ready to seize it.

  CHAPTER 9

  F riday morning came, and Clive’s nerves were shot. He awoke just after four, having slept—on and off—no more than three hours. The humming in his head had been equally on-and-off the last few evenings, although his daylight hours were relatively unmarred. He drank to make the noise and all his worries disappear. Though intoxication did lessen his stress, it did nothing to alleviate that annoyingly melodic resonance.

  Clive’s appointment with Dr. Allen was still five hours away. He reeked of vodka and jock sweat and was desperately in need of some cleansing before his trip to the ear, nose, and throat guy. The heat made the air stale and humid, every breath a challenge. He jumped into the shower and held his head under the cool, spurting water. The droplets massaged his scalp, gently soothing his still-inebriated mind almost to the point of sleep. Eventually, he pulled himself away, wiped himself dry, and yanked up a pair of Underdog boxers, his lucky pair.

  Should I try again?

  The idea sent a chill up the back of Clive’s neck. He had managed to rationalize his circumstances, persuading himself that there couldn’t be anything living inside his head, or he would have felt it walking around. Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced. The thought of digging around in his ear with a Q-Tip had lost its appeal after what had happened the last time.

  He reconsidered. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Soon, a stranger would be poking and prodding inside his ears. Clive wanted them to pass ordinary inspection. His vanity outweighed his logic, and he reached for a cotton swab and carefully scraped the outermost portion of his ear canal.

  He winced in anticipation, yet he felt no pain. But the humming in his head grew louder still. Come on, he thought. Give me a freaking break. I barely even put it in there.

  The sound continued to increase in volume. Segments began to sound unique, distinguishable, almost recognizable. Are they syllables?

  Clive concentrated on the clatter, straining to make out each intonation. Instead of dispelling the noise like he had previously desired, Clive’s focus enabled him to increase its clarity. With just a bit more concentration—

  Mmmm Mm-mmm mou moron.

  Clive turned around, startled. It sounded as though someone were trying to speak with a hand over her mouth. It’s not behind me. Around me? No. Inside me?

  The mumbling continued. It seemed to be forming a pattern. A speech pattern? Clive began to make out words.

  “What?” he asked the mumbler, clueless as to what would or could answer him.

  I said, will you quit doing that already, you deaf son of a bitch? The barely audible voice began as a whisper but amplified quickly. It’s not going to work.

  “What’s not going to work?” Clive asked, confused but surprisingly not yet hyperventilating. He stared at his reflection as though the man in the mirror were not him but some evil doppelgänger. He awaited its move.

  Ah, the mongoloid can hear after all. The Q-Tip, jackass. Haven’t we been through this nonsense?

  Clive removed the cotton swab from his ear. He eyed it suspiciously, rotating it between his fingertips for inspection, conjuring images of a hidden microphone buried in it, perhaps a miniature person, an alien, something, anything, Clive’s thoughts ranged from the wildly insane to the downright perverse. He didn’t know what to expect. His mind tried to prepare him for the unexpected.

  Instead, he found the ordinary. He examined the swab thoroughly, finding no cause for concern.

  What are you doing? The voice sounded insulted. Do you take me for a Q-Tip?

  “Who are you?” Clive’s uneasiness escalated. “What are you?” he asked, his voice hushed as if the question itself were evil, not meant to be posed.

  He scrutinized every groove overhead and stood on his toes for a glimpse into the ceiling fan. He peered up the faucets in both the sink and the tub and peeked down the drains. He tore the hamper from the wall, not knowing what he’d find. Still, he found nothing out of the ordinary.

  “What do you want from me?” he shouted at the light bulb.

  I’m not up there, either.

  “Then… where are you?”

  Clive already knew the answer. He just didn’t want to accept it. Maybe his roommate was playing some sort of prank. His roommate, who never even wanted to make eye contact with Clive, had decided to show him some attention. Clive held on to a modicum of hope, averse to the alternative explanation.

  I’m in you, Clive. In a way, I guess you could say I am you, in a matter of speaking. I know everything about you, everything that you know. Even everything you once knew and have since forgotten.

  Cliv
e swallowed hard, his throat so dry he could feel it scratch. He hesitated to ask, but there was one question to which he needed an immediate answer, one question that consumed his every thought and exasperated his fright. It was the same question he’d just asked and had answered, but he needed to hear the answer one more time in plain language before he’d believe it.

  “Where are you?”

  Now, Clive, we both know that you already know the answer to that question. But if you insist on fighting the truth, I’m okay with that.

  “Am I insane?” he asked his reflection.

  Isn’t that a relative question? Clive heard the voice responding, but the lips reflected in his mirror weren’t moving.

  How should I know? I’m no psychiatrist. However, if you’re merely referring to the fact that you think you’re having a full-fledged conversation with yourself, then no, that doesn’t make you insane. Besides, some of the greatest geniuses in world history talked to themselves. Of course, so did Hitler, but let’s not be so judgmental.

  “What are you?” Clive persisted. He needed answers, but the circumstances seemed unfathomable.

  What’s with all the questions? I’ve been screaming at you all week, and now you choose to acknowledge me? Well, forgive me if I’m somewhat less than receptive.

  “The noise I’ve been hearing, that was you? What do you want with me?”

  Oh, Clive. You’re beginning to sound like a broken record. You need to relax. You’re much too young for a heart attack. Consider me a blessing. Think of me as the outer—well, I guess this would still be inner—expression of your subconscious mind. Call me your conscience, your intuition, or whatever else makes you feel better.

  “Are you alive? Are you something living inside me?”

  The idea of some ugly parasite making a living room out of Clive’s skull crippled him. He pressed his forehead against the mirror, his eyes losing focus until his reflection cyclopsed. His rational thoughts told him he was being irrational, but his irrational thoughts prevailed. In the mirror, an apparition, ghastly pale with dead eyes, reflected back at him under the low-wattage light. A wayward trail of mucus ran from his nose. His eyes were close to tearing.