What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  Clive’s strength left him. He placed his hand flat against the wall to steady himself. His legs trembled, refusing to support his weight, much less carry him forward. He squatted in the dust and ash. Sweat dripped from his brow. Its warm wetness sickened him. With the back of his hand, he wiped it from his forehead.

  When he returned his hand to his side, Clive could see that it wasn’t his sweat making him ill. It was blood, and it wasn’t his blood. His hands were covered in it. So were the floor, the ceiling, his hair, and his clothes. The walls around him flowed with crimson waterfalls that cascaded down their entire surfaces. Clive keeled over, his nerve lost.

  Bony fingers wound tightly around his arm. They startled Clive, commanding his attention. He glanced up to see the face of the stranger looming over him. It was still far too dark to make out its features, but all the friendliness Clive previously felt from it had disappeared.

  Another nightmare? Clive wondered. “Kevin? Is that you?”

  The stranger slowly shook his head.

  “Then who?” Clive feared the answer. He reached into his pocket. There, he found a gold Zippo lighter, a gift from his father that he kept on him always. His shaking hand raised it between his face and the ghoulish figure hovering beside him. When he flicked the lighter, it didn’t spark. His heart sank. He summoned the courage to try again and was successful.

  “Ugh!” Clive gasped, his breath wrestled from him. He stumbled backward, tripping and falling to the floor. The lighter fell with him. It hit the ground and doused itself out.

  Clive had only seen the stranger’s face for a split second, but it was long enough. He could deal with blood, guts, violence, and all the other things that created the need for parental controls on televisions and ratings on video games. But he couldn’t cope with what he’d seen. He told himself again and again that it couldn’t be real. None of it was real. His mind was just fucking with him, as it had been prone to do the last week or so, for months even. He slapped his face, trying to wake up. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape that twisted reality.

  “Your face…” Clive muttered, his voice quivering. “Where is your face?”

  The stranger’s face was as white and smooth as a cue ball. No eyes, no nose, no mouth… nothing was where it should have been. Clive scurried backward, sliding along the floor on palms and heels. But the skeletal thing, whatever it was, drew nearer.

  The faceless man extended his hand, offering assistance. Clive wasn’t taking it, however. He backed farther away before hopping to his feet. He wiped his hands on his pants then stood motionless, contemplating a means of escape. The stranger kept his position. After a moment, he turned and headed back down the hallway. He signaled for Clive to follow.

  Dream or no dream, I’m getting the fuck out of here! Clive tried to flee. His mind made commands, but his feet wouldn’t listen. Some invisible force compelled him farther down the hallway.

  Like a dog dragged along by its leash, Clive followed his guide deeper and deeper. The screaming became less distant until it was loud enough to set his eardrums pounding. His gut weighed heavy. His hope of escape departed. Still, Clive kept on.

  Finally, he reached the end of the hallway. It opened into a room lit by an old lantern attached to the wall. The room was otherwise empty except for a rusted metal bed frame, a soiled mattress, and the man chained to them. Small patches of fire flirted about the man’s clothing, smoldering the material of his grey sports coat and pants. His skin burned too, seared open in areas, exposing the muscle underneath. Metal handcuffs dug deep into his wrist.

  When he looked at Clive, his screaming stopped. All signs of agony vanished from his person, replaced by symptoms of anger and hatred. He looked as though he blamed Clive for his condition. Maybe he wanted revenge for it.

  The man reached for Clive. His chains rattled the bed’s metal frame, and Clive was happy they were in place. He cared not to think what the man might do had he been able to free himself. Still, Clive didn’t know the man. His flesh was so charred that Clive couldn’t recognize him.

  “What is this?” he yelled at his faceless escort. “What are you trying to show me?”

  But the faceless man made no sound. Instead, he pointed at his bound victim. Together, he and Clive watched as the burned man reached under the bed. He grabbed some unseen object and pulled it free. It creaked like nails across a chalkboard as it scraped along the floor. With a single motion, the man lifted the object and heaved it at Clive.

  Clive quickly stepped aside, barely dodging the impact. The object crashed at his feet, exploding into its component parts. He peered down at the remains of an electronic device. He thought that it might have been a car stereo in a past life. Wires and broken plastic speckled the floor.

  One piece seemed to remain intact: a small black box filled with red numbers, the kind of numbers that always count backward. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. Twenty-four…

  Clive wasn’t sticking around to see what would happen when the numbers hit zero. He turned to run, but his faceless adversary blocked his passage. There were no other exits to the room. If he wanted to escape, Clive would need to go through that ghastly manifestation. The man on the floor began to laugh.

  In his panic, Clive charged at the faceless man. His sole motive was to get out of that room. A hallucination can’t stop me from leaving. He’s not real. He can’t be real.

  Clive collided with the stranger. Neither gave ground. He wrapped his fingers around the man’s fleshless throat. His enemy began to laugh. Clive couldn’t help but wonder how. After all, where were his vocal chords?

  The skeleton’s bone-white face began to fill out as though its decomposition were reversing. Clive refused to let go as genetic materials flowed beneath his hands. He marveled as the bone became human.

  Everything inside Clive screamed at him not to look into its face again. He focused intently upon his hands as they tightened around the stranger’s neck. But he couldn’t stop his eyes from venturing upward. Facial features were now present. To whom did they belong? A chin, lips, teeth, a nose. Clive halted briefly, suspecting the worst. But he had to know who his tormentor was. With a hard gulp, he continued to the eyes, those oh-so-familiar windows to the soul.

  Clive’s grip on the stranger’s neck went limp. In absolute shock, he stumbled backward toward the bed. Never relinquishing eye contact despite the horror that consumed him, Clive dared not blink. The faceless man was no longer faceless—he had a normal human face, free from deformity or abnormality. Yet the sight was more disturbing than a man with no face. The face Clive now stared at was none other than his own.

  Time counted down slowly. Clive froze, entranced by the stare of his clone. He broke free from his mental binds when the burned man’s handcuffs fell away and his arms hugged Clive’s leg. Clive remembered those diminishing red numbers. He glanced down at the timer. Eight… seven… six. He kicked, but the man’s grip on his leg would not release. Clive fell to the ground as the counter teetered down to its last few numbers. Two. One.

  Clive screamed.

  He awoke with his pillow caught in his stranglehold. He threw it away from him, disgusted. Another fucking nightmare? This is getting old.

  Clive had had them every night since he killed Kevin. He was tired of waking up to damp sheets soaked by sweat. He was sick of having to be awake just to slow his heartbeat. Wasn’t that what rest was supposed to do?

  This nightmare, though, had been far too vivid. Denial was his only remaining coping mechanism, preventing him from correctly interpreting it. His dreams repeated the same message. Despite his reluctance, Clive began to decipher their meaning.

  Let go of it, Clive. If you keep pushing your conscience around like you are, eventually you’ll unlock things that aren’t supposed to be unlocked.

  “What, Chester? What will I unlock?”

  Clive’s initial anger and fright slowly dissipated. He was left only with his jumbled thoughts and the ranting of an inner force that he�
��d always known to be evil, even if he refused to admit it to himself.

  Chester has been here for me, he thought. Maybe it was he who was evil.

  Let it go, Chester whispered. She seemed discomforted by Clive’s constant nightmares. Why question all that has happened? Why probe the reasons behind your improved life? Why can’t you just be happy?

  “Improved life? Since I met you, I’ve seen multiple doctors. I’ve had a sordid range of medical problems, including headaches, insomnia, possibly amnesia and, let’s not forget, brain surgery. I’ve been stalked, blown up, and stabbed. Now I’m being investigated by the police. My best friend is dead, courtesy of you, and so are my roommate and my sister-in-law. And perhaps worst of all, I had sex with my boss!”

  Well, then, I’ve added some excitement to your pathetic existence, haven’t I? Yeah, Clive, you’ve lost some things. Nothing important, though. Let’s compare that with what you’ve gained. A pay raise. Deeper relationships with your niece and Morgan. Real love, Clive—something you’ve never had before. Something people can go their whole lives and never find.

  “Since when were you such a sap?”

  What? It isn’t true? You know it is. Why can’t you appreciate what you have?

  “Because it’s not real! None of it! Everything fell into my lap. It was all fabricated by you! And I can’t even be sure you’re real. If you’re not, that would mean…”

  Clive was too afraid to finish his own sentence. Insanity wasn’t something with which the sane could come to grips. And if Chester was nothing more than a figment of his disturbed mind, then that would mean all the nasty deeds that he attributed to her would truly have been his own doing. Derek’s death would have been his fault.

  “What if I did the things my dreams suggest?”

  You’re being ridiculous. Morgan was right about you. It’s your conscience playing games with your head. You killed a man. You did what you had to do. That couldn’t have been easy for you. The nightmares are your mind’s way of working through your guilt. Give it some time. You’ll be fine, I promise.

  “That’s what you said about confronting Kevin. The fucker nearly killed me! Believe me when I say it hurts like a bitch to get stabbed in the stomach. I lost so much blood. I could have died!”

  You’re fine now, aren’t you?

  “That’s debatable. Are we talking about my mental state too?”

  Like I said, give it time.

  “You talk about my mind not coping well with my guilt? I followed your instructions. I did what you wanted me to do.”

  What I wanted you to? So that’s how you want to play it?

  Chester’s voice echoed with a rage Clive had not before experienced. It made him curl up in fear.

  You got us into this mess, Clive. You. Not me. Not us. You. Things were going along just swimmingly, but I leave for one night, one night, and you fuck up everything! We were a team, Clive. Maybe you forgot what that means.

  “A team? What kind of team? You’re a bug that lives in my head, uninvited, I might add. What kind of team could we possibly make? Even still, I thought you and I had become… friends?”

  We are friends, Clive. Chester’s hostility lessened. For the moment, she almost sounded as though she felt sorry for him. That’s why I’m telling you to let go of your guilt and move on with your life. I’m trying to help you. You’ve done nothing wrong. You shouldn’t be torturing yourself like this.

  “Tell that to Detective Reilly. She seems to think I’ve done a whole lot of bad shit.”

  She’s mistaken. Who knows you better than me? Anyway, don’t worry about her. She has nothing on you. There’s still a way out of all of this, but I’ve done all I can to help you. Now you must help yourself. Stop digging. Your psyche can’t take any more of it. If you persist, you’ll only destroy everything that you are and everything that you have. Your happiness, Victoria, Morgan—you’ll lose it all. You don’t have to. Stop tormenting yourself. Nothing that has happened has been within your control. Let yourself be at peace, and I swear we’ll get through this.

  “I’m not so sure I deserve to get through anything. Unless this was all your doing! Was it, Chester?”

  Don’t be fool—

  “Did you do more than just watch? That’s what you do, isn’t it? Watch?”

  That’s right, Clive. I watch.

  “Oh, so that’s what you were doing when you killed Derek. Watching. It all makes sense now.”

  That was different. I did what needed to be done.

  “What else have you ‘watched’ me do? What have you made me do?”

  Nothing.

  “Nothing? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  Your actions have been entirely your own, Clive. You—

  “Please, just leave me alone. I need some time to think.”

  Believe me, that’s the last thing you need. So I’m afraid I can’t let you have that.

  “Go away! Leave me alone! I don’t want you around anymore.”

  I’ll leave when I choose to leave, but if you keep up this whiny-bitch attitude, my stay may be shorter than suits either of our interests.

  Unable to control Chester, Clive felt he was losing control of himself. His grasp on rationality, already loosely held, slipped away. His thoughts piled atop one another until none were coherent. Beneath their pile, a solid instinct remained, an instinct that told Clive to remove Chester from his head, if not by consent then by force.

  I can see you’re as stubborn as always. As I’m not yet ready for your awakening, I’ll do what I have to do to stop it. This is going to hurt you a whole lot more than it’ll hurt me.

  Chester began to hum. She repeated the melody that had brought Clive to his knees that night at Morgan’s. Only this time, she was louder and sharper.

  Clive noticed, and it hurt. He clawed at his hair and dug his nails into his scalp. Mad with pain, he tried to reopen Dr. Landenberg’s incision. The scar tissue held fast. Blood dripped from his nose and ran from his ears. Clive could swear his brain was hemorrhaging. He collapsed to the floor, awake but immobilized. And, over and over again, Chester hummed her cacophonous melody.

  CHAPTER 46

  “T

  he suspect, Kevin Ventura, died last week from a stab wound inflicted by his roommate, Clive Menard, at their second-floor apartment located at 14 Gilmore Lane in Somerset. Authorities have cleared Menard of any implications concerning his participation in the explosions. Menard was stabbed in the altercation with Ventura. We’re told he is recovering at Charlton Memorial Hospital. No charges have been brought against Menard, with Ventura’s death considered an act of self-defense.”

  “Turn that shit off!” Reilly yelled through the doorway of her office into the precinct. “We get our facts from investigation, not the daily news.”

  The television screen went blank. The precinct went silent. Officers acted busy. Detective Reilly was all business. She sat at her desk behind a mountain of paperwork, stroking her temples.

  A senior, white-shirted officer approached Reilly’s office. Unlike the others, he didn’t seem to fear her wrath. Holding a Calvin and Hobbes coffee mug filled with four-hour-old coffee, he leaned against her doorframe. He sipped from his mug like Lumberg from Office Space. Same arrogant demeanor but not nearly as funny.

  “Still not convinced about Ventura?” Captain Horatio Sanchez asked between sips.

  Behind his back, the other officers called him “Dirty Sanchez,” not because he was prone to unethical behavior but because they found humor in the absurd, racist sexual innuendo associated with the name. His caricature provided his subordinates with endless amusement, right down to his thin, shit-streak moustache. Well, particularly the moustache.

  Despite her knowledge of the nickname, Reilly respected Sanchez. He had a wealth of experience in the worst kinds of matters. She knew she could rely on him, placing him as second in command in the Page murder. After all, Sanchez couldn’t choose his name. But he could shave off that
ridiculous moustache.

  “Captain, you’ve been a cop for as long as I have—”

  “Longer, actually, but go ahead.”

  “When have you ever seen such a gargantuan horde of incriminating evidence gift wrapped and dropped into our laps like this?”

  “I never underestimate the stupidity of criminals. Two days ago, we arrested a guy who robbed a florist shop then later called the shop to apologize and ask the attendant out on a date. Caller identification is everywhere these days. That alone would have been enough to nab the guy without him giving the florist his actual name and number. At least once a month, we have to pull a would-be burglar out of a ventilation shaft. And if I had a dollar for every time ‘I promise not to tell if you let me go’ worked, I’d be richer than Bill Gates.”

  “Yeah, but our perp left little evidence at the crime scenes. Now, out of nowhere, evidence is piling up so fast we’re going to need an addition to the precinct just to store it. Awfully convenient, wouldn’t you say? When have we ever been so lucky? That apartment doesn’t just belong to Ventura, you know.”

  “You think his roommate had something to do with the explosions? Ventura stabbed him, for Christ’s sake. That guy took down a killer. He’s a hero.”

  “I’m not saying Menard was in on it. He certainly has an uncanny ability for showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time. All I’m saying is, Ventura didn’t have the brass for something like this.”

  “What’s there to it? You set a bomb and leave. You don’t even have to be there when it goes boom. You said so yourself that you always suspected him of killing Valerie Page. I guess he was fucked-up in more ways than one.”

  “He did kill Valerie Page. I’m not questioning that.”

  “Then you solved a case that means something even to the degenerates of this unfeeling community. And the guy who blew up our mayor is dead. I hate to admit it, but I kind of wish Ventura would have taken out this new guy too. He should burn in hell for sticking us with that asshole.”