The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “Okay, listen,” Anthony said, very slowly, very methodically, “I can give you whatever you want. I am a very wealthy man.”

  The specter’s face clenched as if he had just caught the stench of something rotting. He leaned over Anthony’s face and yawned. A single fly escaped from the soldier’s gaping throat, encircled Anthony’s head—once, twice—and then flew into the mogul’s mouth. Anthony gagged on the fly and swallowed it.

  “You think I want your money, cow dung? I do not want your money; I want your soul, pathetic as it is.” Then the specter whooped a laugh of scorn, and when he was through, he tilted his head left and right, popping the vertebras in his neck.

  “My soul is not for sale,” Anthony managed to say, the blade still under his chin.

  “Really? I thought you had sold it years ago.”

  “No, I have not sold my soul. I have not.”

  The specter sheathed his bayonet. “Well, we will see about that. You and I are going on a little trip.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You will see.”

  In that instant, man and ghost were engulfed in a helix of smoke that rose and vanished, and the office was void.

  Anthony was outside his body now, staring down through his own eyes at himself. He—the Anthony he was watching—was sitting at a control panel in a room dimly illuminated by three banks of monitors, dominated by a massive central screen.

  “I believe you know where you are,” the specter said at his side.

  “Yes. That is the security surveillance room.”

  “Is that what you call it? It is the ‘peeping room.’ You peep on your own wife, no?”

  Anthony was silent, consumed by his own image. He watched the Anthony below, who leaned over the control panel and studied his wife, Penelope, like a lecher ogling a schoolgirl:

  Penelope was sitting sprawled in her favorite overstuffed armchair. She was wearing a crimson evening gown that revealed her bare shoulders. She was still seductive, despite her approaching fortieth birthday.

  “I thought they would never leave,” Penelope said, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and lifting her feet onto the ottoman. Her dress fell to either side, revealing her firm calves and lower thighs. “My feet are killing me,” she said.

  “Who is she speaking to?” the specter asked.

  “Hennessy Duncan.”

  “And he is?”

  Anthony scoffed. “My oldest friend and business partner. He was the best man in my wedding.”

  “You have known him long?”

  Anthony felt strange. Normally, he would not respond to personal questions. But the ghostly intruder was no ordinary inquisitor. Anthony felt obliged—no, compelled to respond. “All my life. He has always followed me. When I played baseball, he followed. When I sailed, he followed. When I switched majors from chemical engineering to construction management, he followed. And when I said we should go into business together and open an office in Paris, he trailed along like a puppy. But Hennie is like that: He’s soft.”

  “Maybe not as soft as you think. He also seems to be following after your wife,” the specter said, sardonically. “But you had nothing to do with that, of course.”

  The two night visitors returned to the scene unfolding in the surveillance control room.

  Anthony sneered at the screen. He glared at Hennessy, who looked longingly at Penelope, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his rimless glasses tacked to his round face like translucent shutters.

  Anthony pointed his finger at the screen. “You bastard.”

  Hennessy sucked his teeth and sat down on the ottoman. He took Penelope’s feet in his hands, placed them on his lap, and began massaging her arches.

  Anthony heard something he could not quite make out. He twisted the knob on the master volume control. Hennessy was humming “Singing in the Rain.”

  Penelope closed her eyes and settled deeper into her easy chair. She had a sensual smile on her lips, as if she were soaking in a hot tub. “Umm, you read my mind.”

  After a moment, Hennessy moved his hands up Penelope’s calves, beginning high and pulling his hands slowly down each calf muscle.

  Anthony zoomed in on his wife’s face and shoulders. She actually shivered.

  “Oh, this is heaven,” Penelope moaned. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

  “Do we have to watch this?” Anthony asked the specter.

  “Are you not enjoying it? Do you not see how much your partner adores your wife?”

  “Yes, I do see that, and I can’t stand it.”

  “All right, then. We will watch something else. This is the best part anyway.”

  The Paris city lights from the window on the far side of the bedroom fell across the old English four-poster bed. The spread and duvet had been thrown back. Penelope was propped up against three or four pillows, the light cascading over her body. She wore a black, lacy corset with garters and textured nylons, the latter replete with a border of frill along the top edge. She had stepped back into her heels, and, with one leg bent and the other fully extended, she looked like the picture of desire. Anthony’s face hardened.

  In the next moment, Hennessy lunged into Penelope’s arms.

  “Easy, sailor. Let’s not break the merchandise.”

  Hennessy bolted straight up and smoothed his hair. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  Penelope slipped Hennessy’s glasses off his nose and tossed them to the nightstand. “Stop saying you’re sorry and kiss me, you big doofus.”

  Their lips were sealed, and Hennessy blindly began unlacing the front of Penelope’s corset, but he was all thumbs and in frustration gave one of the laces a vicious tug, which actually cinched the corset a notch tighter.”

  “Wrong lace, cowboy,” Penelope said from the corner of her mouth, their lips still interlocked.

  Hennessy broke the kiss and turned all his attention to the lace, but it was now impossibly knotted. He picked at the jumble of string, then gnawed at it, then in desperation squeezed Penelope’s breasts together, thinking they might pop out of the cursed cladding. They did not, and, as the next best thing, Hennessy fell back to his strategy of cluster kissing.

  “Please, whoever you are, no more.”

  “But you enjoy watching them.”

  “I don’t. I don’t enjoy watching them at all.”

  “Do not lie to me, Anthony,” the specter said with venom in his tone. “I know you. I know everything about you. You watched them for months. Do you not remember this scene three months later?”

  Hennessy and Penelope were sitting side by side in the four-poster, a sheet over their legs and hips, their torsos naked.

  “This is crazy,” Hennessy said.

  “What are you worried about? He’s with his mistress; he’s always with his mistress.”

  “You don’t know that. You don’t even know if he has a mistress.” Suddenly, Hennessy sat straight up, cocking his head like a dog on watch. “What was that!” he whispered.

  “It’s nothing,” Penelope said offhandedly.

  Hennessy stared quizzically at Penelope. “You act like you want to get caught.”

  “Would it be so terrible? Wouldn’t you like to drop the deception and get on with our lives? Besides, what if he does come? You told me yourself you have a plan if he surprises us. You brought a set of blueprints, remember? You’re here to talk about business.”

  “Yeah, sure, business, but not from his bed. Just how long do you think it would take to jump out of bed and get dressed?”

  “Relax, Hennie. It’s not going to happen.”

  The specter clutched Anthony by the shoulder. “Now watch this,” he said with a hollow laugh. “This is pure inspiration.”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “No, no, no. You will see how much you enjoy this.”

  Anthony picked up the telephone handset at the control panel and dialed his home number. On the first ring Hennessy leapt straight up of
f the bed. When he came down, his feet were tangled in the sheets, and he tumbled to the floor banging his head on the sideboard. He stifled a cry of pain and bounded toward the side chair where his pants were slung over the back. In his rush he stubbed his big toe into the nightstand, causing him to dance on one foot, again stifling the urge to holler out in agony.

  On the second ring, he reached again for his pants. In the process, he bumped the lamp on the nightstand, and the lamp rocked and then ultimately tipped over. Hennessy reached out with one hand to catch the lamp, but his grip was tenuous, so he tossed the lamp into the air to give himself a split second to grab the light with both hands.

  On the third ring, the electrical cord came taut and the lamp stopped in midair and reversed directions. Because the perimeter of the bedroom floor was tile and the base of the lamp porcelain, Hennessy had no choice but to cushion the fall of the lamp with his foot. The table lamp came down at an angle and landed squarely on the big toe that Hennessy had stubbed only seconds earlier. With that, the nervous lover was now spinning on one foot and silently cursing.

  Penelope was shushing him, as she picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Hello, sweetheart, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Anthony,” Penelope said without a flicker of concern.

  Hennessy was holding his head with the heels of his hands.

  Penelope reached out to Hennessy, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him back into her bed.

  Hennessy mouthed, “What are you doing?”

  Penelope silenced him by kissing him on the lips.

  “What was that?” Anthony asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Penelope said. “I’m just watching a little TV.”

  “Really, what are you watching?”

  “Oh, it’s one of those old French movies I like.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t remember. Something with Jean Gabin, I think. He kills someone, but he has good reason.”

  “Le Jour Se Lève?”

  “Yes, I think that’s it: Le Jour Se Lève.”

  “Do you think murder is ever justifiable?”

  “Maybe. Maybe I do,” Penelope said, putting her hands between Hennessy’s legs.

  Hennessy groaned despite his panic.

  “What’s happening now?”

  “The murder scene. It’s wonderful.”

  “You have a sadistic side to you, Nel.”

  “Do you think so?” Penelope asked, turning over onto Hennessy, pinning him under her body.

  Hennessy’s face was transforming from agony to desperation to frenzy.

  Penelope was now riding him, one hand holding the phone, the other on Hennessy’s chest. For his part, Hennessy was too terrified to be aroused.

  “Oh, yes,” Anthony said, “there is something very sadistic about you.”

  “Really. Why would you say that?”

  Then, regardless of his fears, Hennessy was beginning to slowly writhe under Anthony’s wife. Penelope responded with a gasp and quickly cupped her hand over the telephone mouthpiece.

  Suddenly, Anthony no longer wanted to play the game. He whispered into the phone: “You are a bitch.”

  Penelope stopped moving. “Me? I’m a bitch?” she asked, cool as a street prostitute negotiating a fee.

  When Hennessy heard that, his eyes popped open; brutally awakening him from his desire, he rolled out from under Penelope and tumbled to the floor.

  “Goodbye, Anthony,” Penelope said, hanging up the receiver with a firm click.

  Hennessy was already zipping up his pants.

  “Where are you going?” Penelope asked. “We have unfinished business.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. It’s driving me crazy.”

  Penelope smirked. “You big baby. Think about it: You’re letting yourself be scared off by a telephone call.”

  “He knows, Penelope. Can’t you see, he knows?”

  “He knows nothing. He is too consumed by his own world to know anything about mine.”

  Hennessy was seated on the side chair lacing up his shoes. “Sorry, Penelope. You can’t shame me out of this. I’m calling it a night.” He grabbed his suit jacket, pecked Penelope on the lips, and was gone.

  Anthony switched cameras, following his partner into the living room. In his haste Hennessy forgot to retrieve the blueprints from the coffee table.

  Anthony smiled.

  Anthony and the specter were back in Anthony’s office. The ghost was looking out the window at pure darkness where Paris should have been. Anthony was again at his desk.

  “What is this all about?” Anthony asked.

  The specter responded with his own question. “Are you familiar with Goya’s painting, The Third of May 1808?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That painting was the beginning of the end for Goya. He was not a happy man. He was embittered by the war against Napoleon, embittered by the inhumanity of man. The paintings that followed were black and full of terror and death.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Shut up. You do not have the right to speak. You have no merit. You are the commander of a Napoleon firing squad.”

  “I do have merit. I am the president of . . .”

  The specter opened his mouth and the sound of all the torment of hell exploded into the room. It was horrific and deafening, and Anthony clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Look at your hands, Anthony.”

  Anthony slowly lowered his hands from his ears and held them before his eyes. The knuckles of his hands slowly mutated, becoming cracked and gnarled with blotches of red rashes and brown liver spots creeping like oozing blood across his skin. They were the hands of a man a century old. He tried to stand, but his body was no longer youthful; it was torture to lift himself out of his chair and walk to the window that now reflected his image.

  Anthony screamed with horror. The skin of his face hung from his skull like frayed linen. His eyes—streaked with blue and red veins—bulged from their sockets. His teeth were yellow and black with rot.

  “Do not tell me who you are, cow dung. You are nothing. You are a sack of garbage. Even less, you are dust in the wind.”

  And then, before his eyes, Anthony’s skin peeled off his face. First there was raw flesh, then bones, then his skull dissolving into dust and maggots. Then there was nothing—nothing but the sound of his scream.

  Antonio’s piercing cry shattered the silence of Diego’s home. It was a scream from another world, so horrific that both Diego and Lupita were, for a moment, paralyzed with terror. For one instant, Lupita stood rigid, staring at Antonio, a man possessed, his legs thrashing, his back arched, his face contorted in unearthly panic.

  “Tito, help me,” she cried, throwing her body over Antonio’s chest. “Hold down his legs.”

  Diego leapt onto the bed and straddled Antonio’s legs.

  Lupita began speaking softly to Antonio. “It is all right, Antonio. You are safe. You are with friends. We will take care of you. Hush now. You are home.”

  Very slowly, Antonio began to relax. His breathing was still heavy, but he was less agitated. The more Lupita spoke to him, the calmer he became.

  “If he does that again,” Diego said, “he will tear out his stitches.”

  “It is too late. They are already torn.”

  It was true. In fact, blood was seeping into the gauze at his neck and shoulder. For the next two hours, Lupita meticulously repaired the damage, Diego serving as his daughter’s scrub nurse.

  When it was done, Lupita did something that surprised Diego. She leaned over her patient and kissed him on both cheeks. “Rest now, Antonio. And when you awaken, you will be with family.”

  Diego smiled. “Did you mean that, Lupita? Did you mean it when you said he would be with family?”

  Lupita sat down on her grandfather’s lap and put her arms around his neck. “Yes, Tito, I meant it. This man is in torment. He is a man who needs a family right now, this ve
ry moment. He has chosen us, and now we have chosen him.”

  “We have chosen him?” Diego said with a wry smile.

  “Did I not speak the truth?”

  “Yes, my dove, you speak the truth.”

  Lupita kissed her grandfather on his forehead and returned to her patient. “He is calmer, now, but he is still dreaming. He is still battling his demons.” Then, slowly, as if tending to a sleeping baby, Lupita bent over Antonio and whispered in his ear. “Do not worry, Antonio; I am here.”

  Anthony was still standing at the mirrored window, but he was calm now. His head was down, his arms at his sides, his breathing slow and even. He slowly raised his head, afraid of what unspeakable hideousness he might discover reflected in the glass. It was his face, and with trembling hands he passed his fingertips over his mouth and cheeks and eyes to confirm his existence. “Thank God.”

  “God had nothing to do with it.”

  Anthony’s head and shoulders dropped in despair. It was the voice of the intruder. Anthony turned around and was greeted by the ghost who, as if seated in a chair, but not in a chair, was suspended in midair above his desk.

  Anthony was less frightened. He had already become acquainted with the phantom’s sorcery. “What do you mean?”

  “Your salvation is not an offering of divine intervention. It is not celestial; it is not that complicated. Your salvation is the consequence of a simple gift: human love.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course, you don’t understand. You are too calloused to understand. Sit down, cow dung.”

  Anthony returned to his desk chair, while the specter floated down, crouching again on the desktop like a vulture waiting for the slow death of an animal to scavenge.

  “Shall we talk about Monique Ducros?”

  Anthony went silent.

  “I said, shall we talk about Monique?”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  The specter offered a simpering smile. “Really? Well, it does not matter. You need not say anything. I know it all anyway: She is a beautiful French woman, only twenty-seven years old. How old are you, cow dung?”

  Anthony mumbled something incomprehensible.