Dear Sleep

by Kim Dickerson

  “I’ll be right with you, Sugar. Let me get these guys down at the end of the bar taken care of and I’ll give you the ten cent tour.”

  Marco surveyed the bar while Marge was slinging drinks. He looked through the small crowd trying to pinpoint any potential troublemakers. The crowd looked clean, but it was still early. He surveyed the door. The line was starting to build. It looked like it was going to be a busy night.

  While he was learning the lay of the bar, Marge had returned. He didn’t notice, he was intently watching the new patrons coming through the door. The band took the stage, he was amazed at the difference between the sounds of the band while steeped in sobriety as opposed to what he had heard the previous night. It was like two different sets of musicians.

  Marge tapped him on the shoulder. “You ready, Sugar?”

  He blinked the stare out of his eyes. “Sure. Let’s get to it.”

  The bar wasn’t that big, so the tour didn’t take long. She showed him the areas where the trouble usually began; near the bathrooms and over by the pool tables. He wasn’t surprised at all, one was out of sight and the other was where people bet on games. The bets always started out friendly, but, most of the time, didn’t end that way. He nodded in the right spots, laughed in the right spots, but all the while his mind was on the box. It was the whole reason he had taken the job in the first place.

  They were back at the bar, and in the few minutes they had spent walking around and talking, the number of people had doubled. He asked Marge for a water and then starting winding his way around the bar. He listened to conversations, watched body language, and even chatted with a few of the patrons. Even though he was only there for the box, he still did his job. You can’t shake work ethic, even if you have different plans.

  As the night droned on, he noticed that Marge regularly disappeared into the back to get ice, beer, or liquor. He started making a mental stop watch, trying to discern a pattern. Also, he had to figure out how long she was in back. He had to find his window. The night had waned without much ado. He broke up one fight and stopped a young couple from having sex in the hallway by the bathrooms. He thought briefly of Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse. It looked much more exciting in the movies.

  He decided the next time Marge made a trip to the back that he would make his move. It was close enough to closing time for him not to feel guilty for not finishing his job. That box had to leave with him.

  He moved over to the bar and leaned on it casually, still surveying the room. To the naked eye, at least, he was doing his duty. In his mind he was counting steps and seconds to see how long it was going to take him to grab the box and slip out the back door. He figured he could complete it in less than minutes, as long as he didn’t run into Marge. Then he would hop into his truck and drive off to the East, getting as far away from this town as quickly as possible.

  There was a couple getting frisky on the dance floor. He let it go, nothing could interrupt him.

  Marge headed to the back. He slid behind the bar. He felt paranoid, but didn’t everyone when they’re committing a crime of any sort?

  The box was giving off a sickly green glow, like it knew he was coming for it. And come for it he did.

  He put his hands on the box, he swore he could feel it move beneath them. It wasn’t possible, but his mind disagreed.

  It was extremely heavy for its size. He put it in his sack that he had brought with him, and headed for the door.

  He glimpsed Marge and his heart stopped. She knew. He was sure of it.

  She didn’t say anything, nor even turn toward him. He slipped into the back, then out the door. He half expected to see Jeb. He knew that Jeb was connected to the box and was sure it was calling out to him.

  It didn’t.

  He sprinted to his truck, tossed the sack on the seat next to him, and fired it up. He threw it into gear and stomped on the gas. Gravel and dirt kicked up as he drove out of there.

  As soon as he was on the main road and heading out of town, he relaxed a little bit. When he merged onto I-10, he relaxed a bit more. Watching west Texas fade in his rear view mirror was helping relieve the stress. The biggest relief was that he wasn’t being followed.

  As the hours passed, he thought more and more about the box. It’s whispering had seeped into his mind so much that he didn’t see the sun coming over the horizon as he passed through Houston. It turned the sky a deep red and flooded the highway with a thick orange reflection. It was beautifully ominous.

  Soon he would be in Louisiana. He decided that was an ideal place to squat while he decided what to do with the box. Or, maybe, while the box decided what to do with him. He had come to the conclusion that he would do whatever the box wanted to.

  As he crossed the border, a sense of foreboding filled him. His eyes darted across the highway, to the rear view mirror, to the side mirrors, then back to the front. He was hyper-aware that someone was following him. He could feel it. His paranoid eyes shot back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was on his trail. He could see no one.

  He pressed on the accelerator. He was heading for the swamp land. He wanted to find a nice gun shack to hold up in while he played with the box.

  His sack was giving off a sinister green glow now that could only have come from the box. It was bright even through the dull, dark brown of the fabric. Marco could feel the light. He couldn’t decide if it was inquisitive or sinister. He hoped it stopped until he could find a place to stay.

  He stopped a couple of times for fuel, the old truck wasn’t exactly what you would call fuel efficient, but other than that, he drove through. He turned off the interstate and headed southeast toward the swamps. He was looking for an abandoned shanty that offered solitude and privacy.

  The road he had turned on started out as a typical two-lane, but slowly it turned to gravel and then to a one lane dirt road. Eventually, it ended. The only thing he could do was hike through the mangroves on foot. Not only was that treacherous, but Marco wasn’t much of an outdoors-man. His idea of camping was a resort on a lake, with a powerboat, and maid service. He had no choice. He was being driven by an unknown force. He pulled his truck as far off to the side as possible. He didn’t know how frequented this dirt road was, but he didn’t want his truck discovered anytime soon. He grabbed the sack from the passenger’s seat and left all of his other modest belongings in the back of the truck.

  He found a formidable stick to use for walking and for testing water depth, if he needed to. It was about all he had taken from the one show with Bear Grylls that he watched with Melinda.

  Melinda.

  It was the first time in days he had thought of her. It made him a little sad. It was if he had completely let her go since he found the box. He couldn’t focus on anything but the box. It was the first time in years he could say he hadn’t actively thought of his memories with Melinda. He also couldn’t decide if that was healing or if it was pure distraction.

  He walked along with his sack slung over his shoulder pondering this. The sun had started dropping in the sky. He didn’t notice. He hadn’t seen anything even resembling something inhabitable since he left the truck. He thought he saw eyes staring at him from the water, but when he looked back, there was nothing there. The water was very still, what he could see of it in the mangroves. The dangers didn’t even cross his mind. He was a man with a purpose.

  He finally noticed the sun dipping deeper in the sky. He thought he was so far in that he couldn’t turn back to the truck and wait until the morning to go search again, so he kept on going. The purples of the sky darkened the entire landscape. He could have stepped on an alligator and never even known it until his foot was severed. He had been lucky so far.

  On the horizon, amongst the leaves and moss, he thought he saw a little shack. He quickened his pace. He was suddenly very aware of the dangers lurking just below the surface. He had tried to break into a run, but that was impossible with the intertwining roots in the water. He very well could have s
napped his leg if he moved any quicker than a cautious walk.

  He had to stave off the urge to bolt when he heard a low growl and a hiss. He didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t see what it was, but he had a pretty good idea. He was thankful he hadn’t run across any water moccasins, he assumed they inhabited this area too, although he didn’t know for sure. He kept moving steadily forward until he could see the shack. It looked empty. He hoped it was.

  When he finally got close enough to see it clearly, he was taken aback at how abandoned it was. There were holes eaten through the rotted wood walls, and the roof was so rusty that he wasn’t sure how it was still standing. All he could hope for is a floor and a working door.

  He slowly paced around to the front of the shack. He started at the low growling he heard. It was much closer than the last time.

  He saw the door. It was in much better shape than he anticipated. It creaked wearily as he opened it, but it didn’t come off the hinges. He was pleasantly surprised at the interior condition. The holes in the exterior hadn’t dilapidated the interior. It was perfect.

  The growl came again, but this time it was loud.

  He leapt into the shanty and flung the door shut. His timing couldn’t have been better, there was a large thump, and the shanty shook. He was almost dinner.

  He reeled against the back wall in shock and cried out in pain as the ironwood box jutted into his spine. He flung the sack off of his shoulder and slid down the wall to the floor. He laid the satchel on the floor and rubbed his back, awkwardly, with both of his hands. He stared at the satchel. It wasn’t glowing any more, but it was whispering. The whispers were, and always had been, in a language that Marco couldn’t understand. He couldn’t even figure out where the terms were rooted in to try and decipher it.

  He sat there rubbing his back and staring at the satchel. It was time. It was time to hold it. Time to feel the texture, the coolness. More importantly, it was time to find out what was inside.

  He stretched to slide the satchel over and remove the box from it, but the mouth of the satchel opened without his touch.

  He recoiled.

  He felt dazed, entranced. He extended forward again and reached into the satchel to remove the box. When he straightened up, he sat cross-legged with it in his lap. He ran his hands over it. He traced the detail with his fingers. It pulsed beneath his touch. It was unnerving and soothing at the same time. He felt electric. The energy was coursing through his body. There was excitement, fear, freedom, and joy. He felt them all at once. The box continued to whisper, but it filled the shanty now. He placed his thumbs on the heavy brass latch. It was cold, which didn’t make sense because the Louisiana swamps were still sweltering.

  He flipped the latch and the box flung itself open. The whispers turned to screams, the sickening green light filled the tiny shanty, and Marco screeched and threw the box to the opposing wall.

  Then, Marco began to disappear. He disappeared into the box, and the box clamped shut with a jolt.

  There was silence, with the exception of the cicadas.

  From the mist over the swamp appeared a figure. He was elderly in stature, but he moved with the grace of a young man. He appeared to float above the twisted roots of the mangroves towards the shanty where Marco had been. He went inside, picked up the box, and stowed it in his ethereal looking robe. He turned to the satchel, smiled a crooked smile, and moved back into the fog. Disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

  Part Four

  Ally’s Dilemma

  Sitting in the dark theater was a bit unnerving. Ever since the insomnia began, the dark was more uneasy than ever. She needed to see this film. Something told her that she had to.

  The images flashed by on the screen; words, opening credits, pictures. They whizzed by and she barely noticed them. She was having a hard time overcoming this feeling of doom. She could barely concentrate, then an image flashed across the screen that caught her eye, she was compelled to turn her attention away from self-analysis by an unknown force. She stared at the screen, mouth agape. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was completely unreasonable, impossible.

  A black and white image played amongst the typical colorful images of the motion picture. She caught her senses momentarily and glanced around to see if anyone else noticed them. No one seemed to look confused, as well as she could tell in the darkness. This is why she had to be here, outside of her comfort zone.

  She stared at the screen, the image stayed. Flickering like one of the flip-books she had seen when she was a child. There was no action, just him, moving his lips in silence. She was amazed. So amazed she couldn’t process what he was mouthing, staring in disbelief that he, of all people, was the image on the screen.

  Without even knowing, she groped through her bag for a pencil and a piece of paper.

  Jackpot.

  She began transcribing his words on the back of her Starbucks receipt. As she finished this involuntary act of reception, something jarred her senses; the smell of smoke.

  She shook her head to break her fixation. The smoke filled her nostrils and burnt her eyes. Chaos had burst out all around her and she didn’t even notice because she was so hypnotized with her task. People were running and screaming, she absent-mindedly dropped her pencil and paper in her bag as she picked it up. She stood up, stretching her legs and back. How long had she been out of it? She didn’t know, and didn’t have time to sort it out now. She slowly made her way down her isle, walking with the casualness of someone out for an afternoon stroll. She wove her way through the panic toward the exit, not the closest one, but her exit.

  She slid into the darkness of the alley, alone. Suddenly, Ally felt like a spy. She surveilled the area. She noticed the dumpsters, the overhead lights that were dim at best, and the oddly never-ending alleyway. It went on as far as she could see. She slid against the buildings, playing in the shadows as smoke billowed behind her. She had all but forgotten the fire that had started in the theater. It didn’t concern her, it was actually a relief. The grip the message had on her was pulling her in a direction she didn’t want to go. Away.

  The sirens of the emergency vehicles bellowed in the distance, she hadn’t moved more than a few hundred feet, but everything seemed miles away. She kept slowly slipping through the shadows cast throughout the never-ending alley. She kept herself small, like her father had taught her. When you didn’t want to be seen, you shrank yourself. You used your surroundings to shield your figure. Ally did just that.

  Her slight figure wasn’t hard to hide amongst the shadows and her raven hair helped the cause. In the light of day, she was a stunner, petite, yet perfect. She sat behind a desk, answering phones, and transferring calls for high powered men who never noticed her, except for her gams. They were fine legs. She was a runner, just enough to keep fit and not over muscle them. Her choice of shoe helped to give the illusion of length, that’s what drew her bosses to her. It’s why she had an open front desk. She knew it, even though it was never spoken of. She could feel their stares.

  She didn’t care. She needed this easy job to pay the bills, and to help keep her sanity.

  Ever since the visions and voices began, she didn’t sleep much. Lack of sleep gets to one after a while. It’s probably why they both came more often. Weakened minds make easily manipulated vessels. They’re also to receiving information in all forms. Sometimes that’s a dangerous thing, but oft times it’s the thing that allows you to survive.

  This was the case for Ally. Her insomnia was what had saved her life, thus far. The voices told her things. Things that she needed to do, places she needed to be, even events that were going to happen throughout the day. Sometimes they were complicated, others they were so simplistic that a normal person would brush them aside.

  The visions were something completely different. They were like a story being told in pieces smaller than television commercials. They were never pictures in her mind, they always manifested on something, a television screen,
movie screen, even a menu at a restaurant. She didn’t ask questions anymore, the voices never answered, and other than that, there was not a being to ask questions to. It wasn’t as if a guy at the bar said, “Here. Here’s my card. I’m going to do some weird shit to you, but if you have any questions give me a call.”

  The story wasn’t nearly complete, as far as she could tell. It had been going on for months now. This vision at the theater was the most recent chapter. The thing that made this one different was there was a message embedded in it. The story had never spoken directly to her. She still had no idea what to do with the tale, but she knew she had to get home. Quickly. Quickly and undetected.

  There was something she didn’t want to admit to herself. There was something tracking her. She supposed it could be someone, but deep in the cavern of her being she knew it wasn’t human. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep whatever it was at bay, but she knew once it caught up with her, she was done.

  She snapped back to reality and looked around. She rode the alley walls, hugging the dirty brick and concrete exterior walls of the backsides of business. Finally, she came across an off-shoot that would allow her to wind her way home.

  As she walked in her front door, her peripheral vision caught some movement. She shot straight in the door and slammed it shut, clicking the deadbolt in one fluid motion. She peered out through the sheer, trying to ascertain what caught her eye.

  The only thing on her quiet street that was of any note whatsoever were the flickering street lights. They weren’t quite going out, but fluttering as if they were just turning on at dusk, even though it was near midnight and they had been on for hours. Everything else was still. There was no breeze, no stars, not even the moon.

  She flipped on the television in the family room to cut through the silence and went to her bedroom. She rifled through her purse, looking for the receipt that she had in the theater. It’s truly a wonder how a purse can hide things within its walls when you need them. Especially, when you need them quickly.