There was one door left in the hallway, so when she found that it was unlocked, Jane rushed inside and shut it behind her without looking. There has to be a back door out of this place, there just has to be, she thought as she turned around and looked at the room she had entered. Doing so caused her lips to twist into a grimace as her mind tried to make sense of what she saw before her. It was like looking at old photographs, showing a mix of people she recognized and complete strangers, in locations both familiar and exotic. Little by little she pieced together the whole from the parts, but every revelation that came to her only brought more questions.
In the center of this room a pulsating, misshapen mass of diseased flesh twitched and shuddered. It was larger than her father’s car and it excreted foul fluids that ran off in filthy rivers across the floor to disappear down a crusted drain some feet away. Several bladders across its slimy surface inflated and deflated in rhythmic unison, giving it the impression of breathing. It was spotted with yellow, puss-leaking orbs that could have been eyes if the idea was not repulsive and crazy. There were six large growths sprouting from it at random and ranging in size from about six inches in diameter, to close to three feet. The organic membrane they were made out of was translucent, so Jane could see that they were filled with greenish fluid. Also, inside each pustule, a small, dark shape floated. No, not just floated, but wiggled and even swam. Each bulbous sack held something that was alive.
“No, no, no,” Jane whispered. Despite her better judgment, she took a few steps toward to the unwholesome creature to get a better look at the things it contained.
The growth closest to her was the smallest, and what it held was a tiny, dark, curled shape that was unrecognizable to her. The next largest sack held something more defined, and Jane recognized what it was from illustrations in her high school biology book. The third was even more developed and bits of anatomy such as hands, feet, and facial features were identifiable. However, the full extent of the nightmare became clear to Jane when she looked at what was swimming in the fourth embryonic tumor. What was in that growth was not human, or at least, not completely human. While it still had the basic shape, the outline was marred by webbing between the fingers of its tiny, grasping hands, eyes that were too big for its face, and along its back was a raised growth that could only have been a dorsal fin. The fifth monstrosity was even more alien looking than its smaller brethren. The sixth unborn child, for Jane had to admit to herself what they were, was far more fish-like than human. Covered in scales with a lipless mouth filled with sharp teeth, it had claws at the ends of its fingers, fluttering gills along its neck, and bulging, unblinking eyes that were locked on her. Then, when Jane brought a hand up to her mouth to stifle a scream, the two-foot-long terror used its claws to puncture the external womb that held it and began to tear its way to freedom. Fetid green fluid burst forth as the newborn poked its misshapen head out of the wound to let loose a croaking cry.
Jane spun on her heel to flee the abominable sight, only to see that her escape was blocked by a grinning Dr. Mott and the frowning nurse from before. The doctor held a bundle in one hand, something wrapped in a towel that dripped.
“Nurse, if you would, please see to the little one.” Dr. Mott said.
The nurse pushed past Jane, giving her a snarl and a fresh whiff of her putrid scent as she did so. She reached out to the mewling freak and picked it up like a loving mother, soothing it with throaty cooing sounds.
“What are they?” Jane asked, voicing the question that had tormented her since she laid eyes on the horrible things in the quivering fluid sacks.
Dr. Mott stepped toward the woman, smile still affixed to his face, and said, “You see, there are them from the deep that wish to breed with us, always have for some reason I don’t quite understand, myself. They’re willing to pay for the privilege, too. So some years back, the people of Innsmouth took them up on their offer, and things were fine for a while. Then the government came, killed a lot of folks, both deep ones and those like my nurse here who were half and half, and that was that. But then the war started and suddenly the army had other fish to fry.” Mott stopped, thought about something for a moment, and then giggled. “Ha, fish to fry.”
Dr. Mott, having backed Jane farther into the room by his slow, steady advance, turned to the large, shuddering, organic mass. He opened up the bundle he was carrying, revealing a small, membranous pouch. He held the small meat sack out to the amorphous thing which responded by growing a fleshy stalk and extending it to what Mott offered. Once the stalk connected with the pouch, it retracted until the sack hung from its side, parasite like.
The doctor wiped his hands on the towel with unconcealed disgust before dropping it and turning back to Jane. “Once the government was out of Innsmouth, the deep ones wanted to go back to their old arrangement, but they’re not stupid. They didn’t want the government back down on them. So they reached out to those desperate, stupid, or greedy enough to listen to them,” at that, Mott’s grin turned sheepish, “and well, new ways were thought up to give them what they want. Sure, it’s a lot slower, but it’s safer, and them from below are nothing if not patient.”
“It’s monstrous,” Jane said.
“Nonsense, all we do is take what you throw away and use it. You obviously didn’t want it, anyway.”
Dr. Mott pulled a syringe from his pocket and filled it with a yellow fluid from a vial in his other hand. Jane didn’t like the look of the needle or what was in the doctor’s eyes, so she tried to make a run for the door. Before she could do anything, the strong, sweaty arms of the nurse were around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. The nurse proved to be quite stealthy despite her looks and had crept up behind Jane who was struggling to understand everything she had seen and heard.
“The problem now is if anyone finds out about this, well they just wouldn’t understand.” Dr. Mott said, walking forward, the syringe poised to sting the struggling woman. “So we can’t let you leave, I’m afraid. And then there’s your family. They’re going to have to go away too, or else they’ll come looking for you.”
Dr. Mott jabbed Jane in the arm and pressed the plunger home.
“Honestly, Miss Chatham, you’ve made a real mess of everything.”
Rehab
Kevin Wetmore
“You know this is for your own good, right?” said her mother/manager/monster a little too insistently.
Stephanie rolled her eyes, mumbled something like “whatever” and went back to flipping through the tabloid.
The Lexus moved slowly down Pacific Coast Highway in the Thursday rush hour traffic. Her mother/manager/monster glanced over at the paper in Stephanie’s hands and let out a disgruntled noise.
“Ugh. That photo. I think that’s from before midnight. You weren’t even eighteen yet. We’re going to have to sue them. I’ll call Darren when I get back home.” Darren was the high-priced attorney who handled all of Stephanie’s legal matters. He had been on the phone a lot lately.
“I don’t know why,” Stephanie asked innocently, “It’s a good picture.”
“Jesus, Steph,” sighed her mother/monster/manager. “You just don’t get it and you don’t get how many problems this causes for you and me.”
On the cover was a photo of Stephanie from last week, outside a club in Hollywood, celebrating her birthday by vomiting vodka and pills all over the sidewalk and a bouncer. Tourists with camera phones looked on in fear and amusement, but nothing like concern. Under the image blared the caption “‘Good Girl’ Gone Bad! Is ‘Abby’ Out of Control?” Abby was the character Stephanie had played on the tween show The Good Girls since she was twelve, which had led to roles in several tween films, always playing the adventurous nice girl who wins the affections of a good bad boy. Now just eighteen, she wanted to break out of the child star image.
Stephanie did not see what the problem was. She worked like an adult. She earned money like an adult. Now she was an adult, legally. She should be able to party an
d drink and do what she wanted to like an adult. And if she wanted to get drunk to celebrate her eighteenth birthday, what was the problem? Everybody did it. Her mother/manager/monster quit her job as a PR hack for some studio to become her manager when she first signed with the television show, so the family’s bills were now all paid by Stephanie, too. From her point of view, that meant nobody could tell her what to do anymore.
But her mother/manager/monster and her agent, Guy, both thought this “scandal” merited action. “Nobody wants to see a little girl drunk in public,” her mother told her the next day in an “emergency meeting” (Guy’s words) at their Brentwood home with Guy and Darren, the latter of whom was wisely staying silent for this debate.
“I am not a ‘little girl,’ Mother,” she barked coldly back from under her hangover, angry in the knowledge that even as a legal adult now she still looked fifteen on camera.
“No,” said Guy, “You’re a eighteen year old alcoholic. So next Thursday you are going to the Tillinghast Center in Malibu.”
“You’re sending me to fucking rehab?” Stephanie practically shrieked.
“Yes,” said Guy. “And apparently just in time.”
“What about the babysitting feature?” Stephanie had just booked the lead on a feature film in which she played a teen babysitter who developed a dangerous crush on the father of the family. She thought it was the next logical step in her career and would get audiences following her into older roles.
Guy and her mother/manager/monster exchanged glances.
“Yes, uh, the good news is that we got the studio to push back principle photography for a month, so we’re OK,” Guy assured her with a smile.
“So what’s the bad news, then? You said that was the good news, so there must be some pretty fucking bad news too.”
“If you do not complete rehab or if there are any further incidents in public before, during or after, the studio will exercise their opt out clause and you will be very publicly booted from this film,” said her mother. “Which means...”
“Which means kiss any other chances at doing features goodbye. I get it.”
“Not just that,” said Guy, “Dave and Brannon said if that happens then your character is going to get written off of Good Girls.”
“What? They can’t do that! Those fuckers! The network won’t…”
“The network is the one pushing them to either shape you up or ship you out, sweetie,” yelled Guy. Regaining his composure he looked her in the eye and laid it out: “It’s rehab or the end of everything. Your choice, sweetheart.”
Which is how she found herself in on the road to Malibu in sunglasses and a baseball hat, her trademark blonde curls pulled back into a severe ponytail so no one would recognize her. Guy had sweetened the deal by promising to book her on a number of daytime chat shows when she got out to talk about how she took control of her life and her problems, and she is back and better than ever and all that BS. The public ate that crap up. But now she had to put up with her mother/manager/monster for the entire ride into the hills above the Pacific.
The grounds of the clinic were lush and they saw some people in the distance, reading, walking and playing horseshoes. Stephanie rolled her eyes. This was going to suck.
At the front desk a professional young woman took their name, had them sit and fill out admitting forms. Ten minutes later Stephanie’s mother/manager/monster brought the forms back to the receptionist, who accepted them without looking at them and then silently slid aside a panel in the wall that moved to reveal a door.
“Stephanie Thomas and Rhonda Thomas to see you, doctor.”
“Show them in, please,” came the unseen response.
“Dr. Tillinghast will see you now,” she said curtly to them and they gathered their possessions and entered the office.
Sunlight filled the room, the cathedral ceiling making the space seem huge and contemplative. One wall was all glass, looking out at the Pacific, beyond the complex. Another wall, opposite, of framed certificates, diplomas, photos and plaques sat behind a desk, four chairs arrayed in front of it. A man stood at the desk with a file in hand, looking up as they entered. White haired, he could have been anywhere between forty and seventy. He looked to be in great shape - healthy, smiling, friendly - in a lab coat over a professional but casual shirt. Stephanie could not see his feet but would not have been surprised if he were wearing sandals.
“Ms. Thomas,” he said, extending his hand to Stephanie. “And Ms. Thomas,” he repeated, shaking her mother/manager/monster’s hand. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” and gestured to the chairs while taking a seat himself behind the desk.
The chairs, she had to admit, were very easy to make yourself comfortable in.
“I am sorry to learn of your recent issues,” he began. “May we open with honesty? You know you are an addict, yes?”
Stephanie just stared. He smiled and went on as if she had agreed with him completely.
“You are addicted to alcohol at the very least and you have a very public record of the use and abuse of a number of substances.” He consulted the file again. “Marijuana, prescription pills, recreational drugs and, if the tabloids are to be believed, cocaine at least once.”
Stephanie just smiled at him.
“Yes, doctor,” her mother/manager/monster finally answered for her. Stephanie ignored her.
“No worries. We are going to cure you of your addictions and even your desire to use these things.”
“How might we be doing that, doctor?” Stephanie began, a mocking undercurrent just behind her voice. “Maybe my self-esteem is suffering, so we’ll make me feel better? Maybe I need to eat vegan, or meditate, or firewalk, or punch a doll that stands for my inner child or her?” she said, jerking her thumb to her mother/manager/monster.
The doctor smiled indulgently. “Nothing like that. Those don’t work, or at least they only address the symptoms and leave you in a state where you can fall back into a state of addiction. In short, Ms. Thomas, they are bullshit.”
Stephanie smiled at that. Maybe this place wasn’t what she feared.
“We use state of the art technology to help you overcome your addiction. My great uncle Dr. Crawford Tillinghast invented a device called the Tillinghast Resonator. We use it to cure you of all your addictions.”
Stephanie’s smile slowly became much more plastic. “A machine, huh?”
Tillinghast’s smile became even sharper. “Not just any machine, Ms. Thomas. Like my great uncle, I am a researcher of the physical and metaphysical. Your addiction has numerous causes, but we will treat you in a manner that cures all. Would you like to see the device?”
Stephanie nodded and out of the corner of her eye saw her mother nodding too.
Dr. Tillinghast stood up. “Follow me.” He led them out the office and down the hall to a doorway. “This is the treatment room,” he told them as he opened the door and they stepped through.
At first, Stephanie was reminded of an upmarket massage parlor. The walls and floor were light beige, soft unfocused light came from recesses in the walls and ceiling. In the center of the room, the machine stood on a table next to a reclining chair. Dr. Tillighast flipped a switch and the machine began to emit a low, purple light. A sight hum, not unpleasant, filled the room.
“Scientific study and reflection have taught us that the known universe of three dimensions embraces the merest fraction of the whole cosmos of substance and energy,” Tillinghast said, looking at the machine with something that resembled love. “This machine will generate waves acting on unrecognized sense organs that exist in us as atrophied or rudimentary vestiges. Someone your age should respond especially well.”
“Why?” asked Stephanie, unable to take her eyes off the machine. The light, the hum felt almost hypnotic, drawing her in.
The doctor turned to her, the side of his face closest the machine bathed in a low violet glow. “The machine resonates at frequencies that our neural pathways respond to. If you’ve b
ecome addicted to something, the machine, over the course of treatment, erases those pathways and reshapes them so that you are not only no longer addicted but that you will not experience any cravings or become addicted to anything else. You will begin to sense the world in a different way and no longer need alcohol or drugs.”
“So what’s age got to do with it? I mean, could you use it on her?” Stephanie asked, gesturing again towards her mother/monster/manager, who scowled. The doctor turned his face to the older woman.
“Young people’s neural pathways continue to develop until their early twenties, we’ve learned. That’s one reason why they continually make poor decisions: their brains are not wired to make good ones yet.” He turned back to Stephanie. “Nothing personal, Ms. Thomas. That’s also why we won’t use this technology on anyone older than twenty-three. The pathways are more set in older people and so certain side effects would kick in.”
“What kind of side effects?” asked mother/manager/monster.
“Nothing serious, I assure you,” Dr. Tillinghast smiled. “Mostly hallucinations and perhaps some tiredness and irritability. That’s why everyone here right now for treatment is twenty and under. And we are very discrete. We cater to an elite group of individuals who value their privacy. We value your privacy as well, which is why we are the best.”
“It’s not plugged in,” Stephanie observed.
“No,” said the doctor with a surprised smile, as if he had underestimated her and was suddenly impressed with her ability to observe. “Well spotted. The Resonator is not electrical in any sense you’d understand. It has a chemical battery of sorts but it runs on a patented technology that only the Tillinghast clinic has. It generates its own power. It is, I assure you, safe and effective.”
He turned off the machine and pointed to a dial. “We also take many, many precautions. The procedure is completely safe. The machine was just set to a level of one, the lowest possible setting. That, young lady,” he said to Stephanie, “is where your treatment begins. At the lowest level. Then, over the next ten days to two weeks, we will increase the potency of the waves. Please note that the device goes to seven, and we never go above three for safety’s sake. The device is still effective at the low levels. We have a one hundred percent cure rate with it.”
A Lonely and Curious Country Page 18