Body of Immorality

by Brandon Berntson

  Corey nodded a single time, leaving Harper more befuddled than ever. Vanderpool clapped him on the back, sending Harper into a jolting stumble, and marched away, booming orders at Jason Toofey.

  Harper stood alone by the rest rooms, a single trashcan, and a pop machine (no change required, compliments of Benny’s soda).

  Day off, endless fun, three days of sleep without the sun.

  Harper raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  See, he thought. It pays not to worry.

  When Corey was out of earshot, Harper mumbled, “Gee. Thanks boss.”

  He didn’t want to drive today anyway.

  Harper opened the door to his right and was soon in the lobby. In the break room, he grabbed his time card and punched out.

  “You okay, Harper?” Cynthia asked, a ballpoint pen sumptuously placed between her full, red lips. She looked ready to wink, smile, and invite him under the desk. Harper didn’t even notice.

  “Taking the week off,” he replied. “Corey said it was okay. Think I’ll see a doctor. You’ll get the paperwork.”

  He said this mechanically, another part of him taking over.

  Cynthia frowned as he exited the lobby.

  Pulling his keys out of his pocket, he tried to remember where he’d parked. Harper walked across the parking lot as if he were drunk, leaving a trail of wavering footprints in the morning snow.

  *

  Once home, he locked the door behind him, setting his keys on the kitchen counter. He took off his coat and fit it on the back of a dining room chair. He sighed, looking out the kitchen window into the fields behind the complex. He was three floors up. It was still dark and snowing. The sodium lamps lent a copper hue, making the world outside electrically orange.

  Harper thought about a doctor only briefly. If he had trouble staying awake, he’d start drinking coffee again. He could always buy some 5-hour energy, and wasn’t that why he’d quit drinking coffee because it didn’t pry his eyes open? Maybe being a crack-head would solve his problems.

  Harper shook his head, dislodging the thought. He went to the bedroom and took off his uniform. His only thought was the warm blankets and bed. The perfect thing for a cold day, quietly hibernating from the rest of the world.

  Helen, I’m sorry. I hear you knocking in my dreams, but I’m not to the point of sleepwalking. How can I unlock the door if I can’t rouse myself from the grave? I promised I’d call, and I understand if you’re unhappy. I haven’t been feeling well. Do you think I have cancer?

  He decided to sleep on it.

  Maybe with time off, he’d discover what the problem was. If nothing else, he could get some rest.

  Harper collapsed into bed. He forgot about the covers, and soon fell fast asleep. It took only seconds.

  *

  Tall, dead grass whipped past Harper’s eyes and ankles. Was something chasing him, or was he doing the chasing? With dreams, he never knew.

  His conceptions were lunatic, a mind altered by another inhabitant. Preconceived notions of the sun filled his head.

  City lights, passersby, the police, did not concern him, no late payment fees, garbage to get out on Tuesdays. He did not have to brush his teeth.

  He thought about a family, something strangely not his own. How long had he been away? He missed them—no, not them—but…others.

  Like him.

  Covered in the same sheen of scarlet, Harper Ellis swam through liquid carnage, something leaving him wanting more, always hungry, a life away from sleep, his lack of hunger…

  In dreams, Harper ran…

  A creature nipped, snapping at his heels.

  Now, however, it was the middle of day. Children played on a nearby swing-set and merry-go-round. A golden retriever chased a ball and brought it back to its owner, virtually smiling, families gathering, laughing, soaking in the sun. Someone waved, welcoming him, but he didn’t recognize any of them. A television turned to static snow, channels clicking—frustrated—back and forth.

  Something matted and sodden rolled under a police car, coming to a stop behind the left, rear tire.

  God, it was cold ! Hadn’t he been surrounded by a family moments ago during a summer picnic? Did someone leave a door open?

  There you go again, leaving your priorities up to me. I can’t sign all the checks. Give me a break, will ya!

  The confusion of dreams made him question every vision. His life didn’t make sense. Why would dreams?

  Even here, he wasn’t himself. He was a fish with gills of blood, darting happily here and there, through thick, dark water. It was paradise.

  The world of slumber was a door to the unknown. He hadn’t time to question it, because he was tired all the time. He was a man made by separation, division. No one could live a double life as Harper Ellis could. No one knew more about it.

  Never remember, always wanting sleep and nothing more, perchance to dream, soft sand between my toes from sand to blood and shore. Helen, darling, I’m hoooommmeee!

  He tried to make sense of it by embracing his madness. In dreams, it seemed the only way.

  When the sun came up, shortly after he fell into bed, Harper did not wake. When Helen came by—frustrated, worried, angry, pounding on the door—he did not rise. When the phone rang repeatedly, he breathed deeply and snored.

  Something velvety, the sand of the shore…

  *

  Harper’s body was a band of gelatinous rubber, weak as warm syrup. He could not coerce his limbs to obey his commands. He felt drained. He could hardly move. The cold, pressured doors of sleep closed tight, a vice gripping his ears, trying to flatten his skull. Someone twisted the handle, and his eyeballs rang with pain. Harper gripped his head with clumsy hands, lifting arms made of jelly.

  Getting up to make coffee was hazardous.

  Wait a minute, he thought. I don’t drink coffee.

  He lied back down again.

  Had he ever been this tired? Why was his stomach a knot, as if he’d dined with rapture and voracity? Why he wasn’t wasting away puzzled him. How could he monitor his progress in sleep? He’d have to ask Helen to watch over him through the night. Aside from being tired all the time, he felt just great.

  Thinking this, Harper managed to smile.

  “You’re a bear,” he said, to the empty room.

  It was already night. He’d slept through the entire day already. Was this his first day off already come and gone?

  He thought about looking for something to eat but negated the idea.

  He got up wearily with just enough strength to plop onto the living room couch. He grabbed the remote to see what was on television. The sudden glare forced him to close his eyes. It was too bright. He pushed the power button, sending the television into a coma.

  I’ve been away, but now I’m back!

  His thoughts gelled, liquefied.

  Darkness behind your lids is the only song to which you belong.

  Harper smiled. He hadn’t realized he had a knack for rhyme.

  But was it his voice or someone else’s?

  Just sleep. You’ll find it eventually, stay with me forever, dream in magic and simplicity.

  How could he not go willingly into the dark?

  Vaguely, Harper remembered going to work, Corey sending him home. He’d lost the day, but what did he care? He needed rest. He had the whole week off, and he’d already forgotten. That made lying here in even better.

  He didn’t have to go back until…Monday. That was…He counted the days on his fingers. He couldn’t remember. Forgetfulness soothed the edges of memory.

  That’s what I love about sleep. You’re never responsible for what you dream.

  A knock at the door startled him, however, pulling him from his solitude.

  Grumbling, Harper stood up and ambled almost drunkenly to the door. He pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing as he unlocked the door. He pulled it wide, letting in a brisk wave of cold air. It curled around his legs, making him shiver.

 
Who would want to disturb him at this hour? What time was it anyway? It must be four in the morning!

  Trying to focus, his eyes unglued to copper curls, a face scrunched in anger and worry. God, he missed those green eyes!

  “Helen?” Harper said, as if needing confirmation. Maybe this was a dream.

  She wore a yellow and purple ski-parka. Her hair was a corona of burning embers with the light from the streetlamps behind her.

  “Are you drunk?” Helen said, clearly upset.

  “Why? Do you have some?”

  She shook her head. Harper pulled the door wide, motioning her inside, and closed the door. Helen took off her jacket, revealing a warm, white sweater underneath. She wore tight blue jeans, white and purple tennis shoes.

  Harper sat on the couch, and Helen instantly drilled him:

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Harper?”

  “Just tired,” he said.

  Harper shook off Helen’s irritation with a wave of his hand. What a nuisance girlfriends could be!

  “Don’t you think you’ve been ‘just tired’ for long enough? How long have you been doing this? Are you taking drugs, Harpsey? Do you need a doctor? Are you trying to avoid me?”

  Why did everyone call him Harpsey? He wasn’t a girl, for God’s sake! And how many questions were people going to ask before they gave him time to answer? No wonder he slept all the time!

  Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. “No sweety,” he said. “I fine. Just tired, doctor, all the time. Want sleep. Nothing more.”

  “Haven’t you been sleeping?” Helen’s said.

  Harper nodded. “More sleep.”

  “I’ve been trying to call!” Helen said, exasperated. “I’ve been coming over, and you never even answer the door!”

  “Sorry,” he managed, salvaging a moment to calm her.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Harper tried to shrug, not making it, and replied with the same muted voice: “Doh-no. Jus-tire.”

  “Tired?” she asked, incredulous. “For eight weeks?”

  “Is that how long it’s been?” Harper said.

  “Jeez!” she said. “I can’t believe you never even tried to call!”

  “I’m sorry, babe, sugar cake,” he said. “Pie, plumb, sexy softy, lovely thighs.”

  Helen forgave him by giggling. She sat beside him on the couch.

  “Eight weeks!” she said, mostly to herself. “I thought you were through with me. I almost didn’t come over!”

  Harper smiled, drifting off to sleep.

  “Not to be rude or anything, Harpsey, but Corey’s right. He said you look like ca-ca. Not cocoa. Ca-ca. Normally I try to be nice. But he’s right. You look like shit, Harp. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? You’re not quite the sugar cake I remember. Don’t you love you’re dancing girl anymore?”

  Harper smiled and let out a relaxed sigh.

  Did she dance?

  “Yes,” he said. “My doll, my spice of life, gunny-sack. I miss you terribly. Tears in my eyes.”

  Helen attributed this meaningless ramble to exhaustion. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, cursing under her breath.

  “Is that how long it’s been?” Harper said.

  “Harper!” Helen said, impatiently.

  He went away again for good. He leaned over and put his head on her lap. The warm comfort of her thighs was better than soft pillows.

  *

  Helen, with Harper’s head on her lap, dragged her fingers through his hair. At least he was still alive, she thought, living, just incoherent, but sleep-deprived. She wondered what she could do to help him.

  Suddenly, though, Harper twitched violently while on her lap. Helen frowned and looked down at him. What was that…sound?

  Harper’s extremities hummed with vibration. The twitches turned violent, virtually catastrophic. Harper, scaring Helen now, underwent a series of lunatic convulsions. To Helen’s bleak and abominable horror, a series of spasmodic, life-threatening fits rocked his entire body.

  Her eyes grew wide. Harper rolled off of her lap and onto the floor. She screamed in panic:

  “Harper! Harper! Oh my God! Baby! What’s wrong!”

  She didn’t know what to do! Delirium raced through her mind!

  Run to the phone, her mind screamed. Grab him, take him, hold him close! Get him to the car! Where the hell is the nearest hospital?

  Something had seized Harper from head to toe. It wasn’t epilepsy, a rearing, teeth-clenching pain. This was something violently nightmarish in every way.

  As Helen’s eyes grew wider, Harper’s appendages…lengthened. He sucked in air, clenched his eyes shut, biting back on the pain.

  Helen shouted and screamed at the same time:

  “Harper! Oh, my God! What’s wrong? Harper! Please, oh, God! Baby! Baby! Tell me what’s happening! Please, Harper! What-in-God’s-name-’s-the-matter?”

  In the vault of Harper’s brain, he thought:

  Not to worry, love. Still dreaming by the shore. Nothing to concern your pretty red curls about. I think it’s something to do with folklore.

  Manipulation steered his flesh.

  Stricken with horror, Helen thought: Phone, door, hold him tight, lover, Harper, phone, door…

  She watched him grow—his body lengthening under the throes of change—and couldn’t think of a single thing to do. Not realizing she was doing it, she retreated instead, climbing up the back of the couch, where she pressed herself against the wall. Her head was under a Bugs Bunny clock. Bugs stood in a pose with a caption over his head, reading: “I like Harper more than carrots.” Helen had bought it for him for Christmas. Harper had always liked Bugs Bunny. He’d always referred to him as, “That cute, obnxious little bastard.”

  Helen closed her eyes and screamed in horror.

  Not happening not real not happening not real! Harper is still there! Save him!

  Phone! Pick up the phone! Hospital hospital hospital!

  On his hands and knees, Harper lifted his runny snout to the ceiling and tried to bay. Instead, he shrieked in agony. Black hair rustled with incredulous speed over his naked body. Despite the barbaric and monstrous scene, Helen’s boyfriend wept while undergoing his change. A new carapace emerged at an impossible rate. Girth materialized from nowhere. Slithering, shifting sounds erupted under his skin. His bones popped, re-aligning themselves, moving and stretching to adjust to his new integument. His ears stretched to long, elfish points.

  It’s like a bad, horrible B movie not real, not alive! Helen thought. You do not open your eyes and see this kind of thing! That’s why we watch and read about it. Because it’s not real! We laugh at how unreal it is, and this is not real!

  Sharp nails split the cones of Harper’s fingers. Blood spilled onto the carpet. The transformation wreaked havoc on his torn and mangled body. Blood oozed from his hands, feet, and mouth. The size of the beast was too big for Harper’s body to withstand. Helen’s boyfriend was not on drugs, but he was sick. Something was definitely wrong because he was…a werewolf?

  Helen thought:

  He’s a giant, berserking, crazily wacko, monster wolf! My boyfriend is a howler, and ancient myth in modern society!

  A large, dog-like snout emerged on Harper’s face, long, lolling tongue, nefarious eyes, and claws.

  Harper was a crazy killing machine, a freak of all things…a werewolf?

  How is this possible? Helen’s mind shrieked, and for a split-second, she suppressed the urge to bray with donkey laughter.

  Strands of blood ran down his arms and legs. Blood spilled over his lips. Massive teeth ripped open his guns.

  Was he still in there, somewhere inside? Did he know it was happening, what he was?

  Harper’s spine rippled, growing, threatening to tear his back open.

  Helen thought:

  It had once been you, my dearest Harpsey-chord. In there somewhere, it is always you. Can you hear me? Do you love me? Sing those songs of yours!


  According to what she saw on film, heard about in folklore, it was all wrong. Nothing merited the sight before her…

  Helen breathed heavily, losing her breath. She was hyperventilating. She didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing altogether.

  News broadcasts drilled her brain, anchors smiling—

  Late breaking news senselessly slaughtered don’t know what or whom could’ve caused this developments as they come why this would happen such a nightmarish thing for our families children the shocked community and surrounding areas continue their investigations horrendous thing impossible to imagine what to whom any information calls greatly received more at ten—

  But how? How?

  Helen wanted only a second to think.