by Davis, Jarod
“Enough sleep?” Jeremiah asked with two words, and the right tone to promise there was no way he’d believe Timothy.
“Yeah.”
“Did you do something stupid? Something stupid with say—a neighbor? Maybe the one with that curly brown hair, the neighbor you’ve been fawning over for way too many months?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
Jeremiah squinted, lost in calculation. “You sound sincere, like maybe you didn’t do something wildly bizarre. I mean, I can’t hear any deceit in your voice. No rapid-eye movement or shallow breathing, but then you’re soaked. You really look like the aftermath of a romantic comedy gone horribly wrong. Did you try to sing at her window only to get knocked into a fountain?”
“Nothing,” Timothy decided he’d say. “Nothing happened. I’ve just been having a bad day.”
“Did she break your heart?” Jeremiah’s version of compassion.
“Nothing happened. Not with her.”
“Well, you want to go somewhere and get some real food? I’ll even pay, because I’m always up to hang out with people who have no idea how to lie.”
“I’m not lying,” Timothy said though he knew Jeremiah wouldn’t believe him. Timothy didn’t want to call this denial, but he didn’t have any evidence. Without proof, he couldn’t get in trouble, and he wouldn’t break his life to prove a delusion. So he could let it go. Aside from wet jeans, he didn’t get hurt, no broken bones, not even a bruise.
Or he could tell everyone what he saw. He could talk about one guy on fire and his buddy who sprouted spikes of ice. And Timothy couldn’t think of a faster route to a mental institution.
For the next couple hours, Timothy didn’t think about what happened. Confusion still hovered on the edge of his mind, but he refused to think about it. He had classes and work to keep him busy. He went through the Anthropology lecture, pretended to pay attention, then went downtown to work.
Pushing a mail cart through a labyrinth of cubicles, Timothy let the music blast out of his ear buds as he focused on normal. But the songs changed every few minutes, his player paused, and memories flashed back to life.
What was he supposed to do with this memory? He watched someone explode and saw someone else disappear. They threw ice blades and fireballs.
Timothy held someone underwater, terrified of the fire burning him to death. Then he was gone, vanished into nothing. No trace.
He considered going back to that church. Maybe he could find some evidence. But then what? He wouldn’t find anything, and even if he did, it wouldn’t help. Proving someone died would mean he was part of a double murder, definitely something he didn’t need.
Instead of investigating, Timothy went through his four-hour shift and passed out manila envelopes or packets of memos. Office workers said hi and hello. He waved back and smiled the same way he did every day. This was life. Nothing freaky. No one dying.
When his cart was empty, he went back to his car and drove back to his apartment. Life felt semi-normal as he made a sandwich and watched TV. After a couple hours he went to bed, where the transformation began.
Timothy fell asleep without realizing it. For a few minutes he waited in the dark and wandered through random thoughts about school and Jenny and work and Jenny and replaying songs that stuck in his head. Before he fell into dreams, he saw Jenny’s face one more time.
When he opened his eyes again, he stood in a fog. Everything blurred, but he didn’t know it was a dream. The air felt cool as he walked through the mist. A few feet of visibility stretched in each direction. Even when he looked down he didn’t see ground. His feet floated on the same diffused stuff of fog. This felt normal like any other part of his life.
Something lashed at him.
Black, a blur, it shot from the mist.
It snapped at Timothy and whipped against his shoulder. Almost jumping, Timothy fell back and landed on his back to see two tendrils hovering above him like headless snakes. They writhed on the air, shining and leathered, strong and sharp enough to cut.
Rolling over, Timothy jumped to his feet as they slammed back down, striking the nothing where he had been a second before. Timothy twisted away and ran, pumping his arms and kicking against the invisible ground. His shoulder stung with the heat of blood running from the wound. Nothing made sense, but it didn’t matter because tentacles chased him.
He ran without thinking. He didn’t know this nightmare would determine whether or not he got to stay Timothy. That’s because he didn’t know what was inside of him now.
The tendrils shot out, faster than he could ever run. One sliced his back, a thin cut that hissed pain throughout his body. It couldn’t knock him down, but the second tentacle coiled around his ankle and yanked him into the ground. He thumped to something solid and the punch of momentum slammed the air from his lungs. The world flashed white and painful.
Trying to choke or cough, Timothy rolled over to see those tentacles. They reminded him of black scorpion tails, each one tipped with a poisoned spearhead. He could try to run, but the same thing would happen. And he didn’t know if he could run, if he had the breath or if his legs could take his weight. For that moment, the tendrils hovered over him, waiting to snap down and tear him apart.
A voice asked, “What were you doing?”
“Doing?” Timothy coughed. He propped himself up on his elbows and searched for the voice but didn’t see anything. He tried to trace the tentacles back to the mist and wherever they led, but whoever controlled them was safely hidden by mist.
“When you shoved me in that water, what did you want? What were your intentions?” It was Cipher, Cipher’s voice, the same voice that asked Timothy for help in the church.
“I wanted to help you.”
“So you didn’t work with her?”
“Who?”
“Despada,” Cipher spat the name and made it sound profane.
“I don’t even know who that is,” Timothy said, feeling honest and helpless.
“I see.”
“Who are you?”
“I was Cipher. I don’t know who I’ll be when you’re gone,” said the voice. Timothy was going to ask something else, but the tentacles ripped back down. Timothy tried to scramble away, to escape their hold. But in less than two seconds one had his torso, his arms trapped beneath the coils of hot black. His muscles strained against the coiled tendril, but he couldn’t break its hold. He felt like a princess trapped in a dragon’s claws.
The second tentacle wrapped around his throat. “Goodbye Timothy,” Cipher said, “And thank you for the amusing anecdote. I’m sure my companions will enjoy it.” The coils tightened. They squeezed into Timothy’s skin until pain flared out, and he thought he’d hear bones break. Air was gone, his lungs trying to move, his throat blocked.
The edges of his vision blurred and his concentration faded.
Timothy didn’t have the air for fear. He squirmed, kicked, and tried to break Cipher’s hold, but it was all automatic, the struggles of anyone terrified and desperate to survive. He thought he’d die in this purgatory of mist, a nowhere where nothing happened.
For some reason, Timothy wished he could have died somewhere else. In class, in a bank, a grocery store, the images flashed until he saw something special. He’d rather die in the laundry room. Because she might be there.
He might get to see her one more time.
The mist rolled back and disappeared like a movie coming into focus. Still dying, Timothy hung in the air over the linoleum floors at The Verge’s laundry room. It was empty, the windows darkened squares. In front of the door stood Cipher, the hairless man who ran through a church, engulfed in fire. Now he leaned against the doorframe with half a smirk, the tendrils running along the ground and up to his shoulders.
Squeezing, Timothy managed to squirm one arm free, and he pried his fingers into the leather. He tried to get it away from his windpipe. Seconds of struggle, of pulling and tuggi
ng and he broke it away. Dropped to his knees, Timothy grasped his neck as he gulped air back into his body. After a frenzied gasp, he looked up.
Tentacles gone, Cipher approached as Timothy leaned on one of the washing machines, panting. “You’re stronger than I would have guessed,” but Timothy couldn’t hear the tinge of fear coloring those words. “But it won’t change anything, Timothy. It can’t change anything.”
“Why, why are you doing this?” Timothy managed with stretched breaths.
“You killed my last body. Now I claim yours. That’s justice, right?”
“What?”
“Is it really that difficult?” Cipher asked, a stride closer.
“What are you?”
“A soul, a demon’s soul. And as with all living things, I need a body. But make this easy. Don’t fight me, and the next few minutes don’t have to be painful. Just let go.” He leaned down, his words low, “Let me in. Give in, and let me take control.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“You have to be.”
“I’m not,” Cipher insisted. “Everything here is real.”
“It can’t be,” Timothy said, his palms cold against the washing machine. The floor felt sticky, rough with dirt and dust bunnies. “No, no way. I’m dreaming.” He said without believing it. Everything seemed too real, too solid to be fake.
“Give up.”
“This isn’t real,” Timothy repeated.
With a sigh fit for an Elizabethan tragedy, Cipher launched the tips of his tentacles, both aimed for Timothy’s throat. Desperate for protection, Timothy threw up his hands. The tentacles cut through his forearms. Two quick stabs and they pulled back. “Give up,” Cipher said again. Timothy tried to step back, but there was just the one exit. All he could do was back himself into a wall. But he didn’t have a plan and maybe another few seconds would offer him some brilliant answer.
“I—” but his answer scuttled when the tentacles struck again. All he could do was block them with his arms. Agony flared up and he felt the skin tear. Cipher was cutting him up one slash at a time. His arms burned, stung, and bled like nothing else he felt before.
“Give up!” shouted Cipher, his voice loud and scared. Timothy heard it that time.
“Why?”
“You can’t win. You are weak!” It was anger, anger to cover the terror.
“But you’re strong?” he asked with a nod at the demon’s feet.
Cipher glanced down. His feet stretched the ground like he was heavy enough to bend the linoleum. But it kept going and they both realized Cipher had started to sink. The floor would swallow him. “Give up now!” he shouted again, his tentacles wrapping around washing machines.
“This is a dream,” Timothy repeated, praying he was right. “That means I’m in control, so you’re going to get sucked down into the floor. That’s what’s going to happen because it’s my dream, my mind, and I control what happens here. Then I’m going to wake up.” He spoke with the confidence he didn’t feel. At least his voice didn’t shake.
Inch by inch, Cipher sank further and further into the floor. Too tired to do anything else, Timothy pressed himself against the wall, watching and waiting. Cipher fought and thrashed, growling with frustration. He dug his fingertips into the floor, but he didn’t slow. Second by second, more and more of his body disappeared.
Cipher roared and fought until his arms were gone, then his neck, then his mouth and he went silent for that moment until his eyes disappeared. When nothing remained, the demon was gone and even the hole disappeared.
Alone, Timothy decided this had to be a dream. Now he could believe it. The cuts weren’t real. He wasn’t really exhausted. This was a nightmare. He took control, because someone wanted to kill him. Okay, so he’d never been in a dream this realistic, but it still wasn’t real. His life couldn’t be this interesting. It was post traumatic stress, or he still had to work out his feelings about that morning.
But he didn’t wake up, not at first.
Instead he dreamed about the laundry room again. The least exotic place in all the universe, it felt bright and white, scrubbed clean with fluorescent lights. And he seemed normal, just a guy in college. His shoes were the same gray sneakers he wore that morning. His black slacks were still pants. His shirt was a shirt. He even had the pen he accidentally put in his pocket at lunch. His hands, arms, legs, stomach, and every other part felt normal too. There were still the cuts, but that was the only proof Cipher ever existed.
A few more seconds and Timothy noticed a flicker of movement. He looked at his hands and he saw it, the snakes of shadow crawling along his skin. They moved with the grace of shadows, yet they didn’t disappear when confronted with the light. When they didn’t hurt him, Timothy gave up, tucked his head against his knees, and tried to disappear into the black of normal sleep.
Two
That morning, Timothy woke up and his palms flew to his shoulders. He expected wounds, flares of pain from fresh scabs. His fingertips reached those patches of skin, and he exhaled, relieved and feeling silly for expecting a dream to actually hurt him. He was safe. No one hurt him. Nothing happened. When he got up, dragging his blankets across the floor through the morning cold, he saw himself in the mirror. He looked the same. It was a dream. Yesterday with the church freaked him out and his subconscious turned that into a nightmare. A psychology major would have appreciated his explanation.
Half way across his room, Timothy noticed the clock. It was only four. Groaning, he rolled back onto his bed, still tangled in his sheets. He tried to clear his thoughts, but even wrapped up in his tortilla of blankets, he couldn’t clear his head. By four thirty he knew he couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t be able to get away from the churches, demons, and dreams that ran through his head. There weren’t any answers in his bed, so he rolled up.
Perched on the edge of his sheets, he thought about what he should do. Part of him wanted to tell someone. He could tell his roommate, call his parents, or maybe go see a therapist. At best, he’d get some drugs. At worst, they’d shove him into some nice psychiatric facility with lots of plants and a day room where everyone played checkers and made macaroni art. Talking about this would be mean quitting his life, giving up on his education to enjoy whatever medications were popular.
No, for the moment Timothy would assume he wasn’t insane. One set of hallucinations wasn’t enough. Instead he searched around for something to do and laughed. He realized he was out of clean clothes. For the last two weeks he had put off doing his laundry. Piling everything into his plastic basket, Timothy figured a chore would be mindless and easy. Besides, it would be healthy to go to the scene of his nightmare. He’d go down to the laundry room, and it would be the same bright space filled with washing machines and dryers. No demons. Nothing scary. Nothing weird. He put on some clothes, gathered his laundry and headed out.
Hustling through the morning cold, Timothy tried to think about anything but the chill as he scrambled across the parking lot. He saw his breath with each step through the shadows. Parking lamps glowed like yellow suns, but there weren’t enough to illuminate the whole lot. Through the glass doors to the laundry room, he hopped up and down, rubbing his hands over his shoulders. Inside it was warm as one of the dryers thrummed loud and welcoming. This was normal. Being cold was normal. So he was sane. He could be pretty sure he was sane. No hallucinations and then he stopped when someone stood up from behind one of the machines.
“Hi,” Jenny said with a smile and a wave. Timothy stopped. He couldn’t believe she was there. But he saw her. He saw her brown hair that curled at the tips, the curve of her lips when she smiled at him. It was the kind of smile that spread across her whole face. As always, she wore her signature top: a charcoal gray sweatshirt with a Hufflepuff insignia over the corner her chest. The badger was yellow and faded, but she wore it like a model or a princess. Timothy guessed she would’ve been beautiful in a gym shorts.
“Hi,” Timothy sa
id, taking steps back because he still wore flannel shorts and a t-shirt with at least three holes. He couldn’t be there. She couldn’t see him dressed this way. It didn’t matter that she already looked right at him. He was on irrational autopilot now. Backing for the door, he dropped his clothes there, and he ran. He actually sprinted back for his apartment feeling like a seventh grade idiot. It got worse when he slammed his front door shut, put his back against the wall, and realized he’d have to go back for his laundry. He hit the back of his skull against the drywall and chanted about how dumb that was.
He didn’t let the hour stop him from knocking on Jeremiah’s door. Timothy pounded until he heard someone swear off and crash onto the floor with some more curses. A few more seconds and the door swung open. Jeremiah, not a morning person at four forty-five, demanded, “What?” Hair tangled, he had his blankets wrapped around his shoulders like he couldn’t give up the thought of really leaving his bed.
“I’m an idiot.”
“What?”
“I’m an idiot. I ran. No, not an idiot, a coward, wuss, pansy.”
“Okay,” and Jeremiah tired to shut the door.
Blocking it with his palm, Timothy hoped Jeremiah wouldn’t just slam the door on his hand, “C’mon man, I need some help.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost five.”
“In the morning?” Jeremiah asked. “There’s a five in the morning now?”
“Dude, you’re not that tired.”
“Screw you too.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Timothy said. “Look at it this way, I’m not going away until you give me some advice.”
“Fine,” Jeremiah conceded. “What happened?” He walked through the door and fell into one of the lounge chairs in their living room.
Timothy sat on the opposite chair. Squishy and crushed it gave beneath his weight. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “I saw her.”