The First Male

by Lee Hayes

  They had barely spoken to each other on the ride home, and when Brooke attempted to turn on the radio as a distraction, Simon immediately turned it off. His mood allowed no room for the latest hip-hop lyrics or thumping bass lines; he opted instead for the familiar melody of rubber tires pounding against the ragged streets.

  He sat in the passenger’s seat and stared out of the window simply watching the familiar landscape pass. Run-down buildings. Kids playing in the street. Fast-food restaurants. When they crossed the Chatnum Bridge, he avoided looking at the Mississippi River out of fear its waves would make him nauseous again; but that really was the least of his concerns. His mind was numb; still reeling from his experience with Clara and the resulting assault of images so disturbing that they defied words.

  In the company of Brooke, he fought desperately to hold on to his stoicism; but he was shaken to his core, and rightly so. In the sanctuary of the vehicle, watching the city pass by, everything seemed fine, but everything felt wrong to him. He felt wrong, too. The world, in his view—dimmed by an ash-gray film that muted the city lights—no longer seemed to fit. He felt foreign; as out of place as a polar bear in a barren desert. Everything had changed.

  He was shaken, not only because of what had happened to Clara, but also because of what he had seen and felt during his reading; things he did not dare share with Brooke out of fear of being labeled a monster. During the reading, his head was filled with terrible—almost unimaginable—images.

  A dense forest where the dead bodies that hung from the trees were so numerous that they looked like low-hanging fruit.

  Burning bodies being tossed into the street; he could smell the rank scent of searing flesh.

  A vast field decorated with decapitated heads atop wooden spikes.

  He also saw an image of a massive hole in the ground filled with screaming and crying children; he stood over them with a wicked smile as they were being buried alive.

  In the vision, he felt his own rising darkness; it was a burning force that utterly consumed him.

  Simon ravenously sucked the last bit of alcohol from his glass and got up hastily to make a new drink. The images that wrested in his head made it difficult for him to find even a second of peace, but the vodka was beginning to help. He wanted to believe that what he had seen was simply his imagination reacting to the very unusual circumstances or that Clara was somehow responsible for planting the seeds of the nightmare into his mind; maybe she worked her mojo—or voodoo—and made him see what she wanted him to see in order to control him. On the ride home, he had continuously blamed her for his woes, cursing her to the high heavens and trying to convince himself that he had fallen under her spell and that she had used some kind of witchcraft on him. He even blamed her for the intense lust he felt toward her and accused her of using magic to bring him so close to the edge of orgasm during his reading.

  In spite of the strong case he made, he failed to convince himself of her chicanery. What he had seen was not some nightmare or random images planted subliminally into his skull by witchery. It wasn’t a drug-induced hallucination caused by inhaling the fumes from some unknown burning bush. He desperately wanted to believe he had been high during the reading, but he knew that wasn’t so.

  What he saw at Clara’s had chilled his bones; it was what was to be; it was the future.

  When he reached for the bottle of liquor to make his drink, he had difficulty holding on to it because of his unsteady hands; his hands shook as if they had been stricken by disease. Brooke saw his struggle and moved to pour the vodka in his stead, rubbing his back in a soothing way, attempting to calm his frayed nerves. Simon forced a tiny smile and retook his seat on the couch, burying his face in his hands.

  He wanted to weep. During the reading, he had felt the true darkness that lived within his own heart. And, he had seen the grisly figure of a hooded man with no face. The hooded man had seen him, too. This was no doubt the man that Clara warned would come to claim him; but this thing, was not a man at all. It was something else altogether, something that hovered in the shadows, lingering between life and death.

  “Baby,” Brooke finally said, “we have to talk about this.” She took a seat next to him and put her arms around his shoulders. “We have to talk about what happened. What did you mean when you said you had been to the house before? When?”

  These days there weren’t many things Simon could say with certainty about his life; he knew the sun still rose in the east and set in the west, but that was about all he’d stake his life on—except the fact that he had a connection to Clara’s house. He had been there before. He didn’t know when or why or how, he only knew that he had been there before; and he knew it in a real place in his soul that he couldn’t reach with his mind; a place that didn’t allow access; but, he was absolutely certain. Absolutely.

  She sighed. “I don’t understand anything that’s going on.”

  “I don’t know, either. I don’t know anything anymore. Last week my biggest concern was not going to class or how I was going to get enough money to pay rent, but now, I got some supernatural shit going on. None of this makes any sense.” He leaned back into the folds of the couch. “Clara was right about one thing, something is after me. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been sensing . . . something, for days now. My dreams aren’t dreams at all. Something has been trying to get to me. It’s starting to all make sense.”

  “Something like what? Is it . . . evil?” She broached the word evil cautiously as if to not offend listening spirits.

  Simon lifted his head and stared blankly at the wall, searching his mind for the right response. “Nah, it’s something more than that. There’s evil and then there’s this shadow thing.” His creepy words sent a cold chill throughout the room. He turned and forced a weak smile when he looked at Brooke, whose face reflected the horror that she felt. “More than that, though, I think I’m evil, too. Clara said it. I have darkness in me. And I feel it.”

  “Baby,” she said as she took her hand, placed it on his chin, and turned his head, forcing him to look at her, “that’s not true. You are the kindest, most gentle man I have ever known. That’s why I fell in love with you. Your spirit fills a room. You are not darkness. You are my light.”

  That’s why I fell in love with you, he repeated in his head. Yes, she loved him, but would her love be enough to save him?

  She released his chin and continued, “How many hours a week do you spend volunteering at the homeless shelter or the children’s hospital or tutoring at-risk youth? You do so much good. If the world was full of people like you, it would be a much, much better place.” She was right. He did spend a lot of time giving back, even though he didn’t have much to give. He always figured that because he didn’t have money, he could always give of himself. “Do you remember a few weeks ago when I screamed in the bathroom because there was a big spider? I wanted you to kill it, but you caught it and took it outside and set it free. A man who won’t even kill a spider is certainly not filled with darkness.”

  He leaned in and placed a needy kiss on her willing lips. “Thank you, baby. You always know what to say.”

  “Anytime you feel like you’re bad, hold on to what’s in there,” she said as she placed her index finger on his chest, right at his heart. “Hold on to love.”

  He kissed her again, this time with more passion. “I’m tired. I need to rest. Can we talk about this later?”

  She smiled. “Uhhh, of course.”

  Simon needed to get away from her for fear of breaking down. If he lost his composure in front of her, it would be a complete breakdown and he’d have no control over what he shared with her. He’d end up telling her what he saw and felt during the reading. More importantly, he’d end up confessing what he was becoming. Finding the words to tell his girlfriend that he was becoming a beast wouldn’t be an easy task; he wasn’t even sure he knew the words. In the car on the way home, he realized that in order to save her he’d have to send her away, ultimatel
y banishing her from his life, maybe not forever, but at least until he figured this thing out. He needed her to go now, but he wasn’t strong enough for that, yet. Not tonight. He wasn’t ready to be alone in the house with his own thoughts. He needed her comfort, at least for one more night.

  A tear formed in his eye and streamed down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away before she saw it. He moved from the couch and toward the bedroom.

  “Simon,” she said from across the room, “I’ll always be here for you. Remember that.”

  Simon smiled, nodded his head, and continued into the bedroom. Quickly, he flipped on the light and closed the door behind him, leaving a sliver of a crack. The idea of being sealed in a room alone terrified him.

  Once he stepped into the room, he carefully inspected it to make sure that nothing was lurking about in the corners. He leaned against the wall and took a few deep breaths to calm himself and to focus. He knew what had to be done. Clara had told him everything, and she had told him how to do it. He needed to contact Adelaide Thibodeaux, whoever she was. He needed to reach out to her, but in order to connect with her, he needed to be open. As crazy and far-fetched as it seemed to him, he was going to try to make contact with her. He didn’t have a trick bag, out of which he could pull any of the herbs or teas or bushes that Clara had, but something told him he wouldn’t need one. After all, this woman, who might be his savior, had already contacted him.

  He moved over to the dresser and lit the lone candle, although he wasn’t sure why; it seemed like an appropriate thing to do, given the situation. Then, he kicked off his shoes and lay across the bed on top of the covers, his hands folded across his stomach, his back resting against the headboard. His breathing was labored so he took a few quick, shallow breaths to settle himself. What he was about to do was certainly risky. He knew that. He didn’t know anything about this Adelaide woman and he didn’t really understand how to reach her, nor did he know whether he could really trust anything Clara had told him. He didn’t know her, either. Maybe Clara wanted to get him to this Adelaide for some nefarious purpose. He couldn’t be certain of anything anymore except that his world had been turned upside-down and that sitting idly around doing nothing while he waited to be transformed into something hideous, or waiting around for some undead thing to claim him, were not options.

  Then, a thought paralyzed him: what if he accidentally made contact with the hooded man, bringing him closer to him? His course of action was dangerous, but he made a decision to move forward, breaking away from the fear that almost held him back. What choice did he have? He raced through myriad options in his head, and they all led back to him confronting, head-on, the issues facing him. There simply wasn’t any other option.

  He thought about it again and then began to focus on the grave task at hand. He didn’t even really know how to begin, but, intuitively, he stared at the flame of the candle to help center his thoughts. His eyes were wide, even though he felt relaxed. Slowly, he inhaled and exhaled as he let her name echo in his head repeatedly.

  Adelaide Thibodeaux. Adelaide Thibodeaux. Adelaide Thibodeaux.

  He repeated this action for several minutes to no avail. His eyelids began to sink and sleep wanted to claim him, but he resisted; mainly out of fear of what his dreams would bring. He didn’t want to dream of snakes or see the hooded man or see any more graphic images of death and blood. He wanted to remain in complete control of what happened next. He adjusted himself in the bed and continued focusing; fighting back the fatigue. His eyelids drooped several times, but each time he willed them open.

  Simon.

  When he heard his name, it sounded like someone was in his room. He looked around, but no one was there. Then, he heard it again.

  Simon.

  He had connected with her; he was sure of that. His name sounded like a mere whisper; a faint echo in a vast tunnel. It was distant, but he still clearly heard it. He concentrated harder. A warm, prickly sensation washed over his body. It started in his toes and moved up through his legs, his abdomen and chest. and then his head. His entire body felt sharp, like he could draw blood if anyone dared touch him. Physically, he was immobile, and he was not concerned about his sudden paralysis; his mind had never felt so free. In his head, he moved rapidly—at lightning speed.

  Now, he could close his eyes, without fear of sleep.

  When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a field bursting with color. The sunlight was so bright that he had to squint and use his hand as a sun shade. All around were flowers. Purple. Orange. Yellow. Red. Blue. Butterflies flew delicately about and the weak buzzing of bees could be heard in the distance. The sky was the bluest blue he had ever seen. He looked around at the shimmering world. The entire place glimmered and was ethereal, almost fragile.

  “Simon, you must come,” she said to him faintly.

  “How? Where are you?”

  “Come to me.” Her voice grew weak. He looked all around the vast field and did not see anyone stir. The tall grass bent gently in the smooth, warm breeze. Beauty stretched out as far as he could see.

  “Where are you?” he called out. His voice echoed in the distance.

  “I am near. Come to me and all will be revealed.”

  “I don’t know where you are.” Simon’s voice sounded panicked. “Wait, you’re fading. Where are you?”

  “You will find me.”

  “Wait, can I get an address?” he asked in frustration.

  “Trust no one.” Her warning caused alarm in his spirit.

  At that moment, Simon heard a blood-curdling hissing scream that knocked him to the ground. All of the beautiful flowers wilted, and birds fell dead out of the sky. The warm breeze turned frigid and strong; the green grass turned a brittle shade of brown; the bright sunlight was sucked away, replaced by a menacing darkness and a putrid smell.

  “Wait!”

  Simon woke up in a choking fit caused by the rank smell from his dream. The sour taste of bile burned the back of his throat causing him to cough violently to eject the source of the rancid taste that gathered in his mouth. The smell was tangible, like a ball of regurgitated food that stuck in his throat, only it wasn’t food. It was something else. The smell was familiar, and not in a good way. His stomach churned and Simon could now feel boiling in his belly. His insides cooked, and he felt like the acid in his stomach would burn right through his skin. That smell was beyond an odor; it was an entity—something living that latched onto him and would not let go.

  He took a few easy breaths, his lungs releasing the tension that squeezed them. He looked around his room, his body tight, and although everything looked fine, he still felt wrong—out of place. He remembered the assault on his senses caused by the shadow-thing he saw in the restroom at The Black Cat. Not only had he smelled the horror of it, but now he was tasting the rottenness of it. The scream he heard still hissed in his ears, but as he settled into the comfort of his small room, he felt protected. “I did it,” he said to himself. “I made contact.” He felt a sense of pride.

  He placed his feet on the floor and tried to stand, but when he did, the room started spinning viciously and he lost his footing, almost falling to the floor. He grabbed onto the bedpost to break his fall and to steady himself. He paused for a few seconds and then made small, timid movements, fearful that any sudden exertion of energy would cause him to expel the content of his stomach onto the bedroom floor. He placed his hand on his stomach and yanked it back when he felt something move inside him. “What the fuck?” he said to himself. Maybe I need to vomit, he thought. He had to get to the bathroom. He stumbled through the room, using whatever piece of furniture within reach as leverage, eventually reaching the bathroom and tumbling gracelessly into it.

  He burst into the bathroom and immediately grabbed onto the sink for balance. He clung to it for dear life. As he stood there, he couldn’t convince himself that the unsettled feeling in his stomach was nausea; it felt much different, stronger. It felt malevolent. Carefully, he place
d his hand on his stomach again and when he did, something moved, again. He could see his stomach rolling beneath his shirt. It was as prominent as the movement in the womb of an expectant mother whose child was changing positions. He froze.

  “Simon,” Brooke said when she rushed into the room. The gruesome expression on his face shot terror into her body. “Simon, what’s wrong?”

  “There’s something . . . something inside me.” His voice was shaking so much that it was difficult for her to understand his words. He pointed. “My stomach.”

  With trepidation, Simon slowly lifted his shirt. He looked down, but there was no movement. He placed his hands on his sharp abdominals, but nothing happened.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It felt like something . . . alive . . . was inside me, moving.” He reached out for her hand and placed it onto his stomach so that she could feel the peculiar movement, too. As soon as she touched him, he screamed and doubled over in pain, slamming into the tub.

  “Oh shit! What the fuck is wrong with me?” He started coughing so violently that he almost lost his balance again. Brooke placed her hands around him and moved him closer to the toilet in case he needed to throw up. He flung open the lid and leaned over, dry heaving ferociously above the commode.

  “Simon!”

  His coughing intensified so much that he collapsed to the floor with a thud, landing on his knees and hands. Brooke stood with her back to the door, facing Simon. She kneeled beside him as he began to spit globs of blood.

  “Oh my God!” she said. “I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  Simon let out a long, harsh cough and grabbed her by wrist, preventing her from leaving the room. Then, he felt some squirming in his throat and he coughed again. He opened his mouth and spit out a large clot of blood. It splattered onto the floor and onto Brooke’s pants. She screamed. He coughed violently again and this time bile—bitter green and malodorous—spewed from his mouth.