The Ghost of Blackwood Lane

by Greg Enslen

  Mike looked at her, trying to understand the sudden shift in the conversation. “If this husband of hers is treating her bad, maybe she needs some help,” Mike said, putting the picture away.

  The woman shook her head.

  If you and your friend show up at Vincent Luciano’s house and try to talk to the girl, he will probably kill you. And that doctor you were asking about? He’s dead. Died right after the trial and right after the old man went to jail.”

  Mike was unsure of what to say.

  “No one was really sure of his connection to the case, but he was Chris’s uncle,” the woman continued. “The doctor’s sister was Chris’s mother,” she said, glancing out at the boy leaning against the rental car. “Knowing about that crazy hypnosis, now it makes some kind of sense. He was about the only person in town back then with enough schooling to do something like that. If he helped the case happen by doing what he did, it’s probably what got him killed.”

  She grabbed his arm and pulled to get his attention.

  “Now listen, boy, and take this to heart. Leave this alone. Vincent and his brother Tony are dangerous. You and your friend could go bumbling around and end up dead. As for the girl, if you can get your friend to just forget about this whole thing, it would be best. She’s made her choices in life, and now she has to live with them. There’s nothing you or your friend can do.”

  Mike nodded.

  “I understand,” he said slowly. “And thanks for all of your help. If anything happens, we’ll come by and see you again before we leave. Can I get a dozen of those chocolate chip cookies for Gary? He said they were good.”

  She smiled and moved around the counter, bagging up more than a dozen and handing them to Mike. “Take them, no charge. And take care of your friend out there. He looks like he needs somebody to lean on.”

  Mike thanked her again and left, heading out to the car.

  Gary was just leaning against it, staring off into space, and seemed to wake from some dream when Mike tapped him on the elbow.

  “Mike. There you are. I can remember this place. There’s something here that I can’t remember, but there’s a lot that I can—I can remember being parked out here, in front of the bakery, waiting for someone.”

  “It was her, Gary, from the picture,” Mike said, handing back the picture. “She worked here—this is where you met.”

  Gary turned suddenly and looked at him, his face wrinkling up—from surprise or from more pain, Mike didn’t know.

  “She worked here?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, nodding. “That woman in there knew a lot about you, stuff I need to tell you. But we need to get you someplace safe, someplace where you can think about the things I’m telling you instead of constantly remembering new stuff. We’re going back to the room.”

  Mike unlocked the doors and got in, and Gary climbed in the passenger side.

  “She really knows the girl in the picture? What did she say about her? Was what my stepmother said true, about me and her?”

  “Gary, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you everything, or at least everything I think you can handle,” he said as he pulled out into the street and headed back to their motel.

  Chapter 41

  Judy rolled over, finally getting up off the couch. She didn’t want to go upstairs, but desperately wanted to shower. It was only a matter of time before she’d have to go in their bedroom and clean up. Or at least pull the sheets off the bed and wash them.

  For now, she didn’t have the energy to do much of anything. And at this point, she just didn’t care.

  Last night, she had felt a rage building up inside of her she had never known before. But this morning the rage had evaporated, leaving only a residue of failure and humiliation.

  She felt like a robot, slowly tidying the living room, trying not to think about going upstairs. That was what Vincent needed, and wanted—a robot to follow him around and clean up after him.

  Judy Luciano went into the kitchen and started to make herself something to eat but gave up halfway through, leaving the food sitting on the counter.

  She wanted to go, to leave everything behind—it was too bad that her ill-fated trip to the lake hadn’t been better planned. Now he would be watching her more closely. Now, he’d be checking on her, making her life harder and harder. If she had just planned it better, taking her time, maybe she could’ve gotten away.

  Or maybe that was the wrong approach. Maybe she should have spent less time planning. Maybe she should have just left and started walking. Avoiding all the roads, sleeping in the woods, eating scraps. Anything would be better than sitting around here, waiting for Vincent to come home and torture her.

  But a walk sounded like a good idea, so she left. The only conscious thing she did before she walked out the door was to put on her shoes.

  She thought for a moment about going upstairs and getting the letter taped to the back of her dresser drawer, but she didn’t have the energy to climb the stairs. She didn’t want to see that bed, either.

  Judy had no idea how long she would be gone—she left the door unlocked behind her. A large part of her wanted to just keep on walking, forever.

  Chapter 42

  “And he’s not someone to be messed with, supposedly.”

  Mike finished telling the story—they were still sitting in the parking lot of the motel. Mike had started telling the story on the drive back to the motel, but Gary had continued asking questions, so they’d stayed in the car, staring at the ugly door of their room.

  At least they were out of O’Fallon.

  But as Mike told the story, Gary couldn’t help thinking that this was all too strange to believe. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to make the connection—Gary had been dreaming about this abused woman, and now they had independent confirmation that the woman was in fact involved in a very abusive relationship.

  It was so much to take in all at once. Suddenly Gary was very glad that Mike had come along—he was looking out for Gary, getting him out of that bakery and passing along the information somewhere else. It wouldn’t have been good if he’d come here by himself—he would’ve been passing out every time someone gave him a new piece of information. How would he have ever held a conversation with anyone?

  But his...his old girlfriend had worked at that bakery, and the old woman had filled in a few of the holes with new information.

  The doctor, the girl—and the hypnosis, it now appeared—had all really existed. They were real things, people that he had known, or things that had really happened to him. He’d even been engaged to her.

  The doctor was Gary’s uncle, someone his father would’ve trusted. Gary didn’t remember the man, but he did recall that his mother’s brother had been a doctor of some sort. That the man had died soon after the trial could be explained by a connection between him and Gary and his father. And it helped to explain why the mental wall had not been removed in a later therapy session—the man who had created the wall had died.

  The weirdest thing, so far, was his lack of surprise when Mike had told him that Judy...that the girl in the picture was in an abusive relationship. He’d seen the proof a hundred times in the dream. It had been like watching a movie over and over and then having someone explain the plot to you, but to find out that on some level, it might actually be true—that was too much. Gary had known a woman was in trouble—he just hadn’t known who she was.

  And Vincent Luciano sounded exactly like the guy in the dream. Gary remembered Vincent and Tony Luciano—they had grown up together, hung out. His father had worked for their father. Why hadn’t Gary remembered Vincent before?

  There had to be some kind of connection between Gary and the girl. But how could he be living through her, seeing through her eyes?

  “Pretty crazy, huh?” Mike said, looking at him after a long period of silence in the car. It was starting to sprinkle outside. “I don’t understand it at all,” Mike said. “I don’t see how it’s possible.”

  Gar
y nodded. He wanted to go to her, to see her, but he didn’t know if he could take that chance. He couldn’t even say her name without the headache edging in—what would happen if he actually saw her?

  “Yeah,” Gary answered, getting out the cards and shuffling them. “This is seriously screwed up. I don’t even know who to talk to next.”

  “Well,” Mike answered. “I do. We talk to that other doctor, the one the old lady mentioned. He took over Dr. Martin’s practice ten years ago, and she’s heard he’s the best psychologist around. We’re lucky he’s located here in O’Fallon.”

  Gary nodded, feeling a little better. At least Mike had a plan.

  “But I think we should be careful,” Mike continued, serious. “This Vincent has two reasons to hate you: he knows your father and what he did, and he’s married to your ex and beats the crap out of her. Sounds like she’d bail if she could, but the old woman said that will never happen. Vincent is a powerful guy, and he’s got powerful friends. Your ex-girlfriend is trapped, and there’s no getting her out of there.”

  Gary looked at his friend, trying to get a read on him. Was he trying to motivate him or caution him? “Well, if this was a Rambo movie, we’d go in there and rescue her.”

  Mike smiled, getting excited. “Yeah, we could fly a helicopter and rappel down those rope lines onto the roof of her house. I could throw one of those flash-bang grenades and then you could rescue her.”

  Gary smiled.

  “But we’d have to have a helicopter, or at least some really big muscles,” Mike said. “I can’t help you out there. Now if you need an old lady in a bakery charmed, I’m your man, but I don’t think we’re riding in to save her like a couple of cowboys. But we could go out there and talk to her, if we can find the house. How do you think you’ll react? And what do we do if he shows up? Did you remember your .357 magnum?”

  Gary shrugged his shoulders, appreciating Mike’s attempts at humor. “My brain—well, you could end up doing most of the talking. It would be good, though, to see her face, to know that she really exists. Since the bakery, it’s been easier to think about my mom and what happened. Easier to remember the town and to think about...Judy. I know this might sound crazy, but I think being back here is really helping.”

  “That might be the first thing I’ve heard today that didn’t sound crazy,” Mike said, smiling and starting the car.

  “So, where to, chief?” Mike asked.

  “Well, let’s go see the doctor first. Then maybe drive out to where she lives—I know Blackwood Lane, and it’s pretty famous around here. The road is supposed to be haunted. Anyway, I’m sure we can find the house,” he said, his voice tight with anticipation.

  Gary didn’t look at Mike—he flipped a card out of the tarot deck and studied it intently. He didn’t want his friend to see just how nervous he really was.

  ------

  “Can I help you?” the man said from behind his half-opened door.

  Gary smiled through the crack.

  “Yes, Doctor. My name is...Gary Foreman. I have a bit of an emergency and need to speak to you immediately, if you have the time. The receptionist said you had a noon lunch that cancelled, and you might be able to see me.”

  Dr. Myers looked over at Nadine, his receptionist, and saw that she was shrugging her shoulders and giving him one of those “sorry, Doctor, I couldn’t help myself” smiles that she used on him whenever she wanted her way. She was chatting with a man standing next to her desk, a tanned guy that looked like he could be a model.

  “A mental emergency? This I have to hear.”

  He held the door open for Gary and asked him to sit, then walked around his large wooden desk.

  “How can I help you?” Dr. Myers asked, getting out his pad and pen.

  “First question—what do you charge an hour?”

  Dr. Myers smiled. “I usually get between $75 and $100 an hour, but I’m on my lunch now, so let’s hear what you want to talk about. After I figure out how long I think it will take, I’ll quote you a price, okay?”

  The young man on his couch nodded, adjusting the cushions. Dr. Myers could tell he was nervous—the body language said it all. Nervous and stressed.

  “Just be forewarned,” Dr. Myers continued, trying to put the boy at ease. “If you talk all the way through my lunch and I don’t get a chance to eat, I’ll have to charge you at least $50. Okay?”

  Gary nodded and sighed, heavily.

  “That sounds great, Doc. Is it okay if I call you Doc?”

  Dr. Myers nodded, not saying anything. The easiest way to get someone talking was to leave a comfortable silence for them to fill.

  “It’s a complicated story,” the boy began, “but I’ll give you the condensed version. You seem to be about the only doctor in O’Fallon qualified to speak on the subject of suppressed memories. Is that correct?”

  The doctor was surprised, leaning forward in his chair. He figured the guy was here to talk about a bad relationship or a sudden loss of a job. The young man didn’t look familiar, but Dr. Myers had dealt with enough unstable people to know that they could see any change in their routine as a threat to their very existence.

  But this sounded like something different.

  “Well, yes, I guess you could say that,” Dr. Myers answered. “I’ve published several papers in the journals, and two of those were related to the suppression of memories.”

  Gary sat back. “Well, I just learned a few days ago that I had some memories suppressed about ten years ago, and against my will. The procedure was performed by a doctor here in O’Fallon, Dr. Frank Martin, my uncle. He’s dead, now, or I would be talking to him, I guess. The memories that he suppressed were of my true name and of a girlfriend I had at the time. Fiancé, actually.”

  Dr. Myers held it in for a moment, then gave up trying and laughed out loud. Laughing at your patients wasn’t the best clinical technique, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Ah, well, that doesn’t sound very likely, son,” Dr. Myers said. “You wouldn’t be taping a segment for the Jerry Springer show, would you?”

  “Why do you say that?” Gary said calmly.

  Dr. Myers’s smile faded—now he was more than a little curious. Most patients reacted differently when you laughed at them. This boy seemed completely calm or was at least working very hard to control his emotions.

  “No mental blockage technique can keep a memory suppressed for that long,” Dr. Myers said slowly. “It’s not clinically possible. If it were that easy, I could just tell people to stop smoking and they would never smoke again. Any mental wall, even one constructed using the best hypnotic techniques by the world’s most experienced psychiatrist, would have broken down a long time ago.”

  The young man nodded thoughtfully and reached into his back pocket. “But what if it didn’t?” Gary asked. He pulled something from his wallet, handing it over to Myers along with an old photograph he’d been holding.

  Dr. Myers took them both and looked at them.

  One was a driver’s license—it looked completely normal, listing the young man’s name as “Gary Foreman” and showing his address in California. For a moment, Dr. Myers wondered what this boy was doing so far away from home.

  The other item was more interesting—it was a picture of the man, younger and surrounded with friends. There was an attractive woman on his lap, a woman who seemed vaguely familiar to the doctor. In the picture there was a cake, obviously for the young man. But instead of saying “Gary” like it said on the driver’s license, the cake read “Happy 17th Birthday, Chris.”

  Dr. Myers glanced up at the young man—it was the same face in both pictures.

  “I don’t understand,” Dr. Myers said.

  The young man on his couch smiled.

  “Neither did I, when I first received that photograph a few nights ago from my stepmother. Anytime I try to remember what that girl’s name is or anything about her, I get these horrible migraines, right across the front of my head,” he said, ind
icating with his hands and messaging his temples. “The headaches are the worst whenever I try to remember that my real name is Chri—”

  The young man suddenly stopped talking, his face tightening in obvious pain. The young man’s hand drifted up and touched his jacket pocket.

  This was strange—Dr. Myers had never seen anything like this.

  Real physical pain brought on by a mental instability was rare, and it was even more rare for someone to try and fake it. But headaches were a logical manifestation of an unresolved mental blockage. Of course, it couldn’t have lasted this long….

  “Do you need some water?” Dr. Myers asked.

  The young man shook his head slowly. “No, thanks.”

  Dr. Myers was quiet for a moment, then continued. “You say that you get these headaches whenever you try to remember?”

  Gary nodded. “Yeah. I flew back to the area yesterday to find out what’s happening. My father and I moved away from the area in 1987, and the only clues I have brought me back here to learn more. Do you know Wood Bakery?”

  Dr. Myers nodded—anyone who spent more than twenty minutes in O’Fallon knew about Wood Bakery.

  “I was there this morning,” the young man said. “After a couple of minutes, I could remember it quite clearly—my mother and I used to go there when I was growing up. But then I got this horrible pain, like a vice closing on my head, trying to crush it. There was nothing else in the world except for the pain.” Gary paused for a moment, rubbing his forehead. “The woman there recognized me.”

  Chapter 43

  Judy was walking, her feet trudging through a field behind her home, but she wasn’t paying attention.

  She was thinking about her death.

  The idea wasn’t a bad one, as far as she could tell. She enjoyed the very idea of an end to all the pain and humiliation.