The Time Eater

by Aaron J. French

  “Can’t you take a compliment?”

  Realizing that perhaps I couldn’t, I said nothing.

  “You’re good at that. Had a lot of girlfriends?”

  I laughed out loud. “No, I’m divorced.”

  She made a throaty grunt of comprehension. “Ah, I see. You haven’t had enough girls, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’m divorced.”

  “Really?”

  “Three years now.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “Length is not important. What’s important is the loss of hope, the bitterness that takes root when relationships dissolve; that’s the connection divorcees share.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, but there isn’t much to tell. Jon and I met in the hospital where I used to work.”

  “You worked in a hospital?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t always a shut-in, you know.”

  “What’d you do there?”

  “Ran errands for doctors, did some filing and data entry, that sort of thing. Temp stuff. Anyway, while I was working there I met Jon. He was there part-time, until finally he established his own practice in Brooklyn, where I then decided to work. That’s where we fell in love and decided to marry.”

  I stopped massaging. “Love, huh? Sorry, no such thing.”

  “It sounds silly, but at the time I do believe we were in love. We dated off and on for a year, then two, and we used to have such a blast around the office. God, I can still remember the practical jokes, the secret make-out sessions. We even had sex on the examination table a couple times.”

  “I always wondered if doctors did that.”

  “They do. We weren’t the only ones doing it, either.”

  “Yeesh. Too much information. How old were you?”

  She considered a moment. “About twenty-four.”

  This astonished me. “Wow, so you were married, what, ten years?”

  “Eight. Seven if you disregard the year that we stopped sleeping together and fought constantly. Eventually he cheated on me and moved out. Left me the house. I’ve been here since.”

  “My marriage ended similarly. For a while it was like we were just roommates—ones that hated each other. Is that normal?”

  “I think it is. I have a couple of girlfriends who stay married even though they’re miserable. They’re basically roommates who happen to sleep with each other after some drinks. Why they stay married, I don’t know. Fear, I suppose. Being alone is scary.”

  I rubbed her shoulders another moment then started back to my seat, but she rose and placed her palms on my chest in a kind of push, gently sending me toward the countertop. She pursued, and when I was leaning against the counter, she pressed into me.

  I could smell her luxurious hair, her skin, her makeup, even the lotion she used on her hands. Intoxicating. It had been so long since I’d held a woman.

  “I’m lonely,” she whispered, as if that explained everything; in a way, it did.

  I held her closer. “So am I.”

  “Do you want to go upstairs?”

  Panic shot through me. “Would we…?”

  She slapped me playfully. “We’re not going to sleep together, you jerk. Not yet, anyway. What do you take me for, a tramp?”

  “No! I don’t think you’re a tramp. But I’m feeling a bit clumsy at the moment. I can’t remember the last time I did this.”

  She chuckled. “At least you’re honest.”

  She took my hand and led me upstairs.

  This wasn’t my reality. My reality was one of solitude, regularity, order. This kind of experience didn’t happen. I imagined myself waking after a period of hibernation, like a bear emerging from its cave. It felt divine.

  The hall was dark as we passed by James’s bedroom. A dim light glowed under the door.

  I pointed, whispering, “Is he awake?”

  She nodded dismissively. “Norma cleaned and bathed him earlier, and I fed him dinner before you arrived. He likes to read at night. He’s fine. Come on, you can talk to him later.”

  I assented, allowing myself to be guided down the hall. But at the last moment there came a sound, which I swore was two muffled voices, coming from James’s room. I tried listening but it was gone instantly.

  We entered her bedroom and she closed the door. For a moment we stood in total darkness. Out of nowhere, the image of Celeste—undead Celeste, the one from James’s closet—popped into my head. I imagined her standing in the corner, that horrible mouth of hers yawning wide, waiting patiently for us to get into bed. Then she’d pounce on us, suck us into the cosmic void, the event horizon—

  Annabelle switched on a little bedside lamp and the room flickered with light, and with relief I observed every corner was empty. Annabelle took my hand again, lying on the bedspread, drawing me down beside her. I was on my back, staring up at the knotted wood beams on the ceiling. Her scent was strong here. She curled into the crook of my arm, resting her head on my chest. I could hear the cycle of her breath. It seemed she had no lustful agenda, no ulterior motive. She sincerely did not want to have sex. She wanted to… cuddle.

  I was relieved, as well as disappointed. I possessed the impulse to have sex, but who knew what problems that would stir up? The more I thought about it, the crazier it sounded.

  I focused on the moment. Her body weight pressed against me. She felt soft and warm in my arms. Her scent, the gentle whiss-whiss of her breath. Heaven, I thought, closing my eyes. The words flowed through my head. I gave in to the exhaustion tailing me since my arrival.

  I slept.

  Chapter Five

  Voices. Yes, voices. But not mine. Not Annabelle’s. James’s voice. And somebody else. Female. I listened closer. Familiar. But where…? Then I realized.

  My blood went cold.

  Annabelle had rolled off me during the night, so climbing out of bed unnoticed was easy.

  I stood in the middle of her room, forgetting myself, forgetting where I was. Then I heard the voices again—James’s and the other, the one I somehow recognized.

  I left, heading down the hall, and paused before his door, palms sweating. Yellow light seeped out under the frame.

  That can’t be her, I thought. Impossible. Even if it were possible, James wouldn’t do that. He’s my friend. Bringing her here would torture me.

  But I listened… and it sounded like her. There was no mistaking it.

  That’s fucking her!

  I grasped the handle, thrusting the door open. Light blinded me, but I barreled into the room, driven by rage and contempt.

  “Where is she?”

  The violence in my voice surprised me. Realizing I could wake Annabelle if I wasn’t careful, I lowered to a whisper. “I know she’s here. I heard her fucking voice.”

  My eyes adjusted and the room became clear. I saw James sitting up in his bed, the sheets pulled about his shoulders, more sheets and blankets piled around him, so that he appeared to be encased in a kind of structure. The most unsettling thing was the way the mountain of bedclothes appeared to move occasionally, humping up and down, as if insects scuttled underneath.

  He grinned at me, his face in shadows, his big eyes sagging. His hair stood out to all ends, giving him the appearance of being electrocuted. He looked thin and haggard, the remnants of a beard marring his cheeks.

  I glanced to either side, searching. Gathering up my courage, I marched to the closet door, flung it open, and—

  —jumped back at the sight of Celeste’s decaying corpse slouched in the corner.

  James tittered behind me.

  He’s lost his mind.

  I wondered if I too had gone mad, for on closer inspection the closet revealed no Celeste, no withered corpse, no stars or yawning black infinities. I’d mistaken a pile of boxes and old clothing for a dead woman.

  James roared with laughter. “You’ll have a heart attack yet!” he blared.

  I wheele
d from the closet, anger boiling. “Where is she?”

  “What’s it to you? She’s not your wife anymore. The matter no longer concerns you.”

  I watched as another sudden twitch ran through the pile of blankets, making them ripple. James was giving me that typical, unconcerned expression I remembered so well, but it occurred to me that he was only playacting, trying to divert my attention away from the movements in the sheets.

  “Come on, you’re crazy,” he said. “Have a seat, let’s talk. It’s time we discussed this.” He started coughing then, a deathly sound that wracked his frame and oozed phlegm.

  My attention remained on the blankets. Great bulges rose and fell. One hump closer to James appeared in constant motion, bobbing with vigorous enthusiasm.

  “What’s that? What’s going on there?” I demanded.

  “It’s nothing,” he replied. But suddenly he threw his head back, arched up, and released a salacious moan that made my hair stand on end. His dark eyes went black and bulging, his mouth wide, tongue half out.

  I couldn’t stand this. It was making me ill. I had to know what was under the blankets. I rushed forward, grabbing the sheets in my hand, yanking them off the bed. They came away too easily, and I nearly lost my balance.

  I stepped back, my jaw dropped. For the next few seconds I tried convincing myself that I was still asleep, dreaming, that eventually I’d awake and none of this would be real.

  “Jesus,” I heard myself whisper.

  James tilted his head. He looked psychotic. His eyeballs jutted out of his skull. “Eh, what’s that, Jesus you say?” He chuckled. “I hope this ain’t a case of no atheists in a foxhole. I won’t believe it. Not Roger Borough. Not—”

  He broke off to release another morbid groan, and his thin body began to quiver. A line of drool graced his chin. I’d realized the cause of his orgasmic fluttering, and in horror my brain went numb, deactivated.

  Jenny Morgan—my ex-wife, the woman I’d lived with for five years, had loved, yet still loved, but also hated—was lying on her stomach, her head in James’s lap. Nude and young—not as old as she should be—her skin like I remembered: pale, milky, taut. Her blonde hair that reached almost to her lower back framed her head and spilled out across the mattress.

  James was naked from the waist down. The sight of his wiry legs, boney knees, and sickly skin unnerved me. It was no mystery what Jenny was up to with the eager bobbing of her head. I felt nauseous, but I also felt myself getting aroused, which was terrible. I’d fallen asleep earlier with my clothes on, and so I bent forward slightly now, trying to conceal the front of my jeans.

  “What’s the matter, getting excited?” James crooked.

  My eyes darted to him, my face flushing. “You bastard. What do you think you’re doing? What the fuck is going on?”

  He arched his body, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Paralyzed, I watched for several seconds as the act was completed. Then he pulled the sheet across his nakedness.

  Jenny turned toward me. “Hey Roger,” she said, smiling. “Long time no see. Have you been thinking about me?”

  “He sure has,” James said. “Bozo hasn’t moved on a bit. He’s even got my old childhood friend over here in bed, but all he can think about is Jenny, Jenny, Jenny.”

  I covered my ears. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I dropped down on my knees like a child.

  Jenny’s smile widened. “How good of you, dear. Just as Mommy would have it.”

  My skin broke out in goosebumps all over. I felt my entire world flying apart. She called herself that—Mommy—when she was feeling horny, or sated, or sentimental, or whatever. I’d found it disturbing then… but there were times I’d gotten into it.

  She sat upright in the bed, golden-blonde hair spilling down her shoulders, her eyes piercing, her bare breasts exposed. She didn’t appear the way she should; she was too youthful, like a woman in her early twenties, and her face shimmered with light.

  She opened her arms to me, saying, “Come, my dear. Come to Mommy.”

  I fought the impulse to obey. “No! I don’t believe you’re real.”

  “Of course I’m real,” she said. “Come over here. Find out how real I am.”

  “But… But I…” The words almost wouldn’t come. All I felt was the delirium of my emotions. “…I just watched you giving head to my best friend! And now you expect me to forgive you? Fuck you!”

  She giggled playfully. “You know that doesn’t mean anything to me. Don’t you miss me, honey? I miss you.”

  God, I did miss her. Every agonizing day for the last fourteen years, I had missed her. I could feel all the loneliness and frustration surging its way through my veins, animating me. I wanted to release it, once and for all. I wanted to be free.

  “That’s right,” Jenny crooned, opening her arms wider. “Come and give your burdens to Mommy.”

  In spite of everything, I found myself rising to my feet, shuffling like a scolded child toward her. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care what she had done with James. I wanted to collapse into her arms, to let all my problems melt away, to finally die.

  I’d barely reached the bed when James shot forward and shoved Jenny onto her side. It was such a violent act, unlike that of a mortally sick man, that it shocked me back to reality. Jenny pitched over to the right, her naked backside rearing up, and that—no, it couldn’t be Jenny. No matter how much I wanted to believe, I just couldn’t. The Jenny in my head, the one I thought about, despised, and yet longed for, the version of her forever preserved in her twenties—the version lying on the bed before me—that Jenny didn’t exist. Not anymore.

  All that existed was it… the thing behind the veil of reality.

  The room darkened, grow smaller. The walls, floor, and ceiling disappeared, replaced by a depthless and black infinity extending everywhere. We floated in a bubble of dark air, somewhere in the outermost reaches of space. I could even see stars flickering and a few lonely planets.

  James and my ex-wife now clung to the bed, as though to a raft, the mattress bucking and heaving beneath them. I could still hear James’s horrible laughter. Jenny was prostrate, her arms spread to either side, clutching the box spring.

  She screamed, “What is this? What’s happening? Help me, Roger. Help me! Get me off this—”

  I drew my limbs inward, curling my knees underneath my body and clutching at my chest. I tried to slow my heartbeat, focusing on my breath. I was invisible, not actually there.

  The universe trembled. Stars shook, blackness quivered, planets rolled away, and James laughed his shrill, unsettling laugh, cutting through the air with his voice. I saw him on the bed, exposed from the waist down. He had climbed onto Jenny, was perching above her. He had his hands around her neck, throttling, bashing her forehead against the mattress.

  “Help me, Roger, for God’s sake! You’re my husband and you’re just sitting there like a baby! Mommy needs help—”

  I put my fingers in my ears. Now there was muffled silence, like being inside an underground tunnel. I watched as the air started to distort, to resemble a stretched-out plastic bag. Stars began moving as if in a tractor beam, and the planets veered wildly off course. I saw a great blotch of stardust and space debris disperse into gigantic smoke clouds.

  When I looked at James, my insides froze. The thing behind the veil of reality—the Time Eater—was pulsing through him, pouring out of him into the room. Suddenly I understood. Oh my god, the thing has him. He’s possessed!

  I shivered at the realization, as James’s eyes went wide and black, like a demon’s. His teeth poked out unnaturally from his mouth. His sickly skin appeared transparent and it had taken on a darker tinge, which I realized was the thing itself, shining out through his body.

  A shadowy presence, perceptible in the scant starlight, moved above us like a giant storm cloud passing overhead. In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse: black, misshapen, blob-like. Stars and planets lodged within its massive form, assi
milated by it, being digested.

  The thing on the bed that used to be James threw back its head, baying at the sky like a dog, then suddenly this picture exploded into a thousand pieces, all dark and fluttering. Insects composed of the darkness itself swarmed around Jenny, dragging her into the swirling cosmic depths. She looked me in the eyes, extending her hand before vanishing into the churning black quicksand.

  I lost touch with my body, my consciousness, and descended into a womb-like pit. In no time, I’d forgotten myself completely.

  Chapter Six

  When I snapped back to life, James was sitting upright, a shadow, a shade. Every patch of darkness in the room was accentuated by the yellow glare coming in through the curtains and spotlighting on the bed. I got up from the floor, my limbs aching, and felt a wave of nausea.

  “Rough night?” James asked, not looking at me. His attention was trained on the battered old paperback he was reading.

  I shook my head, as if to free it of dust. “What time is it?”

  He remained quiet, then suddenly flung the book away in disgust. I picked it up and glanced at the cover. A collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry. I owned a copy of the exact same edition. Flipping open the pages, the book parted at a section that was heavily dog-eared. Without meaning to, I found myself reciting the verses:

  “It was many and many a year ago

  In a kingdom by the sea

  That a maiden there lived whom you may know

  By the name of Annabel Lee;

  And this maiden she lived with no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.”

  “I was never into poetry,” James said. “I think it’s dumb.”

  “Well, I happen to like it,” I said.

  “You would.”

  The silence grew longer between us and was interrupted only by a honking car or chirping bird from outside. I set the paperback down and dug in my heels, prepared to wait this out. Finally, James glanced at his alarm clock and said, “It’s six-thirty. Early. Most of New York is asleep or heading to work.”