Drawn

by James Hankins

  Boone knew he was going fully mad.

  That was when the first picture flew from the wall. It didn’t fall; it sailed from its hook, spinning through the air, slamming Boone in his right leg. He never saw it coming, but he sure as hell felt it gouge his shin. He didn’t see the second one either until it banged off his hip. The third caught him in his chest. Then he was on his knees, his arms over his head.

  Pictures bounced off his arms, his neck, his back. Voices, human and mechanical, screamed threats at him. Boone couldn’t live like this. Sure, whatever was attacking him would run out of pictures, but it would find plenty of other objects around the apartment to hurl at him. Boone could unplug the devices screaming at him, but he was frighteningly sure that it wouldn’t quiet the voices. Even if he tossed the devices out the window, he’d still hear the voices. Somehow, he was certain of it.

  Another picture sailed across the edge of his vision and he turned as it bounced off his shoulder and hit the wall by the door, the glass cracking. Boone had had enough. He began to crawl toward the door. The voices followed.

  “…only death, waits for, you, and always, never-ending, pain, he will come, for you, will get, you…”

  “…the Devil is right behind you…he has his yellow eyes on you…you will burn, burn, burn…”

  “…N, H, N, H, N, H, N, H, N, H…”

  Fists and feet pounded on his door and his walls and his ceiling.

  Considering his ruined eyesight and the broken glass littering the floor, Boone should have crawled with more caution, but he wanted out and he wanted out now. He was lucky to avoid slicing his palms and knees as, finally, he bumped into the door. He reached up and turned the knob as a framed photo crashed into the door just above his head. In one quick motion, he stood, yanked open the door, and threw himself into the hall, slamming the door shut behind him. He heard another picture smash against the door inside, then there was nothing but dead silence coming from his apartment.

  “Who the hell are you fighting with in there?” Mrs. Lang asked.

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody? Well, somebody was throwing things around in there. I don’t care if they turned all that stuff off, I’m gonna call the cops. I’m tired of this.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Mrs. Lang. It’s over.”

  “Yeah, you said that last night.”

  “This time I mean it.”

  He couldn’t see her face but he felt her scrutinizing him.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He touched his forehead.

  “Other side,” she said.

  It didn’t feel too bad. Little more than a scratch, though he knew that forehead cuts bled more than most other kinds, so it probably looked a lot worse than it was.

  “You should put some ice on that,” she said without offering to provide some. As she turned away, she said, “Anything like this happens again, I’m calling the cops right away.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  A voice came from down the hall. “I’m gonna to talk to the landlord,” Mr. Goditis said. “I want you out of here.” A door slammed.

  Boone dabbed at his wounded forehead with his sleeve. Join the club.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  NATHAN WAS TIRED. Tired of frozen TV dinners, tired of his new clock, tired of the refrigerator’s hum and the bathroom faucet’s drip. Tired of relying on chess with Burt for his only entertainment. Burt was a decent guy, but he stunk at chess. Besides, Burt had his own life. Nathan had started to wonder lately if Burt wasn’t spending time with Nathan to be charitable to a neighbor who had no one else. Maybe he was giving Burt too much credit, but maybe not.

  Anyway, Nathan was tired. The problem was, he couldn’t sleep. He wanted to, needed to, but he couldn’t. The messages he’d been receiving from Jeremy—wherever he was, and if they were indeed messages—came to him in his sleep. He just hadn’t figured out what the message was yet. So he needed another one. But he couldn’t get it while he was awake. And he couldn’t make himself fall asleep. He was too tense to sleep. There seemed to be too much at stake. Jeremy needed help. He was lost and some man-monster was after him. But Nathan couldn’t help him if he didn’t know where to go. And he wouldn’t know where to go if Jeremy didn’t send another dream message, but Nathan needed to sleep to be able to receive such a message, so his mind spun, just kept spinning, spinning, and spinning, while he tossed and turned in twisted bed sheets, waiting for a distress call that wouldn’t come.

  Part of the problem was that the sun had barely set. He never slept this early. Maybe a catnap now and then, but Nathan generally stayed up late for a man his age. This was simply too early. Sure, he was tired, but it was too early and he was too worked up to sleep.

  He sighed. Burt’s television was on too loud next door. Somebody was hawking a revolutionary new set of frying pans on some home-shopping network. Nathan heard a laugh through the wall. Cassie, Burt’s wife, had a nice laugh, throaty and genuine. Burt was a lucky guy. Not that Nathan had designs on Cassie, but Burt had made a good life for himself. Good wife, good kids, probably never had trouble sleeping.

  Nathan opened his eyes. No, Burt never had trouble sleeping.

  NATHAN KNOCKED ON Burt’s door. A moment later, the door opened and Cassie stood just inside, her hand on the knob and a smile on her face.

  “Hey there, Nathan,” she said. “Looking for Burt?”

  “Is he around?”

  “You kidding me? Unless he’s playing chess with you, he’s always around. Can’t seem to get him out of my hair.”

  She smiled and moved aside so Nathan could step into the apartment. Nathan was struck, as he always was, how similar it was to his own place, yet still so very different. Though their floor plans were identical, his apartment felt like a tomb, while Burt’s felt alive—in a good way, though, not in a creepy, haunted house kind of way. No, there was a heartbeat to this home, a pulse, vital signs not evident in Nathan’s apartment.

  “Company, Burt,” Cassie called. “Come with me, Nathan. Maybe you can stop him from buying that stupid frying pan.”

  Nathan followed Cassie into the living room, where Burt had a phone in one hand and a credit card in the other.

  “So help me, Burt,” Cassie said, “if you buy that thing you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week. We don’t need a new frying pan.”

  “But this one’s got this new surface on it,” Burt said. “It’s like magic the way stuff slides right off.”

  “It’s called Teflon,” Cassie replied, “and it’s been around forever.”

  “But this one—”

  Cassie snatched the credit card from Burt’s fingers, smacked him playfully on top of his head with it, then excused herself before heading into the kitchen.

  “Have a seat, Nathan,” Burt said. “You got your wallet on you?” he added in a whisper.

  Nathan said, “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Well, have a seat anyway. They got a new kind of mop coming up for sale soon. Looks amazing.”

  “Actually, Burt, I just dropped over for a second. I was wondering whether you still have any of those sleeping pills you had a while back. Remember? You weren’t sleeping because of your sciatica? The doc gave you some sleeping pills, right?”

  “Sure, I remember. Got some left, too. Problem worked itself out before I had to take them all. Why? You having trouble sleeping?” He leaned forward and added in a whisper, “Is it the dreams?”

  Nathan paused, then figured sympathy was the way to go with Burt. “Those nightmares are making it hard to sleep well and I’m feeling stretched pretty thin right now. I could really use a couple of nights of solid sleep, you know?”

  “Say no more. Be right back.”

  Burt let out an impressive groan as he climbed out of his recliner, then disappeared into his bedroom.

  “So how are things, Nathan?” Cassie called from the kitchen.

  “Good enough, I suppose. Thanks for asking.”

&nbs
p; Burt returned shaking a little brown prescription bottle. Nathan heard a few pills rattling around inside.

  “Not sure how many are in here,” Burt said, “but you only take one a day, okay? I used to take one half an hour before bed and I wouldn’t wake up until Cassie shook me awake the next morning.” He dropped his voice. “I peed the bed a little one night, I was out so cold.”

  Nathan took the bottle from him and slipped it into his pocket.

  “I appreciate this,” he said.

  “You deserve a good sleep. You’ll feel a lot better in the morning. I guarantee it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “Just one of those pills is enough, remember.”

  “Gotcha. Good night.”

  “Sleep tight.”

  Nathan bade good night to Cassie. As the door closed behind him, Nathan heard Burt say, “Cassie, get in here. You’re not gonna believe this mop they got on TV.”

  BACK IN HIS apartment, Nathan sat on the side of his bed. He shook one of Burt’s sleeping pills from the bottle into his palm and stared at it. Then he shook out a second pill and downed them both with a gulp of water from one of the Dixie cups he kept in the bathroom. He lay back, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. He wondered if Burt had bought that fancy new mop. What could be so amazing about a mop? Well, if Burt indeed ordered one, he’d be knocking on Nathan’s door the day it arrived to show him what it could do. Seriously, though, hadn’t mankind reached the limits of mop technology? Maybe not. Nathan didn’t keep current on such things. He barely paid attention to such things. Mop technology…frying pans…his mind was getting foggy.…

  NATHAN IS SPINNING, tumbling, rolling through water, banging off a rock, then a log, grabbing for purchase, his fingers digging into soft, mossy bark, too slippery though, and he’s off down the river again, out of control. He gasps, goes under, comes up briefly and sucks for more air but takes in too much water. He’s choking on it, filling his lungs with it, and he’s dying, he knows it for sure, this is where he dies.

  It doesn’t matter, he realizes, because even if he makes it to the riverbank, the man-monster behind him, the one that has been getting closer with every powerful stroke he takes, cutting through the water with inhuman speed, the monster is right behind him, will catch him the moment he drags himself onto land. And he will kill Nathan. But he’s not Nathan just then, he realizes; he’s far younger, and he’s wearing a camouflage utility uniform again. He must be Jeremy. And Jeremy must not die. He renews his fight against the current. Jeremy must not die.

  Suddenly, the world opens. The river empties into a lake. The current slows and Nathan/Jeremy drifts for a moment, on his back, catching his breath. He remembers the man-monster behind him and strokes, kicks, paddles over to the lake’s edge, crawling through mud until he collapses on land. He raises his eyes to the trees, where he hopes he’ll find safety. Looming above the forest, though still miles away, is a castle, a castle he vaguely remembers seeing before, its walls soaring higher than any castle walls could possibly soar. The castle scares him. It shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t want to go to the castle.

  He has to move. He has to get out of the water. There’s a monster in the water with him. He rolls over, waterlogged and weak-limbed, and pushes to his feet. He’s about to stumble-run into the nearby woods when something catches his eye, something across the lake. It’s a small spit of land with a crooked tree at its end, the tree looking like an old man bent by time, hanging over the water, peering into its depths. It’s not something most people would even notice. But Nathan does. He’s seen it a thousand times and he knows now where he is, knows that he’s on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. He can see that tree just down the shoreline from the windows of the kitchen in the house he built with his own two hands. His family vacation home.

  A great splashing draws his attention to the lake again, where something is breaking the surface, something huge and terrible. Like a creature from a horror movie, the man-monster rises from the water, covered in muck and draped in brown-green roots and vines, blood flowing from its torn cheek. Nathan turns and scrambles for the woods as the man-thing behind him bellows its rage and makes for land.

  NATHAN OPENED HIS eyes. He blinked stupidly at his bedroom ceiling, uncertain how he’d gotten from the lake in New Hampshire to his bedroom in Connecticut.

  It was a dream.

  Was he still asleep?

  No, but it felt like it. The room was a bit foggy. He rubbed his eyes but the room stayed foggy. And his head was foggy.

  The sleeping pills. That was why he was having trouble shaking off sleep. He’d taken one of Burt’s sleeping pills. No, wait…two pills. Maybe he should have listened to Burt. Maybe one pill would have been a better idea.

  But it worked. He’d fallen asleep and Jeremy had found him again in his dreamscape. Nathan knew where he had to go. Finally, after so many years, it was time to go home. To his family’s vacation home in New Hampshire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  BOONE STOOD INSIDE the vestibule of his apartment building, leaning against the tenants’ tarnished brass mailboxes. He looked through the glass in the door, out at the street, but of course he could see very little. He started to sweat.

  After escaping his apartment with a minor cut on his forehead and a few bruises on his back and legs, Boone was loath to return to the site of what had felt like the final scene in the movie Poltergeist. But if he had any hope of doing what he planned to try, he had to go back in. He had opened the door a crack, then a little wider, and finally wide enough for a picture to sail through the opening and break his nose if the ghost or spirit or entity or whatever the hell it was wanted to renew its attack. It was during moments like that—when he was half expecting to be hit in the face by a flying picture frame that he’d almost certainly never see coming—that Boone was particularly frustrated about being nearly blind. Fortunately, moments like that were rare.

  He opened the door farther.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing. No recorded or mechanical or broadcasted voice threatening him. It was as if they knew they had won.

  In a matter of minutes, Boone had packed a change of clothes into a small gym bag, grabbed his wallet and cell phone from a bookshelf, locked up his apartment, and walked downstairs.

  He wished Kenny were there. He’d called the bar but some guy named Dennis answered, said he was watching the bar for Kenny, who had to go home because his wife had called. So Boone had to do this alone.

  It was time to step outside. He was sweating even harder now. He opened the door and stepped down to the sidewalk. He took a deep breath. It made him dizzy. He walked down to the corner of Broadway and Second Street. People passed by, taking little notice of him standing now with his back pressed firmly against the brick building, like a man who suddenly found himself standing on a narrow ledge fifty stories above the street without any idea how he got there. His eyes were squeezed shut. Adrenaline pumped through him so hard he thought it might start squirting out his ears. His heart was beating a dangerous rhythm.

  Finally, he opened his eyes—which didn’t do much to improve his vision, of course, and for once he was actually grateful for that. He took a step toward the street and instantly lost another gallon of sweat. One more step and his knees buckled. Someone stepped around him and kept walking. Someone else stopped beside him.

  “You okay there?” a man asked.

  No, I’m dying here.

  Boone managed to nod. “I’m okay,” he said, though it came out more as a croak. “I’m okay. Thanks…I’m fine.”

  After a brief moment, the man moved on.

  Boone drew in a breath, tried to stand, fell onto one knee, then simply started crawling toward the curb. With every foot he drew nearer, his breathing became more labored, his vision grew dimmer, his limbs got weaker, his sweat dripped more copiously, and his heart thundered louder. He began to see gray spots dancing in the little area of sight that remained to him.
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br />   Someone else asked if he was okay. He nodded and vomited on the sidewalk. The person hurried away. Boone kept crawling. He felt feverish. He was actually burning up. This must have been what hellfire felt like. He retched again. He was dying. He was sure of it. He crawled another two feet and actually began to pray that he would start dying.

  The air grew thick, far too thick to allow Boone to take a breath. Dear God, how could anyone breathe in this?

  Boone didn’t even know that he was lying on his stomach now, inching himself forward like a soldier crawling on his belly through enemy crossfire. His fingers dug into the cracks in the sidewalk. His head was pounding. His mouth was full of wool. His heart was beating hard enough to crack a rib. He reached out and touched the curb. He was there. He was at the street.

  He was totally blind.

  He couldn’t see a thing. He opened his eyes wide and saw nothing. The peripheral vision in his left eye, which was all he had, was gone. It wasn’t uncommon in a panic attack to lose one’s peripheral vision and experience tunnel vision. But if all you have is peripheral vision, such an occurrence would leave you blind.

  So Boone was blind. And it was a far more scary sensation—or lack thereof—than anything he had experienced up in his apartment.

  Boone was about to start crawling back to the safety of the wall behind him when he sensed someone’s presence beside him.

  “You dead?” someone asked. Sounded like a teenager, maybe.

  At first, Boone couldn’t respond. He could barely take a breath. He gave a slight shake of his head.

  “You hurt?” the kid asked.

  Another small shake.

  “S’matter with you, then?”

  Without raising his head, Boone said weakly, “I’m blind.”

  “Blind? How come you can’t walk?”

  Boone gasped, then sucked in a wheezing breath.

  “Or breathe?” the kid added.