Deep Night

by Greg F. Gifune

  Once he’d stepped outside, he leaned his head back and let the light rain wash over him. The rain always made him feel reborn and cleansed, and this time was no exception. But the feeling abandoned him once he opened his eyes, wiped the rainwater from them and focused again on the street and those moving along it. The lonely and the lost, the unaware and the distracted, hurrying to nowhere, isolated even in the midst of brethren, blind mice all, running through an endless maze few even realized they were trapped in. He remembered Peanuts, a gerbil he’d had as a boy, and how he’d watch the little creature burrow through the shavings in his cage, or run on his spinning wheel, curious as to whether he knew where he was in the universe. Could he tell the difference between the confines of the cage he’d been placed in and the vast outside world? Did he ever wonder what else there might be out there, even beyond those times when Raymond would take him out of the cage and hold him, pet him, and let him run around the bedroom? In the end, did he care?

  Something blinked through Raymond’s mind, a flash like the sharpened blade of an enormous, military-style knife, glinting, reflecting a sparkle of light.

  As the vision dissipated, Raymond stepped from the curb and crossed the street purposefully, his feet splashing puddles as he went.

  It had been a year since the night at the cabin. Avoidance was no longer an option.

  He had to go back. He knew that now. He had no choice.

  CHAPTER 4

  Something insignificant triggered the memories, and they returned in mosaic. The recollections became stronger, more vivid and exact, until a single memory had burrowed into the forefront of his mind and taken hold.

  Snowflakes.

  Tell me what you see, Seth.

  The stillness of deep night disturbed, he came awake as if shaken. The only other people in the room were fast asleep and could not have jostled him, and yet, he was certain someone had done just that. His eyes scanned the area as best he could from a prone position: shadows, moonlight—nothing more. But just beyond the darkness there was something more. Something he could not quite touch, see, or even hear, but it was there. It was there.

  He held his breath, went still and listened carefully. In time, sounds emerged from the silence, soft noises he hadn’t before noticed, like audible whispers occasionally breaking through a low hiss of static. Movement. He was sure they were sounds of movement. Subtle movement. Stealth movement.

  Just outside the door? Or were the sounds closer? Were they inside?

  Puzzlement graduated to crazed terror. His heart crashed his chest and his body, in seizure, snapped rigid as a board. With great effort he managed to open his mouth, but all he could summon were muffled grunts and groans.

  The noises (were they footsteps?) grew louder, bolder. Closer.

  He shifted his eyes, struggling to make out as much of the room as possible. He knew his brother had been sleeping only a few feet from him earlier, but now the space sat vacant. “Raymond?”

  A vague form shifted nearby, catching his attention. It darted past his scope of vision, altering the pattern of shadow and moonlight on the far wall.

  Consumed with horror now, he again attempted to scream, but gagged out a barely audible moan instead. Was he still asleep? Could this simply be a nightmare? In some ways it felt like a dream—physically as well as psychologically—and yet he knew; he knew he was awake. He slammed shut his eyes, no longer wanting to see.

  After a moment he slowly opened them. Darkness swirled about like rolling fog. Raymond was still gone, but the others were there in the room with him, undisturbed and still asleep.

  Seth? Tell me what you see, please.

  Something had been there only seconds before, he was sure of it.

  Something malevolent. Something inhuman.

  Darkness devoured everything, but in time, his vision returned, this time focusing on a night years earlier. “I see Raymond.”

  And what is Raymond doing, Seth?

  “Running. He’s…running.”

  Are you running too?

  “Yes.”

  What else do you see?

  “Raymond’s crying. He’s completely terrified. He—He’s so frightened he’s lost control of himself.”

  Are you frightened too, Seth?

  “I don’t know, I…I mean, it’s as if I’m not really there, but yes.”

  Is it day or night?

  “Night.”

  What else do you see?

  “It’s snowing. A light, fluffy kind of snow, it’s quite beautiful, really. I try to focus on it because it’s so beautiful but…but Raymond is screaming and running and crying and he’s so lost, he’s…he’s so terrified.”

  Why is he so terrified Seth?

  “I don’t know.”

  How old is he in the dream, Seth? How old is Raymond?

  “Little, seven or eight. Eight. He’s eight.”

  And you?

  “I don’t know, I can’t see myself but…it feels like I’m young too.”

  You’re four years older than Raymond, Seth. Are you four years older than Raymond in the dream?

  “I don’t know. I think so. Yes, I—I must be. I must be twelve.”

  What else do you see?

  “We’re running. We’re running in the snow. He woke up like this, he—he had those…problems.”

  Problems?

  “I told you, he…as a child he used to have these awful night terrors. He’d wake up in the middle of the night absolutely petrified. He was just—just a little boy.”

  When did this start, Seth?

  “When he was seven or eight.”

  The same age he is in the dream.

  “Yes.”

  When was the first time, do you remember?

  “No, I…I can’t remember the first time it happened. Maybe…”

  Maybe what, Seth?

  “Maybe this is the first time.”

  But you’re not certain?

  “No, but…I think it might be.”

  Where are your parents in the dream?

  “I don’t know, I—I only know they’re not there. They can’t help us.”

  What do you see now?

  “Snow. Raymond running and crying, screaming for help and me beside him.”

  Can you see where you are?

  “No, it’s…just night. He’s running, staggering and struggling to maintain his balance in the snow.”

  Where is he running, Seth?

  “I don’t…I’m not sure.”

  Is it somewhere outside the house where you and Raymond grew up?

  “Yes, it—it must be.”

  Is this the first time, Seth? Is that what you’re seeing, the first time this happened?

  “I don’t know. It’s possible but, I—I don’t know.”

  All right. What happens next then?

  “Nothing.”

  Nothing? The dream simply goes dark?

  “Like at the end of a film, the way it…”

  Fades to black?

  “Yes.”

  Does the dream end there, Seth, in the dark?

  “Yes.”

  How many times did you find Raymond in your backyard when you were children? How many times did he sleepwalk or awaken from one of his nightmares and run from your bedroom screaming and terrified?

  “I can’t remember. It happened so many times.”

  When did it stop?

  “When we were a bit older.”

  Was this before or after the death of your parents?

  “Well before. Raymond was still very young. We both were. We were adults when our parents died.”

  And these episodes simply stopped, night terrors and all?

  “Yes.”

  He hasn’t had them since?

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I don’t see Raymond as often now, he’s always in trouble. We’ve never talked about it much as adults, but no, I don’t believe so, he—he’s never mentioned them or anything like them again.”

  What else
can you tell me about the dream?

  Seth moved his arm from across his forehead, his eyes focusing on the low ceiling overhead and a hint of her at the edge of his peripheral vision. Folding his arms across his chest like a corpse, he drew a deep breath and slid shut his eyes. Returning to the darkness was always easier somehow. “That’s all.”

  He heard her chair shift against the plush carpet, her skirt whispering as she crossed her legs. She was looking at him now—he could feel it—green eyes staring at him over those turtle shell glasses, the same small pad she always took notes on clutched in her dainty hands. “Would you rather discuss something else?” she asked in a velvety voice he had grown to love and hate all at once. Always so accommodating, she had passive-aggressiveness down to an art form. “After all, it’s not really a dream. You know that, don’t you, Seth.”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “It’s a memory.”

  “It’s not unusual to remember things,” she said, offering a thoughtful pause before completing the sentence, “in the form of dreams. Sometimes it’s easier.”

  Seth opened his eyes, shifted his focus with a turn of his head, and saw her sitting just to his right. New skirt—he hadn’t seen that one before—and new pumps, too. In the two months he’d been coming here she’d yet to wear the same outfit twice. “It was a usual occurrence back then, but lately the memories have been on my mind again.”

  “But the episodes ended as abruptly as they began, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it possible one or both of you do know what triggered these episodes, but simply cannot, or perhaps would rather not, remember?”

  “I think that’s a rather obvious possibility, yes.”

  “And as adults you’ve never discussed these episodes with your brother?”

  “No, not really.” He forced a swallow. His mouth was bone dry and he suddenly felt like sitting up, so he did. A slight headache tingled behind his eyes. He swung his feet around and settled into a sitting position. “Raymond had…problems…that’s just the way it was. During that time we never knew what might happen with him at night.” Seth rubbed his temples, looked at her then looked away. “I’ve never seen anyone so frightened.”

  “How did that make you feel, Seth? Witnessing this so often in your brother?”

  “Helpless. Frightened. Confused. All the things you’d expect.” He stared at the carpet. “My parents took him to doctors, even a psychiatrist and sleep disorder specialists, but nothing worked.”

  “Did they ever do any of those things for you, Seth?”

  He flashed a less than agreeable look. “Raymond was the one with problems.”

  “Of course, but they impacted you, did they not?” She raised an eyebrow slightly. “Certainly witnessing these things in your brother and having to live this way must have had a traumatic affect on you as well, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Doctor Farrow looked better than ever in her little skirt and matching jacket. A sheer tan blouse beneath it showed off a lacey tan bra and the swell of ample breasts. Professional but sexy, it was a look that suited her. Seth wondered why it was apparently so important for her to include sex appeal as part of her appearance. How does it make you feel? He wanted to ask. His eyes slid down her crossed legs to one foot that bobbed slightly, the pump dangling from her nylon-covered foot, her toes the only thing still holding it on. Something sexy about that too, only he wasn’t sure what exactly.

  “Seth?” she said, breaking his concentration. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  His eyes found hers. She had caught him checking her out but it didn’t seem to faze her in the least. She must’ve been used to it, a woman so attractive. She had the look of a middle-aged trophy wife, the kind of woman at home at fancy cocktail parties in exclusive social clubs; a woman who had grown up sheltered from most of the real world and who was used to being pampered in her private life even now. Spoiled, in terms less kind. But she was no empty-headed bimbo. Doc was smart, Ivy League smart. The framed diplomas on her wall told him so. She was the type of woman who could use her face and body if she wanted to, but never because she had to. Her brain was the most lethal weapon in her arsenal, if not the most immediately detectable. And in a sense, this helped to explain her somewhat cool, detached, nearly smug air. Yet when he looked at her, really looked at her, Seth could see something more, something beneath the carefully assembled veneer. He saw passion, traces of a woman who spent her days helping others, those like him, lost and trying to sort things out while sitting on a couch and talking about their childhoods, but a woman who spent the rest of her time trying to hold it all together herself. He wondered, as he often did, what she and her husband talked about during those rare, quiet, private moments. He wondered what she was like in bed. He wondered what kinds of noises she made, how her eyes looked, what the pattern of her breathing sounded like. Though he didn’t know exactly how long she’d been married, he could tell it had been a long time. Like him, it had been a long time.

  “That time had an impact on me, yes,” he finally said. “It had an impact on our entire family. How could it not?”

  “Exactly.” She let her response resonate a while. “Did Raymond ever tell you what he thought was causing his night terrors?”

  “He always claimed he didn’t know.”

  “And the doctors your parents took him to?”

  “This was several years ago. I suspect the medical profession didn’t know as much about the phenomenon of night terrors then as they do now. They gave a slew of reasons, but most had to do with Raymond either suffering some sort of post-traumatic disorder or mental illness. I never believed that, and neither did he.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Because it only happened at night.” Seth looked over at her. “People don’t go crazy at night then become completely sane and rational in the light only to go crazy again the following night.”

  “No?”

  “You’d know better than I, you’re the doctor.” Seth tried to mask his rising fear with something of a contentious smile. “But I’ve certainly never heard of such a thing.”

  “Actually, there are numerous disorders associated with darkness, some which manifest strictly at night. Many people, even adults, fear the dark, Seth.”

  “This was more than that.”

  She remained quiet a while, as if weighing the validity of his statement. “Do you think it’s fair to say that perhaps these episodes from your past, along with the death of your parents, of course, are contributing factors to what you’ve experienced since?”

  Seth fidgeted a bit. His palms had begun to sweat. “Yes.”

  “And now you think there may be a connection between these more recent memories and dreams to a vacation you and Raymond went on…” she hesitated long enough to consult her little pad, “…a year ago?”

  “I think it’s possible. I haven’t seen Raymond since then. We’ve spoken on the phone a few times and he wrote me a letter once. I’ve been concerned about him since then, I—I mean, I’m always concerned about Raymond, he…”

  “Has issues.”

  “To put it mildly.”

  “Would you like to tell me about the vacation?”

  Seth closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out images of his brother’s face that night at the cabin. “It was as if he’d lost his mind.” He took a moment to let the words take hold, and also to remind himself to edit out the events concerning Christy. They had agreed never to tell anyone about her and he wanted to keep his word. “We’d only been there a day, and that night he disappeared from the cabin for a while without any real explanation, or at least one that made sense to any of us. There was a snowstorm. It wasn’t supposed to hit until the day after we left, but the meteorologists misjudged it and it hit early, really pounded the whole area. Raymond wandered off in the middle of it.” Silence answered him, so he continued, relaying the story of that night to her in as much detail as he could recall.

  Once he finished she ask
ed, “Do you think there could be any number of reasonable explanations for what happened that night, Seth?”

  “Yes, I—I even I thought of a few myself,” he admitted, “but they never felt right. Nothing about that night felt right. Not then, not now. I’ve never been able to shake those feelings. Over time, it’s only gotten worse.”

  “Do you think perhaps it brought back some dark memories of your youth? Your brother going off in the night again, like he had as a child frightened by bad dreams?”

  “I’m sure it did.”

  She gave a subtle nod. “Let’s change gears for a moment. After the death of your parents, Raymond’s life continued to be plagued by various problems. But you eventually flourished, yes?”

  “Yes, to a degree.”

  “But Raymond did not.”

  “No.”

  Rather suddenly she said, “Were you raised in a particularly religious family?”

  “Not really. My father was a hippie. A former hippie, I suppose. He had his own way of looking at things, including religion. Mother Earth and all that.” A thoughtful moment passed before he continued. “My mother was born Catholic but became a Congregationalist when she was in her twenties. She attended church regularly, sang in the choir, that kind of thing, but I never considered her principally religious—more spiritual, really. She had a way about her, a kind of spiritual purity.”

  “What about you and Raymond?”

  “When I was a child I felt a strong connection to God. I had tremendous faith. But as an adult I became more pragmatic. Raymond was always spiritual. Then and now.”

  “Talk about that a moment.”

  Seth smiled uncomfortably. “Our Nana, our father’s mother, is the only grandparent either of us has ever known. Our mother was a change of life baby and her parents died when Ray and I were quite young, so we never knew either of them, unfortunately. Nana was the most religious person in our family, but she’s from the old country—Italy—and believes in a lot of the old ways. She and Ray were always very close, much closer than I was to her. I felt more of an attachment to traditional religion in those days, and enjoyed going to church with my mother. Nana’s beliefs and eccentricities were better suited to Raymond than me. She used to say he was ‘special.’”