Grimm Reapings

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Grimm Reapings Page 13

by R. Patrick Gates


  Like a film projectionist in a movie theater, peeking at a film of his life through the small square window, Steve Nailer watches as his body moves through the night as though wading through water. He is riveted to the scene, horrified and fervently hoping its all just a dream. With a growing sense of panic he becomes aware of a tugging feeling and realizes he can sense vague emotions and thoughts of someone in his head who is controlling his body. He is helpless as the sensations of the strange intelligence in his body wash over him. He feels invisible and ... dangerous. He feels a sense of urgency, of seeking for something lost ... no, not lost, just something needing to be found. Suddenly he can hear music and childish laughter in his head. Even more disturbing, an odor so delicious it makes his mouth water, filling his olfactory sense with pleasure. He wallows in the smell until he realizes it is the smell of a child that he is finding so delectable.

  He is instantly reviled by the knowledge, yet his body is tempted beyond resistance at the same time. He can almost taste the coppery sweet tang of human flesh and blood. The sensation brings disgust and self-loathing at the same time that he feels an overpowering craving.

  The movie changes scenes and he is outside a vague dwelling, a house in shadows whose only illumination is a single square of light cast by a small, ground floor window. He knows this place-he woke in this same spot just nights ago. The sweet smell of a child is strong, as enticing and heartwarming as the aroma of a holiday dinner. He watches as his body seems to glide to the window, drawn to the light like a blood-sucking insect. He is just tall enough-strangely taller than normal-to see over the casement and inside.

  Rachel!

  The alien mind knows it is the name of the girl who pirouettes around the tiny bedroom he voyeuristically peeks into.

  Rachel!

  He fights but cannot help but share a horrid thought: even her name sounds delicious. Fight as he might, he cannot make his body obey, but must watch, sharing sense and emotion as it carries out acts not of his will.

  Jackie dreamed he was on a movie set. A Civil War battle was being filmed. He looked around, completely comfortable in the dream's reality, which had him convinced that he'd been working in the film industry for years. The director-who had Director printed on the front and back of his T-shirt, ball cap, and upon the canvas-backed chair in which he satpointed at Jackie. He turned and there was a massive machine next to him, alive with electricity and sparks of light like something out of a Frankenstein movie.

  "Cue rain!" the director yelled. Jackie pulled a long black lever that suddenly appeared in his hand. From two large speakers on top of the fantastic machine an incredibly low bass note boomed, so deep it shook his very bones. From the speakers, he could see the sound waves emanating in massive ripples in the air. The ripples reached the sky and black clouds immediately started to form. Lightning flashed and within seconds it was raining.

  Jackie stood, head flung back, mouth open catching raindrops, when he felt a thrum deep inside the machine. He put both hands on the weird metal that was warm and soft to his touch, like human skin, and felt the pulse again, and again, repeating in a rhythm much like ... a heartbeat!

  This thing is alive!

  Jackie took a step back from the contraption, suddenly feeling it was something he was very familiar with.

  "That's quite a gadget you got there," someone behind him said-a woman's voice. "But you can give it back now." Hands grabbed his shoulders in a viselike grip and shook him. He spun around angrily to face his attacker and immediately paled, his breath exploding from his lungs as if he'd just been sucker punched in the gut.

  Eleanor Grimm stood behind him, smiling. Next to her was his brother, Steve.

  Under the back doormat of the house his body finds a key.

  Steve Nailer watches, helpless, as his hands deftly pick the key up and insert it in the lock. Like a cameraman following an actor in a scene, he follows, involuntarily mute and horrified, yet tantalized in the same breath, sharing a sense of anticipation that is not his own. The house is dark, yet bright with sounds and smells: snoring-the stench of a fat alcoholicthe drone of a late-night newscast-the stale odor of onions and hamburger-the hum of the refrigerator-the stink of rodent shit underneath it. From the lit room comes the sound of bubblegum pop music as Britney Spears reaches out to another troubled little girl.

  The sweet smell of young flesh.

  His body passes a bedroom, and deep inside his head he experiences the Doppler effect as it goes by. A clear image of a beer-bellied, bald, middle-aged alcoholic passed out from too much cheap beer flits by. The door at the end of the hall is the only one his body is interested in. There the usurping mind will find what it needs. There it will find the balm to soothe the itch that torments it and makes it squirm. There it will finally find-he shudders at the thought-sustenance.

  His body smacks his lips and opens the door

  Jackie woke in a cold sweat, his roommate shaking his shoulder.

  `Jack, it's nine-ten. Don't you have a final at ninethirty?"

  "Oh, shit!" Jackie leaped from bed, threw on the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before, grabbed his book bag, and charged headlong from the dorm, running at breakneck speed across campus to the science building, making it just in time.

  "That was a disaster," he said to Chalice when he came out of the exam. She was sitting in the corridor, outside the zoology lab, waiting for him and reading. "How'd yours go?"

  "Not bad," she answered. "It was multiple choice. I was able to guess an' cross out the ones I knew was wrong. I'll pass."

  "I wish I could be so confident."

  "Don't wish it, just be it."

  Jackie knew she was referring to more than just his lack of confidence concerning his finals; she knew of the book offer and his self-doubts concerning his abilities.

  "Your problem is ya obsess over things," Chalice continued. "I knowya can do anything ya put ya mind to-yah, that's a cliche but it's true in this case. But, on the other hand, if ya gonna ruin your life and flunk outta school over it, then call the guy and tell 'em ya can't do it-or let the ghostwriter do it and like the song says, take the fuckin' money and run. Ain't no shame in that, right?"

  Jackie shook his head in disagreement. "Yeah, there is shame in that. You know I want to be writer. I can't let someone else do it. I'll never build any confidence in my writing that way. And I think obsessing is a little strong, don't you? Can't I worry about it without it being an obsession?"

  "Sure," Chalice answered. "But there's a fine line between worryin' and obsessin'. But, really, ya don't even have anything to worry about. I seen ya short stories and they are wicked good. And that paper ya wrote for ya psych class on serial killers was gruesome! Really, Jackie, I seen what ya can do and ya can do this."

  "Yeah ... I know." He had to agree with her; deep down he knew it was true.

  "So what're ya 'fraid of?" Chalice persisted.

  Jackie looked into her eyes, ready to shrug and admit he didn't know, when the answer came to him, sending chills across the back of his head.

  "The witch," he said softly.

  Chalice started to laugh, but saw he wasn't kidding. "I don't get it. She's dead, ain't she? She can't hurtcha anymore.

  "I know. I guess it's like how I felt when it was on TV. I'm not sure I'm ready to drag up the past and relive it so that I can write this thing. Not to mention the research I'm going to have to do into Eleanor Grimm's life. And, to tell the truth, I'm not sure I want to get to know her that well. I've spent thirteen years trying to get her out of my memories-outta my headnow I've got to invite her back in? I don't know if I can do it."

  "You're givin' me the creeps," Chalice said. They were walking to the cafeteria for lunch, and she hugged his arm for warmth even though it was a mild day for December. "Ya talk about her like she was still alive, or ... or ... like if ya do this ya might bring her back somehow? That's weird."

  "Yeah, I guess that's the crux of it," Jackie agreed. "Doing this would
feel like I was bringing her back to life."

  "Ya know ya talkin' crazy, don'tcha, boy?" Chalice asked, assuming a redneck, southern accent. "We's gonna haffa call da men in da white coats and havum take you to da funny farm!"

  "Where life is happy all the time! " Jackie sang out. They looked at each other and burst into laughter, hugging closer as they stumbled along to their shared mirth. By the time they reached the cafeteria, Jackie was feeling a lot better and marveling at how just being with Chalice could do that for him. Stepping through the doorway, he glanced back and thought he saw a long, black hearse just turn the corner a block away and go out of sight.

  Now I am acting crazy, he thought and dismissed the illusion.

  Steve Nailer opened his eyes and groaned. He was in the shower, steaming water cascading over him. He had no idea how he'd gotten there. He looked down and his breath caught in his throat. Great red stains of what looked like blood were washing off him, running down the tub drain in long, Christmassy ribbons.

  He gagged and almost choked on something pulpy. He spat it out. A wad of bloody, red, something. He didn't want to know what it was. He shoved his face under the hot stream, mouth open, and let the needles of water wash his bloody mouth out as it also washed the blood and torn flesh from his skin. Despite the heat of the water, he was seized by a palsy so severe it brought him to his knees in the tub.

  He spent the rest of his day trying to convince himself nothing had happened last night, that it hadn't been blood he'd washed off (and not flesh he'd pulled from his mouth, or picked from his teeth). He begged off his morning tutoring sessions with his mom, complaining of not feeling well, which was not a lie. He went back to bed, feigning sleep whenever he heard his mother approaching to check on him, but fighting slumber the rest of the time. Around 1:00, his mother went in her room and closed the door to take a nap, something she did two or three times a week.

  Steve waited until he was sure she was asleep, then got up and turned on his computer. He went online and did a Google search for mental illnesses and got a long list of Web sites to connect to. The first one he clicked on was an encyclopedia with a long directory of psychiatric disorders to choose from. He scrolled until he saw Personality Disorders. He clicked on it and scrolled through the long list of mental maladies, each with a short synopsis of symptoms, causes, and treatments. After reading the first couple-affective spectrum and antisocial behavior-he got frustrated and went back to Google. He typed in "How can I tell if I'm mentally ill?" Another long list came up. He clicked on the first site that listed Self-Diagnosis in bold letters under its Web address.

  The site had a lot of warnings concerning the dangers of self-diagnosis, and several disclaimers that the site was not to be used as a replacement for professional psychiatric help. He almost gave up on it, and fast-scrolled to the bottom where he finally found what he was looking for-a box entitled Diagnostic Reference. He clicked on it and got a list of symptoms to check off if they applied. He had no trouble finding many that did, clicking on mental blackouts, memory loss, change of personality, violent outbursts, uncontrollable urges to commit violence, fear of committing violence, violent dreams, dreams involving sexual perversion or depravity, and night terrors. After he hit Enter, a list of possible illnesses came up, the first two being Bipo- larDisorderand Multiple Personality Syndrome.

  Steve read quickly and recognized himself in both illnesses described, but the second one, multiple personality disorder, seemed to explain the fact that his body could act perfectly normal on its own, without him in control as if someone else were in control- another personality of his? It sounded good and he convinced himself that it was what was wrong with him, but the relief he thought would come from knowing never materialized. Deep down he knew he did not suffer from multiple personalities. If he did, and knew it, as he thought he did, he'd be able to get help; he'd be able to tell his mother, or Jen, or someone about what was happening to him, but he couldn't. Every time he tried to talk to someone about what was going on he got the worst migraines, or he blacked out, or he just plain couldn't!

  One thing from the self-diagnosis rang true-bringing a flashback of last night's dream when he blacked out, someone other than him was in control and they were good enough at it so as not to raise any suspicions. But if not some extra personality of his own, then who? Again that feeling that he knew the answer, but couldn't recall it, teased him. It was quickly displaced with a headache that came on with the force of a freight train.

  ON The sweet smell of innocence betrayed.

  The delicious nectar of pure terror.

  The exquisite taste of prepubescent flesh.

  Though the meal is hurried, sloppy, and she has to throw away what she cannot eat in one sitting, it is enough to give her strength, and with strength comes power ... most of the time.

  Having to give up control for long stretches to her host is all right, for now. It allows her time to rest, and she does enjoy his anguish and turmoil, and the fact that she can keep him from remembering about her... .

  Soon, she hopes, she will have no need to rest, or worry about giving up control. Then the boy's usefulness will have lived its life and she can cast him into the coma regions of his own subconsciousness.

  One-two-three four-five-six-seven, all good children go ... round the mulberry bush?

  Damn!

  III

  NEW YEAR'S

  Little girl, little girl ... dance to your daddy!

  Jackie and Chalice said good-bye to each other on the morning before Christmas Eve. They had put off leaving for semester break for as long as they could, but all too soon the moment of parting came. Chalice was reluctantly returning home to Waterville, a small town outside Albany in upstate New York. The only family she had left was a sister and niece, Stella, and her daughter, Virginya. Chalice adored the sixyear-old and loathed her sister. She didn't want to leave Jackie, but unlike him, she had to work during semester break to earn money for school.

  Jackie arrived at his mother's house in Sunderland a little before noon. The first snow of the season was falling and the weather forecasters were calling for a nor'easter to dump eight to twelve inches on the area. The thin beginnings of the coming storm were the only Christmassy thing Jackie could detect about his mother's house, in sharp contrast to all the other houses on her street. There were no decorations up, no lights, not even a wreath on the door. Inside wasjust as bad-no Christmas cards taped over the archway to the kitchen, no gold rope entwined around the paintings and pictures on the walls, no manger set up on top of the TV set, and most noticeable of all, no Christmas tree.

  Jackie slammed the front door, threw his duffel bag filled with dirty laundry to the floor, looked around at the dust-ridden furniture and the pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, and knew his mother had not been doing well of late. A pang of guilt grabbed hold of him. He couldn't remember the last time he had called her, or spoken to her-it couldn't have been as long as since Thanksgiving, could it? It could and was. She had called him, but he had been too busy to take it or call back.

  He found her napping, fully dressed, in her bedroom, a loose-knit afghan pulled over her. Jackie let her be and crossed to Steve's closed door, putting his ear close to it, listening for an indication his brother was there. A muffled exchange of voices reached him. It sounded like Steve had a friend in there with him. Jackie knocked.

  A moment later, Steve said, "Come in."

  He was sitting on the bed, cross-legged, a Game Boy Advanced, handheld video game clutched in front of him. He was alone and he looked like shit. He had dark circles under his bleary eyes and his hair looked like it hadn't been washed in days. Jackie couldn't help but notice that the wastebasket by his computer table was almost overflowing with empty cans of Mountain Dew.

  "That stuff'll keep you up all night, you know," he said, nodding at the trash. Steve shrugged.

  Jackie added, "I just heard voices. Who were you talkin g to?"

  "I wasn't talking to
anyone. I wasn't talking."

  Jackie couldn't help but notice a little bit of attitude in his brother's voice. "I heard voices," Jackie insisted. "Did you have the TV or radio on?"

  Steve looked around at the former and latter and didn't have to answer; it was obvious they were not on and hadn't been. Suddenly, Steve stuck a finger in the air and said, "Aha! " in such an artificial way that Jackie nearly laughed.

  "You heard my game! "

  "It talks?"

  "The characters do, sometimes," Steve explained. "Most of the time you have to read the word balloons." He turned the screen so that Jackie could see a tow-headed cartoon character dressed like Robin Hood. His word balloon said, "Let's go!"

  "Oh,"Jackie said, hesitantly. He'd had a Game Boy not that long ago and he didn't remember them talking. Then again, the technology was changing all the time; Steve's was the latest version, and it had been at least three or four years since Jackie had played any video games with regularity.

  "What's with no decorations?"Jackie asked, changing the subject. "How come no tree?"

  "I don't know," Steve answered, returning his attention to the screen. "I guess Mom forgot."

  "She forgot? What about you? How the hell do you forget about Christmas?" When Steve had no answer for him, Jackie pulled the video game from his brother's hands and tossed it on the bed. "Come on. We are going to go and get a tree, right now, before they're all gone."

  A half hour later, Diane Nailer woke from her nap just as her two sons were bustling the snow-covered tree they'd bought at the local fire station into the living room. Steve smiled at her and kissed her cheek as he went by to root out the box of Christmas lights from the hall closet. Jackie did the same, adding a warm hug before going into the basement and bringing up the tree stand and a large box of decorations piled high with tinseled garland.

  For the rest of the afternoon they trimmed the tree and listened to Frank Sinatra sing Christmas songs. They drank hot cocoa and watched the snowfall outside as the blinking green, blue, yellow, and red lights of the tree intermittently painted their faces. Jackie cooked dinner, making his specialty (the only thing he could cook), American chop suey. After dinner, Jackie insisted they decorate the rest of the house and finish the evening the way they used to every Christmas when they were kids, with popcorn and It's a Wonderful Life on video. The three of them huddled together on the couch seeking an infusion of the holiday spirit from the film, but Diane was the only one who got it. Jackie, missing Chalice too much and unable to keep his mind off the book, couldn't pay attention. For Steve, the film and cozy atmosphere were too much and he could not stay awake, though that was something he had become very good at since the morning he'd awakened in the shower, covered in blood. He figured if he didn't sleep he couldn't sleepwalk, or whatever it was he did at night. Succumbing to somnolence only when he could no longer resist, he had gone nearly a week and a half since the bloody episode with no more blackouts. He cautiously told himself he was okay-he'd done nothing wrong. He had checked the papers and TV news for the past two weeks and there had been nothing about a little girl named Rachel missing or being killed. Now, feeling safer with Jackie home, snuggled on the couch between his mother and brother, he slept better than he had since Halloween.

 

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