Hutch Nightmare Men

by L. J. Vickery

  Nightmare Men

  Hutch

  Book one

  by

  LJ Vickery

  Published by Weir River Press—USA—

  Hanson, Massachusetts

  Original Copyright 2020 by LJ Vickery

  Cover Art by Taria A. Reed

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the explicit permission of the author. Please do not participate in, or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Vickery, LJ/Nightmare Men Hutch

  ISBN-10 1-7329088-8-5

  ISBN-13 978-1-7329088-8-8

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to: actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  Once again, thank you so much to all my readers. Your enjoyment and encouraging reviews make writing an enormous pleasure!

  Please enjoy the rest of these books by LJ Vickery:

  Immortals series:Immortals Rising

  Immortal Bewitched

  Going Deep

  Frozen Stiff

  Royally Screwed

  Blown Away

  Tied in Knots

  Erecting Barriers

  Summer’s Heat

  Justice has Claws

  Tendril Hearts

  Something Old

  Illogical

  Immortals Redeemed

  S.O.S. series:S.O.S. Del

  S.O.S. Prez

  S.O.S. Wiley

  S.O.S. Sarge

  Gemma-Hydrox:Keeping Pace

  Adamant Eve

  Heavenly Protector

  Star Bright

  His Protector

  Heroes in Hardhats:Not Cassandra

  CHAPTER ONE

  Where the hell am I?

  He stood slowly, the silence around him as unnerving as the total darkness. Hutchinson Bates rubbed his chest where his heart beat erratically.

  I must be dreaming.

  But dreams never came with the smell of arid soil or the taste of fear on his tongue.

  Pinch yourself. His own arrogant advice taunted him, advice he cavalierly threw to his patients when they described their hallucinations.

  But he never cared about their delusions or bogeymen. Countless tales of nightmares left him yawning behind his hand, prescribing new drugs.

  “But this is different,” he cried aloud, falling to his knees. “This is me!” Immediately grasping the iniquitousness of his declaration, he clamped his lips shut and shivered. His respiration rate increased. Training told him to lean over and breathe slowly, but he was already on the ground, hands clutched deeply into cold, powdery dirt. If he lowered more, he’d have a mouth full of the stuff.

  By sheer force of will, he raised his head and focused on the nothingness around him until his eyes grew accustomed to the blackness.

  There. A pinpoint of light. Hutch blinked. Squinted. Was it real?

  Slowly, carefully, he pushed to his feet, crouching and swaying in the void that surrounded him. He kept his eyes fixed on the small dot of luminosity and shuffled one foot forward. When he didn’t fall, he moved the other. Several paces into his journey, a sudden thought hit him like a blow, sending a tiny sob of hysteria bubbling from his mouth.

  I’m wearing my dress shoes.

  He was clothed as if headed for a day in the office.

  The office.

  He whipped his head around, peering behind him. There was no car, no parking garage. That’s where he’d been before…here. Walking from his Mercedes to the elevator.

  Did someone hit me on the head? Abduct me? God only knew he’d made a number of enemies in his years as a psychiatrist, treating the troubled, the insane.

  From habit, he reached down to check his watch, pushing the button in the darkness. The dial illuminated. Eight-o-seven.

  He’d lost fifteen minutes.

  Shit! The emptiness of his hands suddenly registered. His briefcase. His phone. Where were they? Turning quickly and experiencing a rush of dizziness for his trouble, he realized he’d never find them. It was too dark, and he didn’t know which way he’d come. His belongings might not be there, anyway. Whoever brought him here may have relieved him of his things or left them on the garage floor.

  “Hello?” he cried into the suffocating gloom.

  Keep the panic out of your voice, he silently admonished. Don’t let anyone hear your fear.

  “Is anybody there?”

  Nothing but stillness. He wanted to sink to the ground again, but fearful resolve, one he couldn’t remember having to draw upon before, brought him to full height. He squared his shoulders and turned in a circle until…

  Focusing on the infinitesimal speck of light that might or might not be an illusion, he forced himself to walk.

  …seven, eight, nine… He counted his steps, the normalcy of the sequence keeping the panic threatening to crawl up his spine, at bay.

  The spot was definitely getting bigger. …twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three… Was it an illuminated doorway? If it was, what lay beyond?

  Too many questions.

  Without losing track of the light, Hutch forced himself to glance right, then left. Total darkness in both directions. What kind of place was this? In his mind he pictured a barren desert. But with no stars proclaiming themselves from above, he couldn’t be sure.

  Wait… No moving air, either, and despite the feeling of vastness around him, there was no…weather.

  A cave? he wondered, searching for an answer. His analytical brain engaged.

  The ground beneath his feet was level, no stalagmites, or stalactites—whichever of the two pointed upward—to trip over. Completely out of his element, out of any element he’d ever experienced, he forced himself once more to stop and listen. No running water. He looked up. No phosphorescence. Strike three. Definitely not a cave.

  What’s large and dark, neither outside nor inside, and is designed to frighten an adult man?

  Hysteria threatened. It was a bad riddle…and one he couldn’t answer.

  Other possibilities were not to be reflected upon due to the panic they might engender.

  “Hello!” He tried again, a little weaker, yet still hoping for an answer. Better a hostile touchstone in the emptiness, than the emptiness itself. “Can anyone hear me?”

  Not a cricket, not a murmur, not the whisper of wings from a night predator.

  Move forward, he ordered himself. The thing on which he should focus was the single point of light.

  Clenching his teeth, he plunged ahead.

  The light refused to grow larger, and he estimated it was still far away. He stopped, loosened his tie, and pushed the button on his watch. Eight thirty-two. Twenty-five minutes had passed. His runner’s brain engaged. Considering his pace, he’d traveled maybe a mile and a quarter. It could be hours more until he reached his target. Still—another panic attack loomed—what else could he do?

  Get a grip, Hutch, he admonished. There’s a reasonable explanation for this. Everything has a scientific rationale. Just because you can’t think of an answer right now, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

  Pep talk delivered, he continued his march, picking up his pace. Oddly, he didn’t tire, didn’t become thirsty, and hadn’t needed to stop for a piss despite the three cups of coffee he’d consumed this morning. Strange, too, his plantar fasciitis wasn’t acting up. It always did when he went any distance wearing footwear other than his sneakers. Must be the
soft, forgiving constitution of the dirt.

  Nearly two hours later, he stopped, close enough to discern the object he’d been approaching.

  A fire, he pondered wondrously. Like…a campfire. Campfires require people to keep them going, people and fuel. Which means this vast emptiness isn’t so empty at all.

  He broke into a run, ignoring his business attire, focused on reaching the beacon as quickly as possible. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

  Fifteen minutes later he slowed to a jog, coming to a stop just outside the periphery of light. He didn’t need to catch his breath, didn’t have to wipe sweat from his brow. In the back of his mind, these anomalies were unsettling. But what was more disturbing was the fire. It appeared…

  Untended and unattended. Not a person, a piece of kindling or a stick of wood was anywhere nearby.

  He swallowed in a constricted throat before slowly approaching. His brain confirmed a large, blazing bonfire built within a circle of smooth, basketball sized rocks. On the perimeter, set back two to three feet from the flames, were more rocks. Small boulders actually, flat-topped like…inviting places to sit. He circumnavigated the fire and counted.

  Twelve. Twelve seats.

  Cautiously he walked forward and perched himself on the nearest stone, holding his palms up toward the flames.

  No. His mind refused to accept what his hands told him, but after a brief, internal debate, his tactile senses won out.

  The fire gave off no heat.

  And another thing he’d purposely disregarded. Around the cool blaze, where he’d walked through the powdery groundcover…

  My footprints are the only ones marking the sand.

  Hutch blinked and shook his head, dragging his hands back through the dark hair at his temples. It was hard to get a full breath as he took stock of the facts.

  Not a cave, but no ambient breeze to indicate I’m outside. No wildlife of any kind. A fire. By itself. No wood to keep it burning, no footprints suggesting a presence other than mine.

  And personally? My feet don’t hurt, my body isn’t sweating after my run. I’m not thirsty or hungry. He gazed out into the blackness. There’s nothing, for miles and miles in any direction. This is either the most realistic dream I’ve ever had, or…

  He didn’t want to voice it, but the possibility of where he was reared its ugly head and refused to be denied.

  “No,” he said out loud, shaking his head. He jumped to his feet. “No,” he yelled into the night-scape. “I won’t have it. Do you hear me? I refuse! I refuse to be dead and I refuse to consider it. This is not happening!”

  A sob worked its way up his throat, and he dropped his face to his hands. “I’m not a bad person. I’m not…bad,” he cried.

  But if this place wasn’t reality, and it wasn’t a dream, there left only one option.

  He’d died and gone to Hell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mind numbing.

  Those were the only words Hutch could come up with. And he’d had plenty of time to consider everything in the entire freaking English language.

  His watch indicated he’d been in his own personal hell for thirty-five hours. He’d slept off and on the previous night, but even that hadn’t broken the mind-numbing monotony. He’d drifted in a completely dreamless limbo.

  He glanced again toward the fire. It, too, was part of the tedium. There’d been no change in the pattern of the flames. There was no food, no water…and no need for either.

  He wasn’t cold, or hot. There was no noise, except his own occasional, angry outbursts. Even the fire, as lovely as it was, gave off not a single pop or crackle. But then again, it didn’t produce heat, so why would it? It’s not as if it were consuming anything.

  Earlier, Hutch had dared stick his hand into the flames, and felt…nothing. Which had him wondering. Was it even real? As far as he could tell, only the rocks and the ground beneath his feet had any substance.

  He let his mind go to the unimaginable…

  If he had died, how had it happened? Had he been hit by a car in the garage? Dropped by a massive stroke? Shot? And if he were dead, how come he still had his clothes and his watch?

  He groaned, just to hear noise. If this was Hell, the powers that be had done a great job. Nothing to do. Nothing to stimulate the senses. A never-ending void of tedium.

  In defiance, Hutch leaped from his rock and danced around on one foot, tugging off one shoe and his silk sock beneath. He plunged his toes into the soft, sandy ground-cover. “So there!” he yelled up at the sky, or whatever it was. “I can feel that.” He yanked off the others, planting himself firmly on both feet. If he were to be bored for eternity, he’d have to take excitement where he could find it.

  “And I can run, too,” he taunted the ether. Having shed his jacket and tie earlier, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and started off at a jog around the fire. “This is me, creating my own entertainment.” He shook his fist skyward, picked up the pace and ran out into the darkness before turning around, skirting the fire to sprint in the opposite direction.

  “I can exercise,” he barked, doing a few jumping jacks to prove his assertion. “So screw you. I’m not going to lose my mind like the poor bastards I treat. I refuse.”

  He sunk to the ground. Until he said it, he hadn’t even considered the possibility. But understanding dawned. There was the crux of the matter. Someone or something had taken exception to the careless attitude he adopted with his patients.

  “Well, screw you!” He hollered again. “You…you creator of things.” He threw his arms wide. “You didn’t have to make them that way.”

  He brought his hands down and dragged them through the dirt, his brain firing away.

  More anti-boredom activities came to mind. He could build sand sculptures. He could write in the soft groundcover and keep a journal. He could… He could think back over all the patients he’d neglected in the past ten years and…pretend he’d done things differently.

  Look at him. Only a day in this hell and he was already regretting his transgressions. What would eternity bring? Or was there such a thing as a second chance? Hutch didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. The mental exercises he cooked up would give him something to do.

  He stuck his finger in the air and pretended to extend a writing point, ready to work. In his head, he traveled back to his first client, the man who had set the bar for every one thereafter, and who’d made a mockery of his schooling.

  He scribed the name in the sand.

  Malcolm DeSantis…

  Ten Years Earlier…

  Fresh off the best residency anyone could hope for, under the esteemed Dr. Jascobs at the Linston Center for Mental Health, Hutchinson Bates stood in front of his new office, admiring the plaque on the door. Bates Behavioral Health. It had been a long time coming. Eight years of school and four years working for Dr. Jascobs. But now he had it all. The prize he’d been envisioning ever since he started the journey.

  Of course, his parents had a lot to do with making it happen. They’d paid for his education, subsidized his living expenses while he interned, and come up with the money needed to open his practice. But despite their proprietary air where his future was concerned, the hard work had been his. And now it was all worth it.

  He pushed open the door, and catalogued everything with an approving gaze.

  The furnishings in the suite were complete. The muted grays and whites of the waiting area provided a soothing touch, and the deep, comfortable leather chairs would wrap around a sitter like comforting arms.

  He approached the receptionist’s desk.

  Today, the candidate he’d hired, Ben Frueller, would arrive—he checked his Rolex, a gift from his parents—in fifteen minutes, and they’d begin their first day. Ben, an earnest young man studying nights toward a degree in health and physical education, had seemed a good fit, and would be his only employee, at least for now. He didn’t want to start off with a large practice. He pictured something mor
e personal, more intimate until he gained momentum.

  Walking into his private office, he tossed his briefcase onto his oversized, mahogany desk and admired the view of the busy downtown street from the plate-glass windows that ran floor to ceiling. He sighed happily. It was a space that said “I’ve arrived”.

  The final room in the suite would be where he’d see patients, his first, later today. Opening the connecting door, he entered and flipped the switch on the wall. Soft, ambient light bathed the comfortable space, and the earth tone décor he’d carefully chosen would encourage his clients to relax and share their psychoses.

  He walked back to his desk, sat down and opened his briefcase, extracting the four folders it held. Three were patients Dr. Jascobs had referred. The fourth, a Mr. Malcolm DeSantis, who he’d see today, had been sent by the city’s Department of Mental Health, a pro bono case he’d agreed to take on. It was good policy to treat a few mentally ill patients for free. In his clinical experience, paying referrals would result from giving away a few unsubsidized services.

  He opened his laptop alongside the man’s dossier, transcribing from paper to computer file.

  Twenty-five-year-old subject diagnosed with cyclothymic disorder… Alcohol dependent… On and off meds…

  Interesting. Not a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Mr. DeSantis should be easier to treat since his symptoms were milder than the more commonly known syndrome. And he wasn’t surprised the man didn’t keep up with his meds. Between forty and eighty percent of patients treated routinely relapsed due to coming off prescription routines.

  He made a few additional notes, set the paper file aside, and opened a new tab for his next patient.

  Four hours later, Ben knocked on the door, sticking his head in. “Mr. DeSantis is here.”

  “Good. Show him into my treatment room, please.”