Chapter Fifty-six

Bill stuffed his feet into his slippers and shuffled to the living room where his fiancée, Annie, was fiddling with the stereo.

“Doesn’t your dad know that Saturday is my only day to sleep in?” he grumbled.

“Just lie on the couch.” Annie hit the Play button and the sound of chanting poured from speakers.

“It’s just weird,” he protested.

“I promised him,” she said.

“Can’t we just pretend that we did it?”

“You didn’t hear his voice,” Annie said. Her father was a serious man. He was intentional with everything that he said and did. She only knew one thing in this world—if her father asked her to do something, there was a good reason.

She settled on the couch next to Bill and cozied

into his side.

“Are we supposed to do something?”

“Just listen, I guess.”

He kissed her cheek and pulled her close. Before long he was dozing.

Annie wrapped herself in his arms and listened to the harmonic voices chant, accompanied by the soft purr of Bill’s snores, and soon she too fell asleep. She was awakened by the sensation of a pop at the top of her head. Her vision flashed white, even though her eyes were closed. She felt like she was going to faint, even though she was already lying down. Her blood ached as it passed through her veins and her muscles contracted, as if she was suffering from an instantaneous bout of the flu.

Bill shifted beneath her. A huff of discomfort escaped his lips. He moaned a little and turned over, shifting her to the edge of the couch. She turned to spoon him, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

A blood-curdling scream sounded through their open window and reverberated through the living room. All traces of her illness were forgotten. She jumped to her feet. Bill was not far behind her.

“What was that?” he asked, eyes wild.

Another scream.

“Mr. Bickles,” Annie breathed, her heart pounding in her ears.

It took them approximately six seconds to reach the neighbor’s front door. The hollow sound of Bill’s fist pounding on the door sounded throughout the

neighborhood.

“Mr. Bickles?” he yelled, urgently.

Mr. Bickles was a mean old man. Selfish and greedy. Curt and rude. He was the type of neighbor who measured the length of your grass and reported it to the home owners’ association if it was a millimeter beyond the suggested height. He was nosy too. Bill often caught him suspiciously peeking out the window every time headlights crossed his blinds. He looked in Annie and Bill’s garbage bins on trash day, keeping tabs on his African American neighbors, sifting through discarded toothpaste tubes and empty cans of crushed tomatoes. He even called the police once when a holiday party that they hosted ran later than his liking. Bill often found himself counting to ten when he would hear Mr. Bickles snap at his wife for something trivial, like leaving the door open while she carried numerous loads of groceries into the house while he sat in his Lazy Boy recliner, watching the game, or perhaps

taking too long to bring him his drink.

Mrs. Bickles was a cute little old lady. She was rotund with rosy cheeks. She flitted. Most of her time was spent scurrying about, trying not to evoke the wrath of her mean old husband. She seemed to love him though. Bill was befuddled that such a sweet lady ended up with a complete scrooge. Opposites attracted, he supposed.

When Bill kicked down the door, he froze.

If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he never would have believed it.

Mr. Bickles was twisted on the ground, screaming as if he was dying.

Death may have been a better fate.

His face was purple, eyes wide, mouth open in a gaping scream. He pulled at his skin as he writhed in torment. Impossibly, Bill could see Mr. Bickles’s nervous system through his skin, as if he had developed X-ray vision. Black tar oozed through its many branches and flowed up his face, coagulating in a network that tangled like yarn over the crown of his head. A light shone from his brainstem through the darkness, casting shadows across his face.

If that weren’t disturbing enough, the look of sheer terror in Mr. Bickles’s wide eyes was something that Bill would never forget, even if he lived a thousand years.

And the smell. The acrid scent of greed and desperation. The musty scent of an enclosed chamber with no circulation, no sunshine, the smell of a dying soul.

Annie rushed to help Mr. Bickles but the smell made her gag uncontrollably.

“It burns!” Mr. Bickles screeched, pounding his head with his fists.

The light slowly moved through Mr. Bickles’s head.

He screamed again as the light pushed upward, bursting through the dark conglomeration of cords. A halo as bright as the sun birthed itself from the top of his head, hovering two inches above. It shone down upon Mr. Bickles like a spotlight from heaven.

“It burns!” Mr. Bickles swatted at his flesh as if trying to put out a fire across the entire length of his body. Swirls of darkness, like evil tadpoles swimming, like leeches from the underworld, moved about his flesh, scurrying under the light before they were burned to ashes under the brilliance of the halo.

Bill held his breath and knelt beside him, but didn’t know how to help. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Call 911!” he yelled.

Annie ran to the kitchen and dialed the phone. She covered her nose and watched from the doorway. Bill stepped away from Mr. Bickles to catch his breath, placing the neckline of his sweater over his nose. He was determined to withstand the choking odor and offer some help.

With a final scream, Mr. Bickles’s body slumped. Mr. Bickles had passed out.

His lifetime of darkness exhausted, his skin glowed with health. His face looked surprisingly plump and youthful. The deep breath of an infant moved his belly rhythmically. For the first time since Bill met Mr. Bickles, he looked peaceful. Like a sleeping angel having the sweetest dream in the history of histories.