SPECTRES

—TAYLOR GRANT—

“Can he hear me, Doctor?” the incorporeal voice asked.

A second voice answered with a direct tone. “Brain activity is now normal. Give him a few more moments to adjust—after all, there hasn’t been any brain activity in ten years.”

What the hell are they talking about? he thought.

Suddenly he felt tingling throughout his body. Smells rushed at him. Cheap aftershave. Some sort of industrial antiseptic agent. The unmistakable aroma of cigarette breath. Shapes began to form.

“Welcome back, Mr. Jackson,” the first voice said. 

*    *    *

Matt Jackson had no memories of any kind. Everything he’d learned about himself came from Bob Wheeler, his Wealth Management Consultant, and apparently, the only man on Earth who knew anything about him. Matt had no living family, no friends to speak of, and was, to his pleasant surprise, in the top 1% of the wealthiest people in America. 

Matt discovered he was one of the ultra-rich; his investment portfolio included gold, high-dividend stocks, real estate and foreign currencies; he would never have to work another day in his life. His home was a secluded mansion in Malibu Canyon surrounded by 30 acres of breathtaking land. 

Where had the original wealth come from? Not even Wheeler knew; he wasn’t paid to know anything more than what was absolutely essential, namely manage and grow Matt’s investments. 

Wheeler had been the first voice he’d heard when awoken. He seemed familiar, but there were no specific memories of the man. This was to be expected, he was told by Dr. Smythe, the lead medical advisor at The Cryonic Group. Fragmented memories were a common symptom when awoken from suspended animation. It was a temporary issue, nothing to be concerned about. Smythe expected a full recovery within a matter of weeks.

The memory loss was disturbing, but he took some comfort in knowing it was temporary. Certainly his luxurious lifestyle eased the burden. He was healthy, wealthy—and from this point forward, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. 

He wandered around his immense home for several days, trying to get a sense of who he was. There were photos of him throughout the house, traveling the world with various beautiful women on his arm. He searched the Internet for more information on himself, but his personal life was an enigma; he had no blog, website or social media presence to browse. It was downright maddening. He was also stunned at how much had changed in the world during his decade in stasis. The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the ascension of China, the recession, the first African American president, high-speed Internet, Wi-Fi, smart phones... he could barely keep up with it all. 

As he examined the trappings of his life he felt no connection to it. It was unsettling to walk through a stranger’s house when the stranger was you. The most disturbing thing was he had no idea why he had voluntarily spent ten years in a stasis chamber. Generally, that was reserved for terminal patients or those already deceased. Dr. Smythe had informed him that, despite some minimal muscular atrophy that would be addressed with a few months of physical therapy, he was in perfect health. When Matt tried to probe further as to why he had willingly gone into suspended animation, Smythe told him that it was recommended he let his memories return naturally. Forcing them back could cause unnecessary stress and emotional trauma.

He’d reluctantly accepted Smythe’s advice, yet the questions nibbled at him like hungry ticks. Where did his money come from? What had happened to his family? Who the fuck was he, really? When the questions became too much to bear, his confusion grew into anger. Finally, he called Bob Wheeler in a fit of rage and threatened to fire him over the phone if he didn’t tell him every goddamn thing he knew. 

Wheeler finally acquiesced. He told him of a safe hidden inside a baby grand piano that sat covered in the music room of Matt’s mansion. He also provided him with the digital password to open the safe. Inside, he told him, was a video recorded 10 years earlier that explained everything. 

“Why all the cloak and dagger?” Matt demanded.

“I’m merely following your instructions prior to your ten-year sabbatical,” Wheeler said. “I was told to inform you about the hidden safe six weeks after you had awoken, or if you demanded it—whichever came first.”

Now, as Matt sat in front of his massive entertainment center, with a finger resting on the play button of his remote, apprehension seeped into him like water into sand. Perhaps he was better off not knowing the truth. He had tried to imagine any possible scenario that would explain why he’d gone into suspended animation—but none made sense. 

He pressed the play button, and leaned back stiffly on the plush leather couch.

Thirty seconds of static later, a blond, balding man appeared on screen. His eyes were tired looking and familiar. And though his features sagged a bit, it was clear he had been an attractive man in his youth. Matt gasped when the man began to speak—for he realized he was looking at himself. The face was different but the voice and mannerisms were his.

“Hello Matt,” he heard the stranger with his voice say. Matt immediately recognized the bookcase in the background; the video had been recorded in the study upstairs. 

“If you’re watching this video, then most likely, you’re looking for answers. What I’m about to tell you... well, it may not be easy for you to believe—or even understand. But Dr. Smythe has assured me that full memory recall normally occurs within 4 to 6 weeks of being awakened. 

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you straight. Your given name is Frank Kingston. You’re a reclusive multi-millionaire and you’re dead. Well, dead to the world, that is. Ten years ago you were in a fatal accident. Fell overboard while drunk on your yacht The Maximus. Your body was never recovered.”

The VCR remote dropped and clattered onto the beveled glass of the coffee table sitting in front of him. He leaned forward, his mouth slightly agape. 

The video continued, “Of course none of that is true—that’s just the fabricated story. Don’t worry. I paid top dollar for professionals to handle everything. There’s no way to trace anything back to us. I say ‘us’, because, of course, I am you. I’m the you before your facial reconstruction... before the hair implants and the liposuction.”

The man now named Matt Jackson reached up and touched his hair; gingerly ran his fingers through it. Was this some kind of twisted prank?

“That’s right,” his former self said. “I’m what you used to look like. But thanks to the modern miracles of plastic surgery, you now look like you. All of the pictures and portraits you see of yourself in the house are doctored photos. They are just part of the tapestry created to bolster our new life.

“It was necessary to start over with a completely new identity. As you can imagine, it would be much too difficult to orchestrate a multi-millionaire disappearing and then reappearing 10 years later. There would be too many questions—too many variables that could get us caught. Having us killed off and starting fresh was the cleanest, most efficient way.

“Which, of course, leads us to the most important question—why?”

Jackson was eager for information yet fearful of what he might learn.

His former self was silent for a moment—as if preparing to deliver bad news. Finally he said, “Why I chose suspended animation is a bit more complicated. And after you watch this tape, make sure you destroy it right aw—” 

The image turned to white static.

“What the fu—” Matt yelled. 

Frantic, he grabbed the remote and fast-forwarded through the entire tape. 

The rest was blank.

It was like the punch line to some perverse practical joke. He noticed his wild-eyed reflection in a large mirror on the wall and began to tug at his unfamiliar features. Everything that had happened since he awoke seemed insane, and yet, as he studied his face in the mirror, he somehow knew it was all true.  

Desperation gripped him. He ejected the cassette, wound the loose tape back in with one of the spools, then shoved it back into the VCR and hit the rewind button. In his ten-year absence, VCRs had become outdated technology. This was no more apparent than at this particular moment.  

He watched the tape again, this time paying close attention to each and every word. But as before, the tape turned to static at the same place. Had someone erased it on purpose? And if so, why not erase the entire fucking thing?

He fast-forwarded the tape again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. This time the tape froze. He was struck by the time code displayed on the bottom of the screen. It read 00:07:43:07. 

What was it about those numbers?

Wait—Jesus. It was the pass code numbers to the hidden safe. Now that he thought about it, his street address had the same four numbers: 3747. If you didn’t include the zeroes, all three instances had the same numbers.

Fuck this, he thought. I’m going to get some answers.

*    *    *

The Ferrari F12 Berlinetta was a beautiful machine. And according to the Ferrari website, it was the fastest and most powerful in its history, with a top speed of 210 mph. Matt pushed the Ferrari as fast as he could on the streets of Los Angeles without risking arrest, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Finally, he reached Olympic Blvd and looked for the address he’d found online. The Internet had become a frighteningly useful tool in the years since he’d been asleep. A simple web search turned up Bob Wheeler’s address in seconds.

It had taken a few minutes to get used to driving again; all of his muscles were still sore from disuse. But it was hardly a chore driving a $300,000 dream machine with all the bells and whistles.

He pulled up in front of Wheeler’s home, parked, and glanced at the clock on his dashboard. It was nearly 10:00PM. He didn’t care. He’d taken a peek at his accounting books and seen the ungodly fees he was paying the man. As far as he was concerned, for that amount of money he could show up whenever he damn well pleased. As he stomped up the front walkway, he thought about all the cryptic doubletalk he’d heard from Dr. Smythe and Bob Wheeler since he’d awoken, and he was sick to death of it. It was time to find out what the hell was going on. 

Wheeler wasn’t surprised to see him at his doorstep. In fact, he said he’d been expecting him. After all, Matt had no family or friends to speak of. Wheeler was his only real connection to the past. Coming to Wheeler was the obvious choice for a man desperate for answers.

The inside of the townhouse was comfortably spacious. There was nothing extravagant about the furnishings, yet Matt could see that everything was of exceptional quality. This was the home of a man who had nothing to prove. From his furnishings to the books on the shelf, everything seemed functional yet tasteful. Bob Wheeler was a man who spent his money wisely.

Now Wheeler handed him a glass of wine and sat across from him in the study.

Matt nodded his thanks and took a sip. Like everything else in the man’s home, the wine was perfect.

“I’m sorry about the video tape,” Wheeler said, sitting across from him and crossing his legs leisurely. “Very unfortunate, but out of my hands. You have to understand, I’m on a need to know basis with all of my clients. What they have or haven’t done in the past is their concern. My job is to handle your present needs and to ensure your financial future.

“So you know nothing about me?”

“I’m not paid to ask questions. You gave me three specific jobs when you hired me ten years ago: manage your estate, maintain the illusion of your lifestyle for tax and accounting purposes, and arrange for you to be woken up precisely ten years after you went to sleep.”

Matt polished off the rest of his wine in two large gulps and sighed heavily. He felt so helpless without his memories. His voice cracked with emotion, “It’s just so... frustrating not knowing who you are. I feel like I’m hiding from something. It scares me.”

Wheeler studied him for a long moment; and then something changed in his eyes. Matt couldn’t tell if it was compassion, resignation, or perhaps a little of both. “I can imagine your frustration,” Wheeler said. The good news is that, from what Dr. Smythe tells me, your memories will return within weeks.

“What I can tell you is that you have no criminal record and no obligations to any family or friends. Your slate is clean and your wealth is spread out globally through low risk, high return investments. It is an enviable position to be in, wouldn’t you say?”

“Some would say that, yes,” Matt countered.

“You don’t approve of your lifestyle?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition.”

Wheeler laughed at that. But rather than warming his face, the laughter somehow made him look colder, crueler. 

Suddenly Matt felt the need to get out of there—and fast. Wheeler might have been efficient, professional, and a damned genius at financial planning, but one thing he wasn’t—was likable. 

“Thanks for your time,” Matt said without offering his hand. “It’s late. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Wheeler rose as leisurely as he’d sat down and gestured toward the front door. “For what you’re paying me, Mr. Jackson, it’s never a bother.”

As Matt took his first steps down the short path toward his Ferrari, Wheeler cleared his throat and said, “There’s one more thing.”

Matt turned back reluctantly, not wanting to linger a moment longer. “Yes?”

Wheeler’s eyes were intense. “You and I only met a few times before you went into stasis. But during our initial meeting at your house, I noticed a leather-bound journal on your desk. You were very protective of it. In fact, you closed the book hurriedly the moment I went near it. If you’re looking for answers, I suspect that journal may have some for you. That is, if it still exists.”

“That may be helpful. Thank you,” Matt said with a terrible attempt at a grin. He turned and walked briskly toward his car. 

He felt Wheeler’s eyes on his back as he made his way to the driver’s side door. Before climbing in, he glanced back at the man standing in the doorway, sipping from his wine glass, which under the light of the moon looked thick, dark, and viscous.

*    *    *

Two hours and numerous tequila shots later, Matt had managed to wash away much of the uneasiness that had driven him to the dive bar in the first place. The bartender wore an untucked chambray shirt, and had the sleepy, indifferent manner you’d expect from a man who had spent too many nights witnessing the goings on of such a place. 

When he had first asked Matt what he wanted to drink, the answer had come naturally and without any thought. He recalled that he enjoyed tequila and Mexican beer. It was the first sign his memory was coming back, and it had provided him with a modicum of relief. 

Another welcome distraction was the 40 something year-old woman sitting next to him. Far from a glamour puss, she was attractive enough; probably a knock out in her 20s, he guessed. She had a great rack, blonde hair from a bottle, and as a twice-divorcée living on alimony, admitted that she spent too much of her free time with a drink in her hand. On the plus side, she was sharp, had a sarcastic wit, and was clearly open for seduction. When Matt mentioned that he was independently wealthy, her eyes widened slightly, and curves formed at the corners of her collagen-injected lips.

The bartender began wiping down the bar near them with a knowing look that told Matt he’d seen this scene play out on more than one occasion. “Last call, Mary Beth,” he murmured, folding up his grungy bar towel. 

“Thanks, Joey,” she said and gave the tall man a wry grin. 

First name basis, Matt thought. That can’t be good.

Then again, he was terribly lonely and horny—mostly horny—and didn’t much care about the woman’s past. He wasn’t in the market for a wife; he just wanted to avoid another night alone.

Mary Beth leaned in seductively and whispered in his ear. “You okay to drive?”

*    *    *

Matt had no respect for Mary Beth, but he had to admit she was a lot of fun. She even managed to make him laugh a few times with her off-color jokes. But that laughter ended suddenly when a naked, blood-covered African American man leapt out into the street—right in front of them. Matt slammed on his brakes, causing the Ferrari to shudder violently until it stopped—missing the large man by inches.

Mary Beth slammed back into her seat. “What the hell?” she yelled. 

Matt gazed into the man’s terror-filled eyes. They seemed to be pleading for help.

A gunshot rang out. The left side of the man’s head exploded, spraying the windshield with a fine red mist.

“Jesus Christ!” Matt punched the accelerator, hurling Mary Beth back into her seat again, tires screeching in protest.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded.

“Me?” He shouted back, louder than he meant. He downshifted and turned onto the first residential street he saw, trying to get as much distance as possible from what he’d seen. “We could’ve been killed back there!”

“What? I didn’t see anything!”

“You didn’t—” It was clear from the look on Mary Beth’s face that she was telling the truth. This was, of course, impossible, since at the very least she should have seen the blood splatter across the windshield.

What blood? another part of his mind asked, as his eyes searched the glass for even a speck of it. 

The windshield was spotless. It didn’t make any sense. What the hell just happened? 

“What did you see?” Mary Beth asked. “What was it?”

But Matt couldn’t think of how to respond without sounding like a lunatic. If what he’d seen was real, there was no way she could’ve missed it. And since there was no blood residue on the windshield, he questioned whether he’d seen anything himself. 

Hallucination? Dr. Smythe had warned him hallucinations were a possible side effect, but a remote possibility at best.

So he said, “I’m not feeling too good. I should take you home.”

And he did.

*    *    *

Mary Beth lived adjacent to Beverly Hills in a small, but well-kept two-story condo. Matt’s intention had been to drop her off and go home, but she’d insisted he come in for a drink. He wasn’t sure if she was an unusually forgiving person or just desperate to get laid—but he decided not to examine it too closely.

A night with an attractive stranger sure as hell beat going home to an empty bed. And if he were lucky, it just might take his mind off that man’s exploding head. He and Mary Beth enjoyed a couple more drinks together, which helped take the edge off. 

Matt was lost in thought when a seductive whisper from behind him said, “Care to join me?” 

He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of blonde hair and Mary Beth’s black negligee as she wafted into the master bedroom.

He downed the rest of his drink like a shot and set the glass down—right next to a stack of bills on a vintage patina table. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of the numbers in Mary Beth’s address: 3747. 

Those same four numbers again. A different order—but they were the same four numbers all right.

Matt wasn’t superstitious—at least he didn’t think he was—but something wasn’t right. Every shred of intuition told him to get out of there. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and prepared to ask for a rain check. 

The master bedroom was dark and quiet; the moon cast eerie shadows through the window over a large four-poster bed that took up most of the space. 

“Listen...” he said, and his voice cracked when he said it. “I’m not feeling well and—”

The blood everywhere stopped him cold; it looked as if someone had sprayed the walls with it using a hose. 

But that wasn’t the worst part. 

Mary Beth’s body was splayed across the bed; it had been split open from her neck down. Her glistening intestines were stretched out from her abdomen and had been used to tie her arms and legs to the bedposts. 

And then somehow, impossibly... the dead woman turned her broken neck into an impossible angle, until her bloated face was grinning at him with a knowing look. 

It wasn’t Mary Beth. 

Matt fell back and screamed; he smashed into a bookcase and caused it to collapse with a crash.

The door to the master bedroom’s bathroom flung open and Mary Beth came scrambling out, wild-eyed. She was still wearing the black negligee and holding a silver-handled brush matted with blonde hair. 

Matt glanced over at the bed and saw it was empty, and perfectly made. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Mary Beth yelled.

He didn’t answer her; he was too busy running from her home.

*    *    *

Matt spent the next two days at home in a drunken haze, taking advantage of the full bar at his disposal. But no amount of alcohol could wash away the hallucinations, which had become increasingly gruesome; every conceivable kind of torture and mutilation, visited upon an array of ghostly victims, and without any context. He had placed several frantic calls to Dr. Smythe, but according to his unhelpful answering service, the good doctor was out of the country for several weeks on business. 

In between drunken rages and bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, Matt searched every nook and cranny of his sizable mansion for the journal Wheeler had described. Not finding it only spurred more outrage and drunkenness. 

On the third day, he woke up on top of the billiards table in the game room with a loaded gun in his hand. He’d found it the night before, hidden behind some bottles on the top shelf of his bar. He carried it around the house for several hours and had seriously considered using it on himself—then passed out.

Now, as he glanced around the game room, there was a growing sense of familiarity. And despite a horrendous hangover, that familiarity made him feel a little better. He glanced at a Star Wars pinball machine in the corner, and suddenly remembered the day he’d gotten the high score. A rack of CDs against the wall, including the entire Led Zeppelin collection, brought back pleasant memories, too. He could feel his identity returning, moment by precious moment. Carnal images flashed through his mind. There had been women, oh yes. He could see their faces in a twisted kaleidoscope of memories, each perversion more disturbing than the last. 

What kind of person had he been? Curiosity ate at him, yet he was afraid to look too closely. Another flash of memory and he remembered hiding other weapons besides the gun. Yes... he was starting to remember! He could see an image... a dungeon of some kind.

He leapt to his feet and began to run—it was all coming back now. There was a hidden room built beneath the house, only accessible by a trap door. As soon as he reached the study in the northernmost room of the first floor, he knew exactly where to look. He knelt down, grabbed the edge of a massive Oriental rug and flipped it over.  

He recognized a particular floorboard and yanked it loose. Underneath was a small, but sturdy wooden handle. His fingers wrapped around it like an eager python and he heaved the trap door open, revealing a set of dust-covered steps leading down into a pool of darkness. 

Nothing good would come from going down there. Somehow he knew this. And yet, he also knew it was inevitable that he descend.

 As he stepped down into the blackness, he remembered a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. He braced himself as he turned on the lights. It didn’t make a bit of difference; what he saw there shook him to his core. In that one moment of recognition, he knew that despite his new name, new face, and fabricated life, nothing could change what he was and always would be.

*    *    *

Matt found the journal Wheeler had described in a locked cabinet against the back wall of the secret room. It didn’t take long to figure out the lock combination: 3-7-47.

Inside the cabinet were stacks upon stacks of journals—some going back hundreds of years. Some were written on tattered notepads while others sported fine leather covers. The oldest was written on parchment. 

He spent all day and that night poring through them and the intimate details of nine different people’s lives, starting in the mid-1600s and ending ten years prior, the day he went into suspended animation. 

He was all of them. Only the names and circumstances had changed.

James Dowle, his original name, a Puritan from East Anglia in England, had moved his family—his wife and two children—to Salem, Massachusetts in 1676. His unfortunate streak of luck began with the loss of his wife Abigail to smallpox in early ‘77, followed by his 6 year-old son Isaac and 4 year-old daughter Mary. He soon contracted the sickness too, and in desperation, sought out a healer reputed to cure the incurable—for a price. 

A secret meeting was planned, as this was not long before the Salem witch trials, and any unorthodox practices at that time were suspect. He paid the old woman his entire life savings for a powerful spell of healing.

To his amazement, it worked. 

Having survived the smallpox scare, Dowle came up with a plan to reclaim the money he’d paid the old hag. He showed up at her home one evening a week later, demanding that she return his money—otherwise he threatened to accuse her of practicing witchcraft, a crime punishable by death. When she refused, he slit her throat and ransacked her home, stealing a small fortune, and an ancient book containing everything from love spells to good fortune hexes, to demonic curses. 

It was at this point, while reading the first and oldest journal, that Matt finally remembered the significance of the numbers that had been haunting him. April 3rd, 1677 (4/3/77) was the date Dowle had used the book of spells to summon a powerful and nameless demon. It appeared to him as a formless entity, like living black smoke. The only discernible features were its nine glowing eyes, which glowed like burning embers. It promised him nine lives of wealth, power, and influence, as well as the retention of his memories from each previous life. Upon his ninth death, the demon would return to claim his soul. 

To maintain the spell’s effects, Dowle was required to sacrifice a human being once a year on the anniversary of the pact. This pleased him greatly as it gave him the excuse he needed to unleash the bloodlust he’d suppressed his entire life. He far exceeded the amount of killing necessary to maintain his pact; his list of victims throughout his nine lives numbered in the thousands. 

With great wealth came the ability to build secret torture chambers, constructed within the depths of his castles, châteaux, and colonial mansions over the next few centuries. His positions of power and influence generally kept him above suspicion. And on the rare occasion that he had come under scrutiny, he’d used his vast resources to pay off, discredit, or kill anyone whom he considered a threat. 

Throughout all nine lives, he had searched for a loophole in the demon’s pact, and finally, in his life as multi-millionaire Frank Kingston, he had. A combination of technology and mystical knowledge was his salvation; a way to project his soul—by releasing it into the limbo between life and death. The answer was suspended animation; a way to cause all bodily functions to cease, and untether his soul from its human vessel. It would be out of reach of the demon, forcing it to return to its dimension empty-handed, unless it was ever summoned again. 

The plan had worked. Goddamn if it hadn’t! Now he was unfrozen and alive again, free of the demon and eager to enter a new pact—with a different entity. He glanced around at the dungeon he’d built and examined some of the torturous devices lined up against the bloodstained walls: thumbscrews, a Pear of Anguish, a Breast Ripper—even a custom-made Iron Maiden. Memories of the men, women and children he’d tortured mercilessly and slain floated through his mind. Recollections came slowly at first—like spectres. He remembered the nigger who had managed to escape the dungeon in his colonial mansion that night in 1803. He’d quickly caught up to the man and blown his brains out on the private road leading to his plantation. This was the spectral reenactment he’d witnessed on the highway a few days ago. Not a hallucination. Not a ghost.

He recalled the woman he’d seen sliced open in Mary Beth’s bedroom. In a previous life as a brothel owner in Paris, he had choked the woman to death with her own intestines. She had dared to scratch his face when he’d tried to rape her and he’d made her pay for it dearly. He had loved that woman; or something as close to love as he could fathom.

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. He was now more vulnerable than he’d been in centuries. Without the protection of a pact, if he somehow died, he wouldn’t be resurrected a tenth time. He needed to summon another demon quickly, and that would require a fresh kill. Perhaps that whore Mary Beth he’d met in the bar. She lived alone; she was an easy target. Then again, that bartender who had seen them together might remember his face if the police investigated—so perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. 

A phone rang from upstairs, startling him. It was the first time he’d heard it. Who could be calling at this time of night?

He raced up the stairs to catch the caller before they hung up, excited at the prospect of someone from his past calling.

“Hello?” he said breathlessly into the receiver.

Silence.

Straining, he could hear breathing on the other end of the line.

“Who is this?” Matt demanded.

“Dr. Smythe,” a familiar voice answered.

Matt ground his teeth. “About goddamn time you returned my call.”

“Listen,” the doctor said. “I need to see you right away. I have to talk to you in person. The phone isn’t safe.” 

Matt said, “Isn’t safe? What are you—” 

“Tonight at the clinic. I’m the only one on duty.”

Matt grew more suspicious. “I want answers, Smythe.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get them... I know things.” 

The next thing Matt heard was a dial tone. 

Matt struggled to remember any details about Dr. Smythe—certain parts of his memory still remained fuzzy. He vaguely remembered procuring the doctor’s services, and paying him a king’s ransom for his discretion.

He wondered how he’d found Smythe in the first place—possibly through Wheeler. 

I know things. Those were his last words on the phone. Matt didn’t like the implication; if Smythe knew anything incriminating he would have to be disposed of. 

Matt grabbed his gun before he left, realizing this new situation might work to his advantage. After all, he was in need of a fresh victim in order to summon a demon again.

*    *    *

Matt arrived at the clinic an hour later to find the front door unlocked and wide open.

He’d already been tense, but now he was getting downright jumpy. He didn’t like being exposed in this way; he liked more control over his victims. He reached into the large front pocket of his winter coat and wrapped his hands around the Glock .9mm hidden there.

“Hello,” he called out as he entered the tenebrous, empty lobby. His voice echoed back, cold and hollow. Matt felt the walls by the door for a light switch but found none.

In his left hand he carried a knapsack filled with the specific materials he would need to conjure another demon. The dungeon in his mansion had been filled with every conceivable herb, root, gemstone, aromatic, and occult ingredient imaginable. The sooner he could enter into a new pact the better. He wasn’t comfortable in his current unprotected state; for the first time in centuries, death would be permanent. 

He locked the clinic door from the inside and pulled out his gun. There was an oddly familiar scent in the air, but he couldn’t quite place it. “Dr. Smythe!” he called out and ventured deeper into the shadows. 

Despite the uncomfortably cold temperature, sweat slid down his temples. He started to think he’d made a mistake coming here in the first place, but realized he’d probably never get a better chance at the doctor alone.

He moved farther into the darkened hallway; it was dimly lit at the other end by what he guessed was a red light just beyond his view. It cast a faint, eerie glow across the walls. His throat felt more constricted with each step he took. 

A moment later he nearly cried out in fear when he noticed a dark figure standing motionless at the end of hall. 

It was a nude female with long, disheveled hair backlit in crimson.

“Hel... hello,” he croaked, his throat feeling bone dry. 

The figure remained deathly still. 

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a gun.” Where the hell was Smythe?

A hideous, unidentifiable sound erupted from the woman’s throat and she began to move toward him. When the light caught her just right, he could see that her face had been savagely carved off. 

He had done that to many pretty girls. 

Yet this hallucination didn’t vanish quickly like the previous ones had. As she drew closer with outstretched arms, he could smell her rotting corpse. He fired his gun and a bullet blew a hole through her neck, exposing the cartilage and muscle underneath. The faceless woman staggered from the impact, and then reached for him again—her fingers curled like claws. 

Matt took a step back, about to fire at her again when he felt a terrible pain in his right calf. A boy drenched in blood—no more than 5 years old—was biting into his leg like a wild animal. 

He shot several bullets into the child’s head until it resembled the remains of a smashed bowl that had been filled with jelly. He took note that the lower half of young boy was missing. The little bastard was one of countless children he’d torn in two on the rack over the centuries. It was one of his great delights. But the sight of it now—rotted flesh and all—was turning his stomach. 

At the end of the hall, more silhouettes appeared. Four... then eight... then so many he lost count. A handful of them were headless. 

He emptied his rounds into the growing horde, watched some of them jerk back as the bullets slammed into them. The sound of gunfire in the confined space stung his ears. 

Silently, they kept coming. 

He felt his knapsack slip from his fingers... heard the contents spill onto the ground. But he ignored it, his thoughts only on survival now. 

He ran the other way, wincing at the bleeding wound in his calf. How could a hallucination bite him like that? It wasn’t possible!

As he raced for the lobby, he noticed more lumbering figures blocking his path—trying to cut him off. 

He veered toward the right and into another dark hallway, panic rising in him. Godammit, there has to be an emergency exit!

Just ahead was a glass door; Authorized Personnel Only was emblazoned on it.

He hit the door running and it swung open wide. He recognized where he was immediately: the main chamber for body storage. He spun and closed the door, locking it from the inside. The chilly temperature in the room was almost painful; he huddled into his jacket for warmth. The rows of cryo-units reminded him of shiny, metal coffins. A wave of claustrophobia swept over him; he had spent a decade inside one of those loathsome things. 

The mob of animated corpses reached the thick glass door and began to claw at it, smearing it with blood and other bodily fluids. The face of a young girl in front was smashed against the glass; there were two jagged holes where her eyes used to be. 

The door wouldn’t hold them for long. 

A strange, unearthly sound emanated from behind him. He spun around to see thick black smoke swirling around him as if alive. He recognized it immediately and started to scream—but it caught in his throat, his vocal chords paralyzed. In fact, he couldn’t move any muscles at all. 

Smoke continued to gather like the clouds of a terrible storm and formed into a human shape—that of Dr. Smythe. His hardened face twitched and his lips gave way to the faintest hint of satisfaction.

“Don’t you think it’s time to end this charade?” Smythe said, and the voice was as cold as his narrowed eyes. He appeared to float toward Matt, stopping barely an inch from his face. The stench caused him to choke; a smell he now recognized as sulfur. It was exuding from the demon’s mouth.

“Your doublecross was well-thought out,” it said. “I’ll give you that. But you didn’t read our contract, did you? It binds us in every way—we are symbiotic. I was aware of your deceitful plans the moment you thought of them.

“In fact, I’m not here. I’m in your mind. Everything you’ve experienced is by design, an intricate drama starring you as the lead, while everyone you’ve encountered were extras and supporting players. I gave you the worst thing imaginable... the hope of happiness and freedom... just so I could strip it all away and reveal the truth of what you really are.” 

Tears began to spill from Matt’s eyes. For he knew that everything the nameless demon said was true. 

“I can read your thoughts now. You’re terrified of going back into that cryo-unit for all of eternity.” A grin spread across the demon’s face. “But that’s the best part.”

Matt struggled to understand. 

“Don’t you see?” the demon laughed. “You never left it to begin with.”

It was then that Matt noticed the silver nameplate above the nearest cryo-unit. It read:

Cryo-Unit 7734

Matthew Jackson

Status: In Stasis

Matt was no longer a tangible form. He felt his consciousness still inside the cryo-unit. He struggled against it, desperate to maintain the illusion, to keep his physical form outside the metal coffin. 

The cold fear of what was coming rose in him; trapped forever inside his body, unable to move, yet conscious of every moment. 

There had been no hallucinations. He was the hallucination. 

As the last of his consciousness returned to the darkness of the stasis chamber, his vision inverted. From this new perspective, he saw the engraved numbers on his nameplate, and finally understood their true meaning.

His mind began to scream. 

7734 upside down spelled hell.