Chapter Seven

There’s nothing quite like coming home to a quiet house after a long night of annoying customers, phantasmal visions, and other burdens of the retail night shift. I was looking forward to kicking off my sock and shoe and settling in for a book marathon until it was time to get ready for work again. (I know my life may seem a tad pathetic from the outside, but that’s just because it is.)

When Jerry dropped me off at my front door, I thought that would be the end of my day. I couldn’t have expected how wrong I was.

Brrrriiinnnggg… Brrriiinnnggg…

I had just finished my morning medicine routine when it started—the annoying robotic scream for my attention. I grabbed my crutch and stepped out of the bathroom.

Brrrriiinnnggg… Brrriiinnnggg… There was no doubt. That was the sound of an old-fashioned home phone. Strange, considering this home didn’t have a phone. Plenty of bygones of a simpler time—linoleum flooring, asbestos insulation, floral wallpaper, probably a chimney ghost or two—but not a home phone. Yet something was ringing, and it was relentless. Brrriiinnnggg… I needed to track it down before it ended. How many times has it rung? Ten? Twenty? 

The noise grew louder as I made my way down the hall. Brrrriiinnnggg… Past the living room. Past the kitchen. I was getting closer. Brrrriiinnnggg… Closer. 

I pushed open the door and stepped into the dining room. I was almost on top of it now. I cupped an ear and focused. Brrrriiinnnggg… 

Bingo! It was coming from the china cabinet against the wall. Funny, I’d never really paid much attention to that piece of furniture. When the previous occupants moved out, one of my Brrrriiinnnggg… foster sisters raided all the dishware. Since then, I’d gradually stuffed the shelves with old books and comics, but I never noticed Brrrriiinnnggg… a phone in there before.

I found it sitting behind a stack of mysteries I’d polished off about a year earlier—an antique rotary style, solid black, covered in dust, wholly unassuming, but screaming out for someone to Brrrriiinnnggg… answer. It made sense that my foster sister would leave it behind. Too old to pawn and too common to be collectible. I could see the cord running to a hole drilled into the back. I squeezed up next to the wall to see that the cable ran into a phone outlet I never knew existed. 

Wait, does this mean someone’s been paying a monthly phone bill this entire time for nothing? Whose bank account is it even hooked up to? I should find out. I should find out right now. No time like the present!

I realized what I was doing. I was stalling. I had a bad history with phone calls, and no reason to expect things to change under these circumstances. For the briefest of moments, I considered unplugging the cord and walking away. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. After all, I’ve ignored much bigger mysteries without any trouble.

Brrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnngggggg!!!

“Okay!” I shouted at the stupid phone. “Enough already! I’m going to answer you! Just chill out!” Brrrriiinnnggg… “This had better not be one of my stalkers calling to taunt me, or else you’re going straight into the bathtub.” Brrrriiinnnggg…

I sighed. The phone didn’t care, and we both knew it. It just wanted to do its job and go back to gathering dust in peace. I could respect that. I quietly apologized to the inanimate object for my outburst, grabbed the receiver, Brrrriii—, and answered with my friendliest, “Hello?”

The voice was soft and pleasant, with the slightest hint of ill humor. “Hello, Mr. Townsend. I’m so glad I was finally able to reach you.” I recognized him right away. This was Sawyer, the man who had contacted me about the pro bono prosthetic. (Just when I was beginning to assume that the whole thing was an elaborate scam to steal my blood.) I was so surprised to hear from him that I forgot I’d already given my greeting. 

“Hi,” I said redundantly.

Not to be outdone, he returned a friendly, “Hi, there.”

This was already shaping up to be a conversation of above-average awkwardness. I needed to get the call back on track, so I went with the only thing I could think of. 

“Hello, Sawyer!”

“Um, yes. Hi, Jack.”

“Hi. This is Jack. From the gas station.”

“Yes, I know… Sorry, can you hear me?”

“Yes. I can hear you.”

“Good.”

“Hi.”

He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was with a hint of urgency, like he was trying to get the words out before I hello-bombed him again. “Mr. Townsend, as you may recall from when we last spoke, I represent the charitable interests of a certain anonymous philanthropist.”

“Yes, I remember. How are you?”

“I’m happy to report that your new leg is nearly ready. You should be receiving some literature in the mail soon. We advise you to read over everything in order to familiarize yourself with the process of living with a prosthetic limb.”

“Cool.”

“You will receive the leg by certified mail somewhere between ten and—” [mumble mumble] “—business days.”

“Super cool.”

“Yes, indeed. Do you have any questions for me at this time?”

“Just one: How did you get this number?”

“This is the number from your file. You gave us all of your information when you came in for your testing. Address, birthday, social—”

“Yeah, but I didn't give you this number. I didn't even know this number existed. I didn’t even know this phone existed. The only number I gave you was the one to my cell.”

There was a long pause before he responded. “Ahhh, you know what? I probably dialed the wrong number again by accident. Sometimes, when I'm in a hurry, I miss the buttons.”

I didn’t try to hide my doubt. “You mean to tell me you tried calling my cell phone… dialed the wrong number—by mistake—and it just so happened to be the home telephone number to the exact house where I live?”

“Crazy coincidence, isn't it? Anyway, if there’s nothing else, this concludes our business together. Goodbye, Mr. Townsend, and have a wonderful life.”

 

***

 

I tried calling my cell from the home phone so I could save the house number in case I ever needed it, but apparently I’m too dumb to operate a rotary dial. I couldn’t even find a dial tone on the thing.

I made myself a poor man’s mocha (coffee and hot cocoa powder) and settled into my usual spot on the couch with a book about a cake decorator who gets in too deep with the Yakuza. It had been a long day, and I was mentally drained. More than that, I was tired. Sure, I was always tired. I had been for years. But this was something else…

My body was weary, but my brain was a browser with too many tabs opened. At some point, I reached the end of a page only to realize that I hadn’t absorbed a single word. I started over from the top of the page. By the time my eyes reached the last line, I still couldn’t remember anything I’d read. Or even how many times I’d restarted.

Too much time in another world, I decided. The book would have to wait. I needed to shut down my brain. I could try doing some yoga and meditation. Or more realistically, I could see what was on the television.

But for some reason... I couldn’t put the book down. 

As in, I literally couldn’t put the book down. Was I really this lazy and tired? That I’d rather sit here for hours holding a book that couldn't keep my interest? I closed my eyes and forced myself to pull it together. Even sitting here all alone, I knew that this was embarrassing. When I reopened my eyes, it was with purpose and refreshed motivation. I took a breath and forced my muscles to… do nothing. 

Not a damn thing.

I sat there… And waited... I struggled to move my head but… it wasn’t budging.

And soon… I came to realize…

...I wasn’t being lazy…

...I wasn’t poorly incentivized…

...I really wanted to move, but I couldn’t... 

...I was frozen…

...paralyzed…

I tried my arms, my fingers, my toes, everything. There was an impassable disconnect between brain and body, and the only things responding to any thought were my eyes and that steadily growing sense of anxiety. I could feel the sweat forming, but I couldn’t wipe it away. I couldn’t say or do anything at all.

Okay, try not to panic. You seem to be unable to move. No biggie. It must be a reaction to all the drugs. Just give them some time to work out of your system, and then things will go back to normal. Or if not, O’Brien will come by and check on you in about ten hours or so. All you have to do is chill out until then.

This isn’t a big deal. It’s not like you have bugs or rats crawling around on you. God, why would I even think of something like that? Well at least I’m not itchy. OH HELL why did I bring that up?! What’s wrong with me? Now EVERYTHING itches! It’s okay; it’s okay; ignore it until it goes away. SO ITCHY! Hey, why don’t you try and read these pages again? 

I stared at the pages while the words and time and reality emulsified. Some amount of time passed, it could have been seconds or weeks. Reading, it seemed, was out of the question. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about that tickle on the back of my ear.

My eyes shot back open to the sound of the locks on my front door sliding out of place.

Ummm… What the fuck was that?!

The door creaked open.

In my peripheral vision, I could see a figure standing in the entranceway. My heart pounded heavy in my chest. Sweat began to gather and run down my neck. I kept my eyes down, pointed at the book. I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to see who it was. As irrational as I knew it to be, there was the illusion of safety in ignorance.

The moment lasted for a miniature eternity. And then, right when I was starting to believe that the forever might not end, it did. The figure in the corner of my vision closed the door and walked over. He stopped in front of me, but I kept my eyes on the pages. I didn’t want to know what I already knew. I could ignore it. I could pretend he wasn’t there. But then, he pulled the book out of my lap, tossed it onto the floor, and took his seat on the coffee table, exactly where my right foot would have been. We locked eyes, and if I could have screamed, I would have.

Spencer!

He put a finger to his lips, a completely unnecessary signal, and spoke. “I wonder. Does the inability to sleep mean you’re completely immune to nightmares?”

He looked different now. In fact, he looked quite healthy for a man who had so recently taken a bullet to the stomach. His black eye and bruises were long gone. His hair was freshly trimmed and face neatly shaven. Somehow, the clean-cut look made him so much more terrifying. I tried desperately to get my muscles to cooperate, to reach out and do something (what the hell was I going to do anyway? Poke him in the eyes?), but my remaining limbs may as well have been buried underground a thousand miles away.

He leaned in and said in a deep whisper, “Do you even remember nightmares? It’s funny, that word. ‘Nightmare.’ Every culture going back to the dawn of history has had a concept of some kind of creature, or demon, or sinister entity that freezes you, right at the cusp of sleep, leaving you powerless, forcing you to watch as it takes its time torturing you. Sometimes, it’s only your fear she wants. Succubus. The night hag. Shit, nowadays, they just call her ‘sleep paralysis.’ But the Norse had a different name for her. They called her ‘Mara’.” He braided his hands together in his lap and leaned back. 

“The only defense against Mara was to look away and ignore her. And if you had the wrong thoughts, if you acknowledged her existence, Mara would tear you apart, starting with your mind. Night. Mara... Nightmare.”

He leaned forward and tapped me right between the eyes. I knew I could close them again if I wanted to, but that was what he was hoping for, and I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. If he was going to kill me, I wanted him to think I wasn’t afraid.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you yet.” It was almost like he could read my mind. “You shouldn’t be so lucky. You need to stay here and see what you’ve done, watch the whole shitshow unfold in real time. Maybe then you'll finally accept responsibility. Maybe then, you’ll see that what I’ve been saying all along has been the truth. I am not the bad guy.”

He stared at me like he wanted a response. I counted my breaths, the only way I knew to keep track of how much time had passed. According to my sense of time, we might have been staring at one another for hours. But according to my lungs, it was only four full breaths later when he stood and walked around behind me. Out of my range of vision, he whispered into my ear, “I need you to know. The collector isn’t just going after gods anymore. He’s begun collecting people.”

I waited for his next move, the blade or needle or hot poker or scorpion or whatever else he must have brought with him. But it never came. Time passed as it ever did, and eventually, less than a hundred breaths later, I began to feel a tingling in my extremities. By a hundred fifty, my limbs had woken up, and I could actually reach out and grab my phone.

I fell over onto my side as the uniquely uncomfortable feeling of limbs waking up overtook me (including the leg that wasn’t even there anymore—thanks for nothing, amputation). I lost count of my breathing and waited until the tingling sensation had passed, then I took my phone into my hands and started dialing O’Brien’s number. Before I could finish, a thought stopped me.

What exactly am I supposed to say to her?

That was enough to convince me that this plan needed to be placed on hold. For now. I rolled off the couch and grabbed the crutch from the coffee table, then gave my body a quick test drive around the living room. Everything seemed to be functional. 

Spencer was long gone. I went to the front door and noticed that it was closed again. Or maybe it was closed still. The top and bottom deadbolts were locked. If Spencer had really been here, it would have been uncharacteristically considerate of him to lock up behind himself before he left. Unless he was trying to make a point about how he had made copies of my house keys.

I looked at the phone again to see how much time had really passed. To my surprise, I’d only been home alone for about an hour.

After a quick trip to the kitchen to grab my scariest-looking steak knife, I sat down in front of my computer and did a frantic Google search for what the hell just happened. According to the internet, the most likely diagnoses were either a) a severe potassium deficiency exacerbated by all the stress, or b) I was completely faking it for attention.

I returned to the kitchen and force-fed myself the only source of potassium I could find—an old, shriveled, semi-solid black banana. I’d forgotten to eat it when it was ripe and kept putting off throwing it away because I didn’t want to touch it. I washed it down with another cup of coffee as I worked out exactly what I was going to say to O’Brien.

 

***

 

“Is everything okay over there, Crutches?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about. No sign of Spencer at all.”

Why? Why did I bring that up?

“Alright,” she said incredulously. “What’s up?”

“Are you super busy right now?”

“Another sinkhole opened up on the Matherne farm last night. Swallowed up his work shed and a couple pigs.”

“Weird.”

“I don’t know if you heard me, or if it really is the status quo for this town, but a sinkhole opened up on the Matherne farm. An entire building fell into it. But other than that, no, I’m not doing anything important.”

“Do you want to maybe, I don’t know, hang out today?”

“Is something wrong?”

For a red hot second, I almost told her exactly what happened, but I caught myself.

“No. It’s just that we haven’t really had a chance to catch up since you’ve been back. Plus, I’m a little bored.” Not technically lies.

“I thought you liked ‘bored.’”

“I do, normally, but… you know. I’m bored of it.”

“Why don’t you call Pinkie and the Brain? I bet they’d love to hang out.”

“They’re both working.”

“Oh. You don’t want to bother them while they’re at work? How reasonable. Hang on one sec.” I could hear someone talking to her in the background, but couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying. Whoever he was, his voice was raised, and he seemed upset. The only thing I could make out was the phrase “hog eating worms.” I wasn’t sure if he was referring to a pig that was eating worms, or if he was referring to worms capable of eating pigs, but either way it was obviously none of my business so I waited for them to finish their heated conversation. When O’Brien came back on the line, she sounded less annoyed than I expected. “Okay, Jack, I’ve got an idea. If you’re really that bored, why don’t I come pick you up and we can do a ride-along today? You have a clean criminal record, right?”

“Clean-ish.”

“Good enough. I’ll get the paperwork ready and see you in an hour.”

I hesitated before answering, but then I remembered exactly how it felt being trapped with nothing but my vivid hallucinations and overactive imagination to keep me company.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Thirty minutes later, she was parked outside, honking her horn.