Deep in the Darkness (21 page)

Sleepwalking. Parasomnambulism, as we doctors call it. It usually occurs after an exposure to events of extreme stress, and indeed, I've had my good share these past few days. Beginning with Phillip's tale of the Isolates. Jessica's fear of ghosts. The deer. Lauren Hunter. Rosy Deighton's death, and then Phillip's betrayal. Not to mention Christine's pregnancy.

And now, hypothesizing even further into revelation, I realized that the dream had appeared so damn real because it
was
real. I
hadn't
been dreaming. I'd been
sleepwalking.

My mind began to whirl. I pushed it aside and walked into the patient waiting room.

For a brief moment I wondered what I must've looked like, whether the stress was showing on my face. But at this point in the game, who cared? Did it matter what my patients really thought of me? No, probably not, considering the possibility that they too were all in on some grand conspiracy, and that I was just some little pawn in their wicked game.

The waiting room was empty. I turned around, curiously saw no one. The only evidence of anyone having been here was a half-filled glass of Rosy's dark green tea on the small end-table alongside the couch. Absently, I walked behind the cutout and thumbed through the day-planner, locating the page for today's date.

I had no appointments scheduled for today.

Or for tomorrow. Or the next day. Or...

My heart rate sped up. What started out as a busy practice went completely dead on me—cut off like a damn patient strike. The very odd thing was that up until Lauren Hunter's death, I'd been moderately busy. But then the appointments...they stopped—the empty day planner was the true evidence in black and white. As was the lack of messages on the answering machine. And that frightened me, not for the fact that there'd been some obvious conspiratorial boycott of the town physician, but because I hadn't realized up until now that I'd have absolutely no work to do from this moment forward. No source of income.
Did it really matter? Didn't you plan on leaving here anyway?

So...who came by today?

And were they still here?

Christine had mentioned an elderly woman. I scanned the waiting room one more time then peeked around the bend into the examining room. It too was empty.

That left my office.

I walked into the office, looked right and then left at the bookcases that ran the entire length of the room; the only sound was the ticking of the pendulum clock on the fireplace mantle. The tightly shuttered blinds covering the floor-to-ceiling windows closed out most of the day's light; the room swam in a gloom of dusky shadows. A gentle wind rattled the panes. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. I thought of Page.

I strolled to the desk, looked at the papers piled there, hands searching the dust in my pockets. For a moment I'd forgotten that I'd been looking for someone, and that was when the rug seemed to waver under my feet. I leaned forward, combating the dizziness, hands now on the desk for support. I clambered into the chair and breathed heavily for a minute, trying desperately to stop the stress from taking over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Page's bloody collar sitting on the far right corner of the desk.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, wished it all away, but it came into clearer focus as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Bits of hair jutted from the metal rivets embedded in the tan leather. Heart racing, I pressed my feet against the carpet to see if they still touched solid ground; I hadn't passed out yet. I surveyed the office once again, running a very quick replay of the events of last night, and had a very solid image of the circle of stones in my head when someone spoke to me.

An old woman's voice, coming from behind me.

"Don't turn around, Michael."

A shudder of fear ran through me so powerful it could have been charged. My lips went to speak, but only choppy air came.

"We need to talk," the voice said. The sound of it was slow and staggering. An ancient fortune-teller's words on forty years of Marlboros.

I tried to turn but a terribly numbing discomfort struck my legs and arms. "Why can't I see you?" I asked feebly.

"You need to only listen, and nothing more. But...listen good Michael, I shall not repeat myself."

I hesitated, swallowed, eyed the liquor cabinet and wished for some brandy. "Okay," I answered by default, nodding slightly.
 

"It took you time, but you did what was expected of you. Those around you are now safe...for the time being. But...they will come with more demands, and when the time comes, and it
will
come, you must be here for them, ready, willing, and able. Do not deny them. Do not resist them. Do not attempt to leave. And most importantly, do not tell a soul of this. You must isolate yourself, then adhere to my words, and to their demands."

"Who are you talking about?" I asked, feigning ignorance. I already knew she was referring to the Isolates.

"Those that govern the land. Their way is the law, and it must not be broken. He who denies their command shall suffer through the torture, pain, and the mortality of their loved ones."

"God, are you saying—?"

"Do as I say Michael...live your life as if nothing at all has occurred, and do nothing out of the ordinary. Separate yourself from your family, from your daughter Jessica and your pregnant wife Christine. And then, when the time comes, heed their beckon and do as
they
say, and no harm will come to your family. Much will be expected of you, I suggest you prepare yourself. Your role is one of great importance."

"My role?" I asked, horrified.

"In time, you will find out. Remember, repeat nothing of this to anyone, most of all your family. Their lives will be taken should you not heed this warning, I promise you that."

A period of silence followed. I could hear the air exiting my lungs in hurried bursts. I fought the numbness in my legs and turned the chair. It spun on its hinges. I used my toes against the rug to stop it, catching only a glimpse of the woman as she fled the room. It was enough to unnerve me for a lifetime.

She'd looked over her shoulder at me the moment I laid eyes on her: the magnetism of the moment carried great strength, her gaze locking not only my eyes but my entire body into full numbing inaction. It was at this moment I realized that she must've used some kind of unearthly ability to set me into paralysis, I could see the proof of it in her eyes.

Her golden eyes.

They lay framed in a brown-colored face chiseled with deep wrinkles; the tone of her skin bore a craggy characteristic, the dark grimy complexion of a woman who lived a life bathing in soil and sunlight. Gray hair fell to her shoulders in matted scraggs, dirty clothes shrouding her body like oily service-station rags. Her approximate height of four-and-a-half feet didn't detract from the supernaturally menacing presence she exhibited.

I raised a hand, tried to speak to her; a wispy "wait" fell from my lips. Her eyes glowed gold, lighting up the corner of the room as she slipped away into the waiting room.

I forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled precariously then gave out, and I crashed down to the floor. "Wait!" I called out again, this time louder and with a bit of newfound strength; apparently the woman's spell had left along with her. I scrambled to my knees and staggered out of the office into the waiting room. As I passed between rooms, I caught a rather unusual scent, something spicy, earthy. Like sodden leaves on a forest floor.

All that was left of her.

Old Lady Zellis.

A Matter Of When

S
ummer segued into fall. The trees shamelessly shed their leaves after boasting a month's worth of bold colors. Jessica had started kindergarten and was in the full swing of modern education, dressing up as a bumblebee for an in-class Halloween celebration of cupcakes and candy corn, compliments of Ashborough's proud and gleaming parents. The fridge was adorned with harvest decorations, including a cock-eyed turkey with four movable tail feathers that Jessica made in school (little did Mr. Tom Turkey know, apparently, that we humans would eagerly carve up his kind after basting his sorry little ass for five hours at a blistering four hundred and fifty degrees). Jessica was proud of her artistic creation and boasted a newfound knowledge of the peace-and-friendship Thanksgiving dinner that took place between the pilgrims and the Indians four hundred years ago. Little did
she
know that the white man would pretty much pluck and torch those poor Indians after the celebration was over. They didn't teach land-pillaging in kindergarten.

My patients slowly but surely came back to me, and I planted myself into a comfortable routine of appointments in the morning and clerical work during the afternoon, necessitating chores like filling out insurance reimbursement forms and restocking medicinal supplies. Place-order applications were sent out
 
daily along with pharmaceutical sample requests. And then, when that work was done, I'd spend the rest of the day returning phone calls and making certain that all patient records were accurately recorded.

Afterwards I'd spend some quality time with Jessica, talk to her about her day and find out what other worldly wisdoms had been conveyed to her by the now famous and well-regarded Mrs. Ehlers. We'd spend dinner together as a family, eating mostly in silence, and then at eight o'clock when Jessica went to bed I'd quietly retire into my office, pour a shot of brandy, and stare out the window into the darkness of the woods.
   

And wait.

Eventually I'd turn in around midnight—long after Christine went to sleep. We still slept in the same bed together, but never held each other anymore.

We also didn't speak much anymore. This was mostly my doing. I've gone virtually mute on her.

At first my silence angered her, then it concerned her. Then it downright frustrated her. She'd grown distant from me after getting pregnant, and I'd assumed that my silence would be mostly accepted. But soon she discovered that living with someone who refused to engage in conversation wasn't exactly what she'd wanted, and she began an ineffective struggle to get to the root of the problem—my repression, she assumed—by trying to talk to me, or yell at me, or cry out loud and babble endlessly. Sometimes things would get really bad and she'd insist on a reason for my silence by grabbing my collar and getting right in my face like a drill Sergeant, releasing tears of indignation and sometimes a sidelong fist or two. I'd squeeze my eyes shut and scream and push away from her, then flee the house and walk on down the road to Phillip Deighton's place where we'd drink bourbon and talk about how hopelessly damned we were. I'd talk about Christine and how she'd changed and how it nearly killed me to have cut off almost all forms of communication with her; about how our marriage was tackling a very rocky surface. I'd explain that I'd gone silent on her because I was extremely concerned I might slip up or say the wrong thing and inadvertently allude to the existence of the Isolates (she ignored me the first time I tried to convince her of their presence, this being prior to the Old Lady's warning), who were still waiting in the wings for me, watching me, listening to every word I'd said. And I knew that if I
did
say something wrong, they would punish me by hurting Christine or Jessica or even the unborn baby, just like they did to Rosy and Phillip's daughter. Just like they'd probably done to so many others too. Silence...it was the only protector in this instance, and I pleaded my case to Phillip time and time again and he would nod an agreement and tell me that I was doing the right thing. He'd asked if I'd done any talking to her at all, and I revealed that unless it was over something completely necessary, like her pregnancy (Christine is showing quite a bit for someone only four months pregnant—they say that this always happens the second time around) or when Jessica isn't feeling well, I'd pretty much clam up and keep to myself.

And then when this conversation was over we'd begin to talk about how the time hadn't yet come for me to assume my role in the grand scheme of things. Here Phillip would turn the page and go mostly silent on me, leading me to believe that he retained some knowledge as to what the Isolates had planned for me; it only stands to reason that Neil Farris may have once been the player in this role before I came along, and now that I'm in his place...well, Phillip's been around long enough to know the comings and goings in these parts.

Phillip would offer up replies such as,
When the time comes, you'll know
or
Honestly, Michael, I've no clue as to what they might have in store for you
. I've never pressed the issue. He's been through a lot more pain and suffering than me, and it wasn't my place to dig. After all, I was doing the same thing to Christine: withholding information. And I was doing it to protect her. Perhaps Phillip was trying to protect me as well. Maybe. Then again, he might still be protecting himself; after all, both his family members were now gone. I've still never forgiven the man for setting me up, but he's the only damn soul I can talk to about
it
. Somehow I feel that there's a safety net around him, as if he's the only exception to the whole damned unprincipled rule. That with him, I can say anything I want. Apparently, it appears this might very well be the case, as there hasn't been a single incident at 17 Harlan Road since the night I sacrificed Page upon the center stone. And for that, I am very thankful. Without Philip to talk to, I would have gone crazy a long time ago.