Scribner Horror Bundle: Four Horror Novels by Joshua Scribner (41 page)

“Now,” Dr. Porter said, “I want you to
remember the time right before you took your first drink of
alcohol. Signal me when you are there.”

In a matter of two seconds, Peter’s
“yes” finger shot up. In a regular state of consciousness, Peter
would have had to search his mind for a much longer time. Even
then, if he could find the memory, it would be fuzzy. Peter
wouldn’t be able to experience what he was thinking and feeling at
that time so long ago, because his mind would be too crowded with
what was going on right now and in his recent life. But under
hypnosis, Peter had total access to that long ago time, without
anything contaminating his experience.

“Go ahead and take that first drink,”
Dr. Porter said.

After a couple of seconds, Peter
actually gulped, and then a look of disgust came over his face. He
wasn’t tasting alcohol as it tasted last night, when he’d had
several shots of bourbon before bed. He was tasting alcohol as it
had tasted so many years ago, before addiction made the flavor a
signal of approaching comfort.

Dr. Porter knew this case would be a
success. Within Peter’s subconscious, Dr. Porter would find all he
needed to help this patient conquer his addiction. He would attach
that initial taste of alcohol to the here and now, and when Peter
went to take his next drink—probably later tonight—it wouldn’t be
the soothing taste that comes with years of dependence, but that
initial taste from years ago that brought out his body’s natural
tendency to reject something that tasted bad. He would remember
those early days, his first hangover, the first time he dry heaved
fumes of whiskey. These memories would come with clarity, no longer
buried under years of alcohol-dependent experiences.

And Peter would be fine. Dr. Porter
knew this, because since he’d set up practice in Green Pastures,
South Carolina, seventeen years ago, he’d seen such successes
hundreds of times. In an ever-growing geographical area, he was the
one other mental health professionals sent the cases they couldn’t
help. There was a waiting list to be on Dr. Porter’s waiting list.
But with all of his success, it wasn’t the improved clients that
Dr. Porter dwelled on late at night when the workday was done. It
was the few clients whom he had failed that stuck in his
mind.

***

Janet Pollard sat at the dinner table
with her favorite three people in the world. Robert, her husband, a
tall strong man, Superintendent of Pious Schools, alternated his
attention between his plate and his two sons, one which he had
conceived, one which he had inherited through marriage. Robert had
been, and Janet was sure would always be, a good father to both the
boys. Janet knew that wasn’t always easy. It was easy with the son
he had brought into this world, 14-year-old Randy, a prize athlete,
exceptional student, and a pretty damn good kid, the image of his
father. It was somewhat more difficult with Toby, who, at 17-years
old, was neither the image of his stepfather nor his biological
father, whom died shortly after Toby’s birth. No, Toby stood in
perfect contrast to both of those men. He was not strong and
healthy like his stepfather, and he was not morbidly obese like his
biological dad, whose 400-pound girth had contributed to the
massive heart attack that killed him. Toby, at five-seven, weighed
slightly over ninety pounds.

Tonight, her husband held back his
excitment. It was the first week in September. Tomorrow night would
bring the first football game of the season. Randy, like his
father, tall and strong, would be the first freshman ever to start
at quarterback for the Pious Eagles. That was what they had
expected to be the conversation piece at dinner tonight. But the
excitement over Randy was held in check right now, because another
drama played itself out at the table. Toby, who usually only
brought vegetables to his plate, had, on this night, started out
with a slab of meatloaf.

Something bad must have happened
today, because only after something bad happened—usually someone
singling him out—did Toby make such a desperate attempt to overcome
his aversion. Only after someone terrorized him about his small
stature did he try to take upon himself what various professionals,
medical and psychological, had not been able to help him with. More
than Toby’s attempt at eating meat told Janet something was wrong.
She had known as soon as they came home from practice, where Randy
was a star, and Toby, who could never play but loved the game so
much that he had to be close to it, was given the title of manager
and allowed to tend to the water and equipment. She had known
because Toby had come home quiet and Randy, trying to bring his
brother out of himself, had tried hard to engage Toby.

Janet, herself a healthy and
attractive woman at forty-two, knew this was more than Toby’s
battle. It was the whole family’s battle, because that was the way
the four of them worked. Toby’s problem had always been there, and
they had always combined against it, even after they had exhausted
every resource of professional help and come to accept that the
best they could do was offer moral support.

Toby had finished half the slab of
meat and then stopped. He then stared straight ahead as if trying
to concentrate on his body’s reaction. Janet remembered his father
and his reverse struggles. The man shunned about every piece of
food but meat. And he ate voraciously, like a lion in the jungle,
unable to control himself.

Janet had seen Toby’s drama played out
many times. Though she tried to maintain hope, she knew as well as
the others at the table how this drama would end. She decided to
try to lighten the mood.

“So how was practice?” she
asked.

Both Robert and Randy looked at her,
obviously surprised that the silence had been broken.

“Good,” Randy said and then turned to
his brother, who sat diagonally from him. “We ought to make a good
show tomorrow, right Toby?”

Toby didn’t answer, just stared
ahead.

“How are the older boys with you
taking over the quarterback position?" Robert asked Randy, but
looked at Janet. Robert, Janet knew, was a little confused now. He
managed Pious schools, but the unspoken agreement was that Janet
was number one in matters of family. Janet nodded at her husband to
let him know it was all right to distract attention from the
drama.

“Well,” Randy responded. “They’ve all
come around. We moved Matt over to tight end, and he seems to like
it enough.”

“That sounds good,” Robert said, more
relaxed. “As burly as Matt is, I didn’t think he was mobile enough
to be quarterback.”

Randy nodded. “Yeah. And the
upperclassmen like me well enough. But that’s just because most of
them are good friends with my big brother.”

It was a lie, a beautiful, sweet lie
that almost brought tears to Janet’s eyes. Randy, who was just
under six feet and still growing, handsome, with his father’s solid
features and Janet’s wavy blonde hair, was miles away from where
any other fourteen-year-old with his physical endowment would be.
He didn’t prey on or ignore the meek, either of which he could have
done without losing status amongst his peers. He was lying for his
brother’s sake. Those older boys thought Toby nothing more than a
mascot. What Randy had gained in a short time, respect and
popularity, was due completely to his own charm and
prowess.

“Yeah, Big Bro paved the way for you,”
Robert said, joining in the patronizing. Janet suspected the false
flattery did nothing for Toby’s self-esteem. He appreciated it,
because he knew it came from their affection for him, but he knew
just as well that it was based on lies.

And then the drama climaxed. Toby got
up quickly and rushed to the hall. The bathroom door slammed shut,
but even closed, did not completely drown out the terrible sounds
of Toby’s vomiting spell. His stomach had forced up meat, which,
for some reason that medical and psychological doctors could not
explain, repulsed Toby. It was yet another failed attempt to
overcome that repulsion.

***

Dr. Porter came to from his
self-initiated trance. He lay alone, in his dark office, on the
inclined couch. Peter Harris, his last client of the day, had left
about an hour ago. Alice, his secretary, had left shortly after
that. He had locked the doors and turned out the lights.

Dr. Porter never engaged in
self-hypnosis experiments when someone else was nearby. He didn’t
want others questioning his endeavors. That was his main impetus
for coming to Green Pastures soon after receiving his PHD from
Harvard. He didn’t want others questioning his work and clouding
his mind with their skepticism and critical remarks. He didn’t want
to engage in scholarly fellowship and be sucked into its
intermingled politics, and he didn’t want his contemporaries
questioning his choice not to share his research. So he came to
Green Pastures from Cambridge, to a place far away from the Ivy
League and anyone he knew. And in Green Pastures, as he practiced
his art, he studied, a little in books, but mostly in the
subconscious minds of others and himself. That was the best way to
do it. The subconscious held all the answers.

The trance had been exactly thirty
minutes, because before he went under, Dr. Porter had set a part of
his subconscious to monitor every tick of the clock on his office
wall. That part was programmed to bring him up after 1800 ticks.
This trick was relatively new in his self-hypnotic routine. He had
brought it in about six weeks ago, when he first decided he would
attempt to reach previously uncharted regions of trance. That way
his mind would be free of angst about not being able to come back
from the deepest levels of the subconscious, and he could relax
enough to go there.

For a few weeks, he had gone deeper
and deeper, further away from his outside experience and further
into the inside. Then he had reached what he thought was the
bottom. He went there a few more times and saw the same thing as
before. Then tonight, for the first time, he brought light to what
he saw. And now he was far advanced beyond anyone in the history of
hypnosis research. Hopefully, he’d soon be able to help anyone. The
already rare client whom he couldn’t heal would become
nonexistent.

Dr. Porter became very excited. But it
wasn’t just that he wanted to help people. In fact, helping people
wasn’t the main motivation for his work or his research. Helping
people was a mere byproduct of his search for knowledge. For Dr.
Porter, life had become like working a giant puzzle that no one
else had ever been able to finish. And now, with where he had taken
himself, he thought he was at least gathering up the last pieces.
But it was still all very preliminary. He’d seen the deepest level
of the subconscious, but he didn’t know if he could take others
there. He needed his favorite guinea pig.

***

On Thursday night, Dr. Porter had
dinner with his favorite guinea pig. As a rule, though he
frequently studied his clients, he was careful not to involve them
in anything completely new, where he didn’t know all the dangers.
Given time, he was sure he could undo any damage. But with clients,
there was always a chance they would not show for the next session.
With his favorite guinea pig, time and danger were of no real
consequence.

Shortly after coming to Green
Pastures, he had contracted with a cleaning service for his house.
They sent him Tabitha. She was an attractive woman, seven years
younger than he, and, more importantly, very agreeable. He began
courting her immediately. Through careful indirect questioning and
meticulous observation, he came to understand her. Tabitha did not
want to think or work very hard, yet she wanted the things such
labors would provide.

Their marriage, not much later, was an
unspoken agreement. Dr. Porter would provide the things Tabitha
coveted. In exchange, Tabitha would be there for him and never
question what he was doing. Both had lived up to their end of the
bargain. Besides income from his practice, Dr. Porter had made many
wise Stock Market investments. Tabitha had her nice things: a big
house, a BMW, vacations, expensive clothing and jewelry. And by not
having much pressure in her life, Tabitha had maintained a youthful
appearance. At thirty-seven, with her hair still blonde, her face
still smooth, and her body, which had never born a child, still
slender and flawless, she was often mistaken for being much
younger. In exchange, Tabitha took very good care of the house, and
she was always a willing subject in any experiment he wanted to
involve her subconscious in, while at the same time, never
discussing the experiments with anyone and never questioning the
experimenter.

Near the end of dinner Thursday night,
Dr. Porter told his wife that he needed her to help him the next
day.

“Okay,” she said with a Barbie Doll
smile.

Chapter 2

Morgan’s Pub was dead on Thursday
night. That came as no surprise to Celeste Sheever, who had been a
server there for four years now. She didn’t fret that she would
leave tonight with less than $50 in tips. Working the underpaying
weeknights at this downtown pub was the dues she paid to work
Friday and Saturday night, each of which would get her between $150
and $200. No, it wasn’t that she wasn’t making money that bothered
her. It was the awkwardness.