The Nightmare Game (12 page)

“No,” said the bartender meekly, his eyes cast
down as he seemingly examined his shoes. This was exactly the opposite reaction
of what I would have expected from a big bruiser such as himself.

“Dog?”

“It’s his nickname for me,” he said quietly. I
could hear the shame in his voice.

“That’s not a nice nickname,” I said. While I’d
heard ‘dog’ used as an affectionate nickname among men in the past, the blond’s
attitude left no doubt to the hurt he intended to inflict with it. I was
starting to feel a little sorry for this man that I had earlier found so
offensive. “Why do you let him call you that?”

“I just work here,” he said brusquely, pretending
to be too busy cleaning the bar to look up. “So whatcha you gonna do, you gonna
drink your drink or you just gonna let it sit there?” It was more of a demand
than a question. Underneath the rudeness, however, I picked up on a sense of
real shame that went beyond much more than just displaced anger at the blond
man.

“Well?” Max said, annoyed, as if my refusal his
drink would be a personal insult.

“I’ll take a sip in a minute, okay. I’ll try it
then,” I said as nicely as I could, but I had no intention of actually drinking
the stuff. I was just trying to be polite because I really felt bad for Max.
“But I have to make a side trip, first. I’ll try it when I get back,” Lying and
stalling, I was not about to drink his bizarre cocktail. The warnings of Marcus
and Virginia seemed tremendously easy to heed now, for the concoction did not
look even mildly tempting.

“Max, can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”
I whispered. I needed an excuse to get away from the bar and then afterward, I
would leave. I saw no reason that I needed to stay, no sign of any impending
action. Marcus and Virginia had told me that this was my first step, but all I
saw here was an enormous waste of my time.

He pointed towards a black wrought iron door to
the rear of the club and said, “Just go through there.”

As I walked toward the door, I heard muffled
giggles that reminded me of junior high school, followed by a man’s loud
whisper of “Geoffrey, stop it. You three as well, stop it right now,” as if
chiding small children misbehaving in church. Well, at least one of them was
decent, I thought as I continued on my way without bothering to look behind me.
I opened the door that lead to the bathroom area and on the other side was a
tiny room that was painted completely black, floor, walls and ceiling. Three
blood red doors with black doorknobs were all that the room contained. None of
the doors were marked.

“OK,” I thought to myself, completely confused.
“One is for men, one is for ladies, one is for what? Extraterrestrials?”

I didn’t know which door to use, so I turned to go
back into the main room and ask the bartender. But when I did, the entryway was
gone. There was just a blank wall where the wrought-iron door had stood only a
moment ago. Immediately, I felt trapped and began to panic. Claustrophobia set
in. My only option was to go through one of the three red doors. Two must be
bathrooms and the other one must be the exit. But which one? Since my objective
was simply to get out of here, I chose the odd door at the far wall opposite
between the one at my left and the one at my right. If it wasn’t the rear exit,
well, nothing ventured, nothing gained and I’d just try another door.

The door, which closed on its own immediately
behind me, led into an incredibly dark room, and was not the exit. Dark was an
understatement, in fact; pitch black was more accurate. Panicking, I fumbled
for the door handle to go back, but it seemed to have disappeared. Then I
fumbled for a light switch but couldn’t find one. I did not like this place. I
needed to leave, now!

No sooner had increasing anxiety manifested in my
mind, on the verge of taking it over, than the floor went out from beneath my
feet and I felt myself falling. The next thing I knew, I hit the ground hard
and painfully, the abrupt landing compelling my mouth to open in reflex as I
groaned “Ohhh!”. I had landed in a liquid which had splashed into my face, more
than a few drops of it making its way, unwanted, into my mouth.

 I was discombobulated and didn’t know where I
was. The light level, while now was no longer non-existent, it was still
minimal. I seemed immersed all around in a fluorescent concoction that looked
like the drinks in the bar and seemed to stare back at me whenever I looked
down at it. The unwanted liquid on my tongue tasted unexpectedly good, sweet
and smooth, and reminded me of oranges mixed with a touch of liquorice, but I
was afraid, for I now knew that this was the stuff of which I’d been warned. I
pulled myself up and onto my elbows and looked down at the radioactive-blue,
day-glo liquid that had forced its way into me. Suddenly, my thought processes
began to take place through a thick layer of cotton wrapped around my brain.
The world began to whirl around me as I began to feel very sick to my stomach.

The floor underneath me went out from under me one
more time, forcing more of the heinous droplets onto my face and into my mouth.
This time I found myself outside, lying in an alley, face down on the dirty
pavement, the stench from the decay of rotting garbage and other foul odors
whose sources I didn’t even want to consider filling my nostrils. With great
effort, I lifted my head, straining to focus. I dimly saw the figure of a woman
with long, black hair standing under a street light near the alley several
yards away, laughing at me, enjoying my dilemma immensely. I tried to sit up, I
tried to get myself together, but I couldn’t; I just sank down again. I
struggled hard to rise, but the more I fought, the harder it became. What was
going on, what had just happened? Who was this woman and why was she taunting
me? For a second time, I managed to lift my head off the sidewalk for a moment
and take a look at this figure which seemed awfully familiar to me somehow.
This time, I recognized her. I didn’t know how it was possible, but there she
stood as a young woman, apparently having the time of her life at my expense.
It was Rochere.

“Stop laughing, you bitch!” I yelled out. Then I
threw up. The last thing I remembered before passing out was her standing at
that spot, laughing her guts out at me.

I was engulfed in emptiness, in a state so
completely barren that nothing existed, not even existence itself. Even I was
nothing, for there was nothing in me, nothing to me, nothing around me. Complete
lack of awareness enveloped me, a blankness that could perhaps be likened to
the familiar companion of deep, dreamless sleep; but unlike that enticing
oblivion, this void had paradoxically made itself somehow known to me. It
pressed itself upon me with immense ferocity, mutating abruptly into a now
ominous darkness that held only violence, hostility and fear. Its threatening
force generated a repulsion in me, a tense, mounting nervousness that swelled
rapidly to the threshold of a malignant anxiety. Then, in the distance, came a
welcome sound that broke its hold. What kind of sound it was, I could not tell.
At first it was little more than a vibration; it then transformed into the low,
rhythmic chirping of an errant cricket searching for its mate. Gradually it
shifted to become the soft ringing of bells muffled by a fog so dense that I
could neither see nor move through it. The bells came slowly closer and closer
until at last they were a loud clamoring. I tried to go toward the bells, to
run toward them, but while the fog had lifted from my ears, it had not left the
rest of my body; neither had the paralysis that had traveled back with me,
uninvited, from the emptiness. I tried, with every ounce of my strength, to
move; but the harder I tried, the more tightly the fog wrapped itself around
me, clinging with the cloying stickiness of spider’s silk. The ringing became
louder and louder in my ears until it was thundering in my head. My brain was
exploding. Finally I could stand it no longer, the paralysis, the fog, the
bells, and I began to scream. It was a cry encased in and muffled by such a
thick layer of cotton that it could hardly have been called a scream, although
my throat ached from the effort. Slowly, however, the layers of cotton began to
peel away, making my shrieks more audible, until with the force of the sound,
my voice broke through the cotton and the fog completely and became real. It
was only then I realized that I had just roused myself from a hideous,
dreamless sleep. The bells, unbelievably loud now that I was awake, would not
stop. With intense relief, I recognized the nasty ring as belonging to the
ancient telephone on the nightstand. It was ringing relentlessly without end.
My brain, no longer unconscious, was splitting apart.

 “Oh, shit!” I moaned, grabbing my head with both
hands, struggling to sit. “What the hell did I have to drink last night?” The
telephone’s ringing refused to cease, becoming ever more irritating by the
moment. Apparently it wasn’t going to go away by itself since whoever was
calling was not about to give up. The only way to make the excruciating noise
stop would be to give the infernal beast what it wanted and answer the accursed
thing. As I leaned over to pick up the receiver, the invisible ax buried into
my skull shifted, causing my brain to pound even more painfully.

 “Hullo...” I mumbled into the receiver. A loud,
piercing voice came through the earpiece, apparently convinced that I was, as
yet, not nearly in sufficient pain.

“Ashley!” came booming into my ear. I winced and
moved the receiver a little further -away.

 “Yeah, Carolyne.”

 “Ashley, where the hell have you been? What
happened to you? Your cell phone was out. Thank God I had this number. Are you
all right?”

 “Well, sort of, I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

“I’ve got a doozie of a hangover. Except it feels
like I started with one hangover and it had babies in my head.”

 “Is that all? Ashley, you were supposed to call
me when you got in. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. You always call
when you say you will. Always. Are you sure you’re OK?”

 “I guess so.” I sat up a little more in bed and
ran my fingers through my hair. It felt grimy and a little sticky. “It’s been a
little weird since I got here, but I’m alright.”

“Weird, what’s weird?”

“Oh, you know, Carolyne, regular garden variety
weird stuff. I see dead people, I’m on a mission to stop evil, you know, the
usual crap.”

 Carolyne’s tone changed. “Point made, Ashley. I
know I worry too much and I tend to over-react. Sorry, but I care. There’s no
need to get sarcastic about it.”

 “I wasn’t being sarcastic, Carolyne, really!”

 The line was silent.

 “Sorry, Carolyne, I didn’t mean to sound like a
smart-ass. But really strange things have been happening to me since I came to
this city. Freaky stuff.”

 “Did you get mugged?”

I moaned. Why did I have to explain myself right
now? I had better things to do, such as extracting this invisible butcher’s
knife from my horribly aching brain.

“No, nothing like that. Some kind of paranormal
thing I got sucked into. I don’t know what it is, really. I think it involves
ghosts or something like that.”

“Yeah, right, Ashley. Paranormal my ass. Like what
– a UFO abduction, vampires, or just your average werewolf or two? What’ve you
been smoking?”

“Carolyne, what have you been smoking? Since when
do you go all snooty on me when I’m trying to tell you something? I’m serious
Carolyne. I think I’m in real trouble here!”

“You’re serious? Ashley, if you’re not screwing
with me, then it really must be pretty darn serious. You sound delusional. I
was worried sick about you all night and all day today. I’ve been calling you
all morning and you never picked up. What did you do, sleep through the phone
the entire time? And now instead of a ‘hi, I’m fine, sorry to make you worry
but I just got in because I got laid last night’, you hand me this crap? And
you’re serious? Do I need to come to New Orleans and drag you back to Austin to
see a shrink? Do you need professional help?”

 Her words were sharp and hurtful and the tone in
her voice wasn’t right. I knew it was Carolyne on the other end of the line
because I recognized her voice; but, in all the years I’d known her, she had
never spoken to me in such a curt manner. It frightened me that she was
behaving so incredibly out of character, but more importantly, considering the
shape I was in right now, it was really pissing me off.

“Carolyne, you’re not listening to me. I’m in real
trouble here.”

“What kind of trouble, Ashley. Tell me so I can
help. I want to help.”

“I told you already.”

“Oh, yeah. With ghoulies and ghosties and
long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night?”

“Not exactly that, but, well, yeah, I think it’s
something very close to that.”

“Really, Ashley, I think you’re hallucinating and
you need help.”

“I’m not hallucinating, Carolyne. I’ve seen these
people. They’re really dead but they’re not dead at the same time. It’s hard to
explain. They’ve talked to me and I’ve seen them just disappear into thin air
and there’s this evil woman, this, this…” I had no idea what Rochere really
was, what exactly I was battling.

“Witch? An evil witch, perhaps?”

“I don’t know what she is, but for lack of a
better word, yeah.”

“And does she have a pointy hat and carry a
broomstick? And is she trying to prevent you from reaching the Emerald City of
Oz?”‘

“Stop it, Carolyne. You’re not helping.”

“Okay, then, let me help you because you obviously
need help and lots of it. Seriously, I know a great psychiatrist and he’s a
real talent when it comes to diagnosing stuff and prescribing drugs, and if
you’re experiencing things that aren’t there, well, hallucinations could be a
sign of schizophrenia...”

I’d never imagined that Carolyne would react that
way, that she would be so closed minded. She was always the first one on board
when it came to the paranormal. That’s why I’d been so open with her. I was
beginning to feel verbally sucker-punched.

“If he’s that damn great, go see him yourself,
Carolyne,” I cut her off. “Sounds to me like you could use him more than I
could. Apparently you’ve just developed a multiple personality.”

 “Hey, Ashley, I’m just trying to help and it’s
starting to seem like you really need it, too. There’s no need for you to get
so bitchy.”

 “Me, bitchy? Listen, Lassie, I’ve had about
enough of this conversation. I’m on vacation and I’m not about to listen to
anymore of your idiotic cock-and-bull shit. Believe me or don’t believe me. Ask
me if I give a damn.”

 “Ashley, I’m worried about you,” she said in an
extremely condescending voice. The Carolyne I knew was never condescending.
What gave? “You really need help, you really do. Ashley, if your friends can’t
be honest with you, if you’re friends can’t intervene...”

 “Fine, Carolyne, fine. I’m intervening now. In
this conversation, as in it’s over. Please call again soon, we’re always open.
Goodbye!”

 “Don’t hang up! Why you little bi...” the word
faded away as the receiver moved toward its cradle, ending in a satisfying
“click”.

Stupid cow, I thought, quite pleased with myself
that I had been the one to hang up on her. Always better to be the dumper
rather than the dumpee, wasn’t it? I smiled smugly, congratulated myself,
crossed my arms victoriously, laid back against my pillows and took in a long,
deep breath.

Suddenly, it was as if a spell had lifted. Oh, my
god, that was Carolyne. My very best friend in the whole wide world. I’d known
her for two decades and we’d never, ever spoken to each other like that. We’d
had our disagreements, true; there was even those awful two weeks when we were
thirty that we stopped speaking altogether because a man she was dating didn’t
like me, but we’d never, ever had a conversation like the one we just had.
Sarcasm, spitefulness, downright trashy pettiness, these were simply not
components of our relationship. Carolyne had always been open to the
possibilities of supernatural occurrences and would never have been one to shut
down like that at its very mention. Again I wanted to leave this city, this
situation, very, very badly. I was so scared and so tired of this nastiness
that I was being forced into, of this game to which I had been made slave.
Somehow I knew that Rochere had gotten to Carolyne, affecting her personality
from almost three hundred miles away. Virginia was right when she had warned me
that Rochere’s arm did indeed have the long reach. Running away was truly
futile, wasn’t it? The burden that had been placed on my shoulders now seemed
far heavier than it did yesterday and my hangover made it feel that much worse.

I looked around in the bedroom, blinking, rubbing
my head, trying to wake up. The pounding in my brain was still there and seemed
to be getting worse. I was still wearing the clothes I had on from last night.
They were a lot dirtier than they should have been and they smelled bad, as if
I’d been rolling around in an alley or something last night. How did I get
here? The last thing I remembered was making it to The Crypt. Wow, that was
something, wasn’t it? I’d never been inside a tomb before but I felt like I had
been now. It was done up well, though, I remembered. I might have even enjoyed
it more if I hadn’t felt so damn trollish being surrounded by that group of
such horribly gorgeous young people. I would have felt self-conscious around
them as it was, due to my own complete lack of gorgeousness, but what made me
feel the most uncomfortable around them was the way that several of them were
eyeing me, smirking and pointing as if I were some kind of side-show freak.
Most of them seemed nice, though, didn’t they, I seemed to recall. Just when did
I leave there, anyway? I didn’t actually remember leaving the club. I fought
hard to retrieve that memory, but the little maniac who was trying to rip out
my brain from the inside out would not stop. Speaking of which, just how much,
exactly, did I have to drink last night? Let’s see, I had a hurricane on the
street and then I had, what was the name of that other drink? A gator
something. Gator Madness, that was it. Two drinks over the course of a whole
night should never have left me feeling this hung over. Then I remembered,
there was a third drink I ordered, or I thought I’d ordered, at The Crypt.
That’s right, I didn’t want to but that ugly guy said I’d have to leave if I
didn’t. Some blue fluorescent thing, wasn’t it? But that didn’t count, because
I hadn’t touched a drop of it.

Time to stop, the little man with the pick axe in
my brain told me. The simple act of thinking caused him to drive his weapon
into it even further. Besides, a ravenous hunger was now consuming my stomach,
making me feel as if my own body would soon begin to devour itself if I didn’t
eat something substantial very soon. After all, other than a handful of peanuts
on the plane, I hadn’t eaten much yesterday except for a few cold beignets
washed down with cold cafe au lait. The last decent meal I’d had was breakfast
at the Austin airport before my flight. Oh, crap, I realized, I hadn’t thought
to pick up any groceries or takeout yesterday. I guess I just had too many
other things on my mind, figuring that overstating the obvious might make me
feel a little better. It didn’t. I thought I’d check the kitchen anyway, since
it was the route of least resistance right now. Maybe the last tenants had left
a can of soup or something I could open and heat up in the microwave or maybe
the little elves had mysteriously deposited something yummy in the fridge and
shined my shoes during the night while they were at it. If there was nothing at
all in the kitchen, I’d just go through the phone book and order in a pizza,
although the thought of having to wait thirty minutes for it to arrive was not
appealing. Hangover hunger was unlike any other because it was so extremely
demanding. I knew was going to get extremely sick if I didn’t get something to
eat immediately, so I got out of bed and stood up. The room began to spin. On
top of the excruciating hunger, I was now feeling nauseous. I took a step
toward the kitchen and my knees buckled beneath me, forcing me to clutch onto
the furniture as I made my way toward the kitchen. For the first time I realized
that this was no ordinary hangover, that was sure. As I feebly took another
step I realized that other than the headache and nausea this didn’t feel like
any other hangover I’d ever had in my entire life. It was similar to the
sickness I’d felt in Rochere’s office yesterday afternoon just before her
furniture attacked me, but with actual hangover symptoms added in for good
measure. I had a feeling I was in real trouble.