Theater Macabre (6 page)

“
Home,” they said. “You’ll be with us for a while.”

And they opened the door to my nightmare.

The lock on the door is a recent adornment, but not so new it doesn’t cede to the blows of a rock Hank finds in the overgrown flowerbed to the left of the entrance. The cold breath of night caresses the nape of his neck and he nods as if it has imparted some secret strategy, some new way to fight the dread unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

The chains fall like petrified snakes to the floor and the sound of them hitting the concrete is the only sound in the world, save for the thundering of his heart in his ears.

Swallowing the unsavory taste of burgeoning panic, he slips his fingers around the C-shaped metal handle and pulls. A groan but nothing more. He pulls again and the door yawns wide. Darkness boils out around him, the foul air of a thousand years of madness unleashed. He gags, backs away, feverishly staring into the dark foyer as he does so, almost expecting to see pale glowing eyes rushing toward him.

But there is nothing but dust.

He takes a deep breath and doubles over, one hand clamped to his chest, pinning the Bart Simpson tie his wife gave him for his thirty-sixth birthday to his wrinkled gray shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut, bile lapping at the base of his throat, and groans.

After a moment in which the expectant dark becomes too threatening when not faced directly, he straightens and enters. His shoes clack against the tiles. Veils of dust swirl away from him as he approaches a hulking black thing he knows all too well, a slumbering beast of deceit where the Smiling Man once sat, with his pristine white shirt and name tag that read: DEREK. Hank remembers his smile, his perfect teeth, his friendly demeanor, all spoiled by the dead black eyes set like beetle wings in his chalk-white face.

Spiderwebs descend on him; tickle his nose as he reaches the desk. Broken glass snaps and crunches beneath his feet. Carefully, he reaches his hands out until cool dark wood slips beneath them.

“
And who might you be?” Smiling Man asks, teeth gleaming, his cheekbones driving against the skin as if he’s wearing a mask one size too small. He is a peculiar-looking man and he does not welcome me at all. No more than I am welcomed by the steel grips of the tall men on either side of me or the weeping I hear coming from somewhere down the yellow hall. And there is a smell. Faint, but there. It probes at my nostrils with greasy fingers. It is like nothing I have ever smelled before. Perhaps it is Fear. And perhaps it is coming from me.

I tell him my name and he raises eyebrows that look sewed to his brow by clumsy hands. “Mr. Hapscomb? Of the petroleum Hapscombs? Of course. We’ve been expecting you for some time now.” He laughs dryly and the men flanking me chuckle along to the tune of some joke I’ve missed.

“
Rumor has it you’ve been causing your wife some distress, Hank.” Somber now. “Not to worry. We’ll soon set everything right, won’t we?”

“
Yes,” I tell him and it seems as if I am speaking through a mouth stuffed with cotton.

“
Yes,” Smiling Man says. “We’ll put a stop to the rattling in that poor spoiled head of yours.”

His smile widens and the sun grants a momentary glow to a gold filling.

He looks hungry.

Hank rubs a hand along the wood, ignoring the splinters that bite at his dusty skin. He sighs and moves on. Shadows scatter at his approach and even in the depth of gloom in which he wanders, he knows the walls are yellow. The front door creaks closed on the outside world, muting the hush of the breeze. Old newspapers lie in twitching bunches in darkened corners; night creatures scurry away from the sound of his cautious progress. A stranger might have fallen—thumped a knee against the waiting room benches, their backs to the wall their foam guts exposed, or staggered over missing tiles —but Hank can see the toxic glow of the walls, the artificial sunlight, the bone-colored floor and each hairline crack that fragments it. He has walked this path into his memory, has hated it to the point of loathsome respect, has disappeared into those cracks when the pills they fed him made gaping vaginas, shrieking mouths or yawning abysses of them.

A noise behind him as of someone less familiar staggering and he freezes, twin cords of adrenaline pulsating in his throat. He whispers: “It’s nothing,” and turns.

It is not nothing. A man stands there, two feet away, his face visible in the dark and all the more terrifying because of it. More than one mouth opens in that visage and splintered teeth begin to jam together in a jackhammer rhythm, choking off a cry that spears the short distance between them. An amber eye rolls lewdly where the nose should be and something wet hits the floor. Hank is spun away by repulsion, horror, disbelief and he closes his eyes against the impossibility of it.

The chattering stops. He is alone. He waits. There is nothing further and an ephemeral smile flickers across his lips.

“Polson,” he mutters and walks on, over crumbling debris and a bent placard on the floor that reads:
The Quiet Ward.

“
I want you to remember my name,” the attendant says, buttoning up his shirt and tossing a quick glance out through the wire-mesh window. His wide brow is slicked with perspiration. I am aware of the closeness of these egg-yolk walls, the feel of the springs digging into my spine and a dull ache in my nether regions. I am naked. My cheeks seem to be wet but I can’t remember crying.

“
Jay Polson,” he says with obvious pride and I watch him doing up his flies. His thick moustache is like tar dripping from his nose. Another cautious glance over his shoulder, then he grins back at me and produces something from a chain leading to his pocket. It flicks out like a switchblade but this blade has teeth. A comb. “Remember that, sweetheart.” He runs the comb through his thick black curls and vanishes. The room sways and lulls me into a sleep where the hurt is no more.

To Hank’s surprise, his old room is not locked. It does not make a sound as it swings smoothly open. The darkness in here is total. He takes a moment to steady the trembling in his legs, another to ignore the smell of sweat and terror that roils within that narrow space and then he is inside.

“
Where is my box?” I ask Smiling Man and he frowns. I wonder if his face will tear and allow me to see what he really looks like.

“
What are you talking about, Hank? What box?”

I draw a square in the air with my finger. Shackles bind me so the square is small and tight, like everything in my world now. “My box. Carson in the next room has one. He keeps his pictures in it.”

Understanding passes over Smiling Man’s face. “Your Keepsake Box, you mean?”

I nod, though I’m not really sure if we’re talking about the same thing.

“
I’m afraid we only provide those for people who are improving. Whatever they put in those boxes, they get to take with them when they leave. Some people—like Mr. Carson—will fill it with drawings. Others will fill it with carvings. Some will fill it with fingernail clippings. I’m afraid you have no hobby and you are not well enough to cut your own nails, so what use would it be to you?”

My eyes search the walls for an answer and find nothing but scabrous paint and patches of wall where darkness has been painted over. Tears swell in my throat as I come to realize I will not get what Carson has because I am not well enough. I am sick. And that makes me afraid. Stars dance in the corners of my eyes. Smiling Man folds his arms and stands aside as the Needle Man enters the room.

“
Besides,” he says. “You won’t be leaving.”

My arm is bitten and sleep fills my veins, dragging the thought of a scream down with it.

The shape sitting on Hank’s old bed rocks back and forth within its own swimming darkness, tendrils snatching at the air around it with strangulated gasps. Hank toys with fear but instead stands his ground and waits. Waits. Surely it must do something. Twin orbs of liquid blue fire sputter in the ragged black orb of the creature’s face. It gurgles.

“Go away,” Hank says and his voice cracks, startling him enough to back up until he collides with the wall. Flecks of paint fall to the floor. “Please, go away,” he begs and the shape jumps from the bed, shrieks into his face and smiles a smile of translucent dripping teeth before spinning itself into shadow. The silence that follows descends with the dust. A gentle throb starts in Hank’s temple.

He sits heavily down on the bed, ignores the stab of broken springs against his thighs and the smell of urine from the crumpled green sheets. Tears are running freely down his cheeks. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. The throb becomes a thump in his head and he winces at the pain.

There is not much time.

“
Did you hear what happened to Carson? Someone smothered him in his sleep.”

He drops to his knees and the pain finds weight in his descent, ignites in molten hammer-strikes against his brain. Hissing air through his teeth, he reaches underneath the bed, ignoring the repulsion that threatens to overcome him at the feel of the unspeakable things his hand mistakes for a prize.

“
You know what’s funny? His Keepsake box was missing.”

At last he finds what he has come here for and with both hands, he slides the narrow wooden box out from beneath the bed.

“
How did you get out Hank? Who helped you? Was it Polson?”

Unlike him, the box has not changed.

“
Hank, wait a minute now… What are you doing?”

There is no latch on Carson’s box. It opens easily. Hank smiles and with fingers trembling with barely restrained excitement, he removes the crumpled up pictures of faceless people with needle fingers and sets them down by his side.

“
Security to The Quiet Ward. Room Nine.”

He removes the comb first and opens it. Runs it through his thinning hair. “Remember my name,” he whispers, then replaces it in the box and takes out a gold tooth, the root sharp against the roof of his mouth as he rolls it around on his tongue, clicks it against his own teeth. “We’ll put a stop to the rattling in that poor spoiled head of yours,” he says and laughs aloud, stopping when the echo unsettles him.

It is almost time to leave.

He returns the items to the box, covers them with Carson’s pictures. From his jacket pocket he produces a new item. It is the reason he has come back.

With loving care, he places his wife’s wedding ring atop the wrinkled pictures.

Long Distance

Alma awoke from dreams of death and squinted in the darkness.

The telephone was ringing out in the hall, shrilling urgently, calling to whoever was listening.

For a long time, the old woman stared at the ceiling and waited for Frank to answer it. This of course, was impossible as she had buried her husband little more than a week ago, but nevertheless she waited expectantly for reality to prove her wrong.

On the fifth ring, she sighed shakily and got up, the shaft of moonlight providing her with the necessary illumination to find her slippers. Shrugging off the cold as she slipped into her flannel robe, she opened the bedroom door and made her way toward the phone.

The voice on the other end of the line was unexpected, but welcome.

“Grandma?”

“David, is that you?”

There was a sigh and then a relieved grunt of affirmation.

Alma tightened her robe around her thin frame and frowned in the darkness. “Why David, it’s great to hear from you but isn’t in early over there?”

‘Over there’ was Ireland. Just after eleven o’ clock in Ohio, where Alma stood in her hallway hugging herself against the cold, made it about 4.00 a.m where her grandson was.

“It sure is, Grandma, but I had to call you. To make sure you were alright.”

Alma smiled. “Indeed I am, honey. Don’t you go fretting about me. You should be getting some sleep. You have a baby to look after now.”

David cleared his throat. “I had a nightmare.”

“That what woke you up?”

“Yeah. It was bad.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

There was a pause and all she could hear was David’s shaky breathing. “It was about Grandpa.”

Alma’s heart lurched at the mention of her husband. Since his funeral, her neighbors and friends had been invaluable to her. Living in a secluded area meant that her social circle was small, but the people she knew had rallied around her since Frank had died. They surrounded her with warmth and companionship, protecting her from the loneliness that hovered over her like a storm cloud.

But they couldn’t protect her at night and that seething black cloud descended in synch with the sun. Darkness allowed the pain free reign. The thought that she was not alone in her suffering made her worry.

Frank had been a good man and had touched the lives of everyone who was close to him, especially David. She had wondered occasionally if her Grandson had been entertaining guilt for not coming to the funeral.

“Poor thing,” she whispered into the phone. “Is Grace there?”

“Yeah, she’s asleep. I woke her when I screamed, but I went downstairs for a cigarette and let her go back to sleep. She’s got work in the morning.”

Alma nodded to herself. “That’s probably best. So what was this nightmare about?”

“Are you sure you want to know? I was only calling to check on you. The dream scared the sh-frightened me and I wanted to make sure you were all right, not to shanghai you into a therapy session.”