Body of Immorality (12 page)

*

Weeks later (again under the covers and staring at the ceiling), Eric pulled the blankets under his chin. Annie was asleep again beside him. She wore the same glow in dreams, he noticed, her belly swelling more each day.

He couldn’t go away with her tonight, not as he had before. Nagging cymbals tugged at his thoughts, a claw plucking at his brain.

The room was dusky from the light of the stars, the moon’s luminescence. The drapes were open, revealing a clear, windless night.

He’d been asleep only minutes ago, but awoke to a terrible sound, one he hoped hadn’t come from the cellars of his brain. That confining space could produce horrors beyond his imagining, he knew. Eric wasn’t sure he’d
heard
the sound or not. He thought he’d awakened to clamoring bells, but it faded when he opened his eyes. It was hard to tell. The stillness in the room snuffed out the marching band. Beasley, at the foot of the bed, looked up and whined, sensing something awry.

“Not to worry,” Eric told the dog. “Just my imagination as the song goes. Maybe a fading dream. You pick.”

The words did not convince him or the dog. The sound
was
in his head, the same crashing cymbals, the reason he was staring at the ceiling now.

He was sweating, plastered to the sheets. The nightmare had a way of bringing the most ungainly fears to life.

For the first time in years, Eric was terrified.

It’s a familiar nightmare. You ought to know it by now.

And he did.

You’re not coming to grips with it. It has you by the throat. It’s always had you by the throat. Soon, you’ll lose your identity. It’s not always good. How many times do I have to tell you? Did you think it was gone for good? Are you
really
that naïve?

An onrush of panic surged through his veins. Bells with no melody rattled in his head. Doors banged shut.

It’s the house. It’s coming to life inside me instead of
around
me.

The fact that the sounds made themselves tangible—threatening to bowl him over—made him panic. He
was
afraid. Eric groaned aloud. They would kill him, loud enough to rip him apart. His brain was a chamber, barring the noises in his head until they forced themselves
outside
his mind.

Ripping through—a reverberation of grinding metal—they erupted again, noises that never had an origin, noises that never made any sense. Noises that simply
were.
Livesey had never found anything in his past to explain them.

Eric’s eyes welled with tears. They raced down his cheeks. “Please God, say it isn’t so,” he said, sitting up in bed. He put his head in his hands.

Beasley, sensing trouble, whined again.

“My sentiments exactly,” Eric said.

The onrush of clamoring bells bombarded him, metal striking metal. His brain tore itself apart. The sounds were using his head for a basketball.

Groaning, Eric prayed for mercy, deliverance. He tried, mentally, to will the noises away.

“I can’t believe I have to go through this again.”

And this time, buddy, it’s like nothing you’ve ever imagined. This time, it’s a helluva lot worse.

He wouldn’t tell Annie. He couldn’t bring this nightmare into their happy home. Not now. He’d call Livesey, wait and see how the noises manifested. He’d find a cure before Annie found out.

*

Through the remainder of that week, Eric forced a smile, watching Annie bring the yard and garden to life. He pretended he was okay.

The brisk spring hinted summer. He continued to inspect each job sight as renovated kitchens and bathrooms transformed themselves. Beasley continued to mope, following Annie around the yard like a gloomy shadow.

After a while, Eric realized he must’ve imagined the noises. He hadn’t suffered from them for over a week now, since that night in bed. Maybe staring at the ceiling had been a dream? He was only
imagining
what it must be like to hear them again.

“What sounds?” he said to himself, and forced a smile.

Throughout the week, Eric ran to the store for his wife’s strange appetites: crab cakes and pineapple, ice cream and sardines. The noises had returned, but for a time—if he tried—he could forget, even will them away. He had enough power of imagination to pretend they weren’t real at all.

*

In the night, however, he didn’t know who he was. Maniacal forces slipped into his mind, plucked at his identity, playing him like a puppet. In his dreams, he was changing. He grew claws and fangs, bristled with hair like a werewolf. Eric had no control over it, of course. It happened in seconds. The sound tormented him in sleep and turned him inside out. He’d been plugged into a light socket without knowing why or how. In dreams, he was Mr. Hyde. It didn’t make sense, of course. Why would it when the sounds never had an origin? He wondered when Mr. Hyde would start running the show.

Eric threw the covers off and got out of bed. He ambled—still somewhat asleep—from the quiet room, and down the hallway. He wore only his boxers, his hair in disarray. His eyes were glued somewhat shut. This, too, felt like a dream.

Beasley watched him, raising his head, and let out a whine, but Eric was oblivious to the quiet snoring of his wife and Beasley’s vigil.

He wasn’t cognizant—at least not
outside
his mind. Eric had never (that he was aware) had a history of sleepwalking.

The noises in his brain, like cavalry, drove him onward: an entity coming to life in the sleepy hours of morning. If he could locate the sounds’ origin, he could banish it. He did not understand how he knew this, but he did. Finding the sound was the first step in killing it utterly. It became his mission, the marching band driving him out of bed and down the hallway. The bandleader was somewhere ahead, urging him toward the unfinished room down the hallway.

Nursery,
he thought.
Study.
Does it matter?

Eric stopped outside the door. He wrapped his fingers around the knob, but did not open it. It wasn’t time yet, the bandleader told him. They’d meet again soon. He tried the knob one more time, but it was locked. That was funny. Why would he lock the door? It didn’t have a slot for a key.

Now’s not the time to worry about it.

That wasn’t his voice, either, but he ignored it.

Locked in the throes of a strange dream, Eric went back to bed, and slipped under the covers with Annie.

Beasley eyed him, another whine escaping his throat, sounding more like a dreadful plea.

*

On the following Saturday morning, the same stentorian roar filled his head. There was no warning.

BAM! BAM!

Flintstones,
Eric thought.
Meet the Flintstones.

The noise wouldn’t stop. They came to life from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, assaulting him, gaining strength and power after years of being away. Was it the move, the Colorado air, the house itself?

The sounds’ predictability consumed him. He should’ve known this was going to happen. It was typical
not
to recognize it.

Despite it all, Eric, my man,
the sounds seemed to say.
I’m the one who hold’s dominion over your life. Not you. What can I say? I’ve missed you…Thought I’d pay a little visit…

Eric groaned, tears coming into his eyes. Pain shot flames through his skull.

Hello, Doctor. Sorry to have to call again. Yes, it’s me, Eric. How’s the wife and kids?

He could take care of it without Annie finding out. He had Dr. Livesey’s number somewhere. Maybe the man could recommend a psychiatrist in the Boulder area.

Do you really think that’ll work?

Eric rubbed his temples, forcing the tears back. He would not whimper like a dog, like Beasley.

“It’s yabba dabba doo time,” he said to himself.

*

Eric found Livesey’s number in the kitchen drawer downstairs. Maybe Annie would stay out in the yard long enough, he’d be able to make the call in privacy.

He grabbed the number, Livesey’s business card, and ran upstairs to the bedroom. He dialed Dr. Livesey from the bedroom phone.

The drapes were open, letting in the light of day. Clouds gathered, threatening rain. Eric thought how appropriate that was.

On the phone, Eric told the secretary who he was. She put him through with a deep, “Of course, Eric.”

He hated this already.

Dr. Livesey was on the phone in seconds. His voice was far away, deep and jovial, somehow under water. It was far from the cartoon-like, pompous voice Eric remembered.

“Eric?”

“Dr. Livesey?” he said.

“How are things? New life in colorful Colorado? I’m envious.”

“Well, I…yeah, okay, but…I’m not…no. Things are not…except for
that
again. No… not very well…”

Livesey paused. “Oh, Eric. You’re kidding? I’m so sorry.”

The concern he needed was in the man’s voice at least. If it hadn’t been for that—

“I’m afraid so,” Eric said.

Livesey paused again. “I was hoping you’d called for my address because you wanted to send me a Christmas card,” Livesey said.

Eric forced a chuckle. “We have your address,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He clenched his eyes. “And we
are
sending you a Christmas card.” He paused. “Stupid, I guess.” He shook his head, laughing at the idea. “Can you say something magical, Doc, over the phone, that’ll bring me back to normal? Maybe someone you can recommend in our area who performs the same miracles?”

Livesey wasn’t laughing now. “Well,” the doctor said. “I know a handful of psychiatrists, but none in your area. I am puzzled. And sorry. You could always fly back, or…let’s see…I can’t get away for several weeks near June. I hate to think of you suffering those…spells again, Eric. Let me see if I can pull a few strings…I’ll get back with you. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“You’re having no other problems…other than the…episodes?”

Eric put a hand to his head. Was that a door slamming downstairs, or the band coming to life in his brain?

“Everything’s going well,” Eric said. “The business is doing better than expected. Just…the noises, you know?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. Please keep in touch. Tell me how things are going, especially with your…problem. See who you can find out there. Hypnosis, Eric, is not a dying practice. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Yes,” Eric said, though, Livesey might as well be on the other side of the universe. “Of course. Thank you.”

A click on the other end announced a dead line.

Eric turned. Annie leaned against the doorframe. She was wearing one of his long, button-down shirts. She wore a red bandana, tennis shoes, and gardening gloves.

“Hello,” he said.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “A guy has to keep
some
secrets from his wife.”

“Don’t want to trouble me?”

“Something like that,” he said. Eric looked at the floor again.

“We’re gonna have to call someone?” she asked.

“Sounds like it,” Eric said.

Annie walked over to him, knelt, and put her arms around his waist. “Thanks for confiding,” she said. She pulled away and smiled. She was only joking, the look said.

Not the best time for humor,
Eric thought, putting a hand against her hair.

“Bam bam,” he replied, letting her know he was through discussing it.

*

For the next few days, they sought the best professional help they could find. They made an appointment with a short, red-haired man named, Dr. Neadley. His office was in Boulder. Dr. Neadley could wheedle Eric into his appointments on Tuesday morning. ’That okay with you, Mr. Durgess? Eric told Neadley that was fine.

If the noises don’t finish me off first,
he thought.

Later that same day, Annie looked at the wicker basket where Beasley slept. She cocked her head and frowned. Beasley, she saw, was a bit
too
still for sleep.

Eric looked at Annie and a single tear traveled the length of her cheek.

It was the worst thing that could’ve happened.

The walls of the longed-for Victorian thundered with the noises in Eric’s head and Beasley’s quiet passing.. Shadows dripped over the roof, across the windows, spoiling the perfectly green, manicured lawn.

Typical,
Eric thought.
You bet your ass!

Annie, closer to Beasley than Eric, wept quietly to herself, trying not to add to an already bleak atmosphere.

Eric consoled his wife while squeezing his eyes shut. He put his arms around her. Annie was quick to respond.

“God, Eric! I hope…I hope…”

He knew what she was going to say:
I hope this isn’t some terrible omen, some vicious sign of bad things to come.

“Don’t,” was all he could say.

Annie remained quiet and mourned by herself.

“I love you,” Eric said.

Annie nodded, not meeting his eyes. She turned away. Eric watched her walk through the kitchen and into the garage.

Through the rest of the day, they dealt with their trials separately. Annie wanted to prepare a proper burial for Beasley while Eric sat in the recliner, trying to relax in the living room.

Laying back with his eyes closed, Eric used the power of his mind to force the sounds from his brain. They were more catastrophic today. Life
was
predictable, he thought, but he
hadn’t
predicted this.

Wishing the appointment with Neadley only seconds away, Eric—still feeling tremors and the echoing din fading in and out of his mind—wondered:

What is it? Maybe this
does
mean something. Maybe this
is
a sign of bad thing…

The bad thoughts came, and the more they came, the more vicious and cruel Eric felt.

Mr. Hyde?

In the recliner, Eric waged war with his conscience.

I can do this,
he thought.
I can banish these noises all by myself. It’s the only way.

Miraculously, through the roar of battle—the crashing cymbals—he was able to fall asleep…How that was possible, he didn’t know.

But there is no quiet darkness in sleep. Only the sounds of screaming locomotives. Locomotives, crashing cymbals, and chopper blades.