Fear Addiction

by Brian Wood

Taken from Forbidden Donut #3, Spring '96

A whisper, "I awaken."

Then a scream, a long hollow wail of terror. Seemingly endless the sound carries over everything, fading in the distance only to return without pause, the same empty call coming from everywhere. There's no echo, no reverberation to indicate barrier; only a sense of vast emptiness with that scream rising above and over it all. I can't tell who is screaming--whether it's me or someone else . . . or something else. I can't identify the sex either--all I can make out is the fear. And I am afraid. Sweet Jesus am I afraid.

Then silence.

The howling is cut off instantly, without a change in tone or any fading of volume to indicate an end. The stillness is expectant, not final, but a pause, as though things have only begun. From the silence I hear the crashing of underbrush. Branches and vines are pushed hastily aside by pale hands and I hear my breath panting, rasping as I run. The rough forest floor and the bushes that I dive blindly through in my flight slice long strips of flesh from my bare feet but I don't notice the pain--or perhaps there isn't any.

I'm pounding down some kind of soft dirt path--I don't remember entering it--I must have stumbled onto it some time ago. I don't know where it's leading me, something about the spongy black dirt causes me to mistrust its destination but I can't bring myself to consider stopping or turning around. I only know I have to run, keep running. The trail is narrow and the branches reach into the empty space, whipping across my face. I feel the twigs snap against my eyes and tears instantly spring up to blind me. With my arms crossed before me I keep running, almost falling, yet somehow I keep my feet under me, managing to avoid stumbling into the trees again.

Then I pause.

Wiping the blood and tears from my face I look out from where the foliage parts. Dead and barren trees reach desperately out of the swamp as if to grasp hold of the pungent air and pull their way free of the stagnant waters. Some of them have already crumbled under the rotting touch of the atmosphere, split at the base and fallen to become a part of the vile liquid. The water itself is black as the soul of Hell and reflects nothing of the lifeless trees or the clouded skies above--completely ignoring that which is not yet a part of it. The path continues into the tall grasses of the swamp, looking just barely sturdy enough to support any weight. Extending only a short way it soon winds ominously out of sight behind a patch of yellowed cattails. Dark grasses freckled with pools of motionless water sit poised on the edge of action. There is no continuation of the forest on any side--the swamp seems to stretch indefinitely.

Then the whisper again, louder, stronger this time. Filtering through the reeds like a still wind it creeps through the dead lands undeniably. "Come."

"NO!" I awoke. My body dripped with sweat, my muscles were tense and quivered with exhaustion. I sat upright in bed squinting at the obscenely bright light creeping in around the shades. I felt the tentative pressure of hands on my shoulders as Rachel murmured something mindless in a reassuring voice. My lungs deflated as I fell back onto the sheets to look up at Rachel.

"Hi." I said.

"Are you okay?" she asked. That was always her first question.

"Yeah."

"You're scaring me." That always came next. Her eyes held concern and her fingers toyed with her short brown hair as she asked her final prescribed question, the one she dreaded, "What happened?" Her eyes wandered somewhere over my shoulder, they could never meet mine during the question.

"The same as yesterday." That was a lie and I hated - despised - lying to her, but it would make her feel better. I wanted her to be happy after all. If I could, I'd reassure her that no horrors beyond the simple night scare lurked in my sleeping mind, but the lie would be that much more unforgivable and either way she'd not believe a word of it. She knew all about the dreams; I had already made the mistake of telling her.

I first confided to Rachel my peculiar nightmares hoping to help her to understand. Besides, how could I have hid it? Instead of understanding it just made her worry; she thought up endless horrors that might be happening to me, everything from my past life coming to me through my dreams to some kind of black magic tampering with my mind. It seemed that each day she came home with a new suggestion from a different one of her New-Age-Tarot-wielding friends. I tried to calm her down with logical rationing but she would have none of it. So I began to downplay the dreams when I explained them to her and claimed today's held no more than last night's.

She gazed at me for awhile, trying to ascertain whether I had spoken the truth or not, and finally seemed slightly relieved, at least enough so that she began to get ready for work. As she got up from bed she leaned over to kiss me in a way that was probably meant as comforting. But instead it bothered me. Her lips seemed distant, insubstantial--more like the memory of her kiss than the actual thing. My sleep- deprived body could no longer bear the fierce sensations of the waking world. The breath gasping still through my chest was sign enough that I had yet to fully recover my senses. I turned to watch her sift through a basket of clean clothes and begin her morning speech.

"It's just not right. People don't have nightmares like that, and every night too. I can't stand to lay there next to you when it happens. It's so messed up, the way you scream with your eyes wide open and everything. And nothing I do wakes you up. It just scares me."

"Hmm." I said.

A whisper, "I awaken."

Then a scream, an endless cry of terror. Nothing I do can stop the scream, stop the resounding in my head. What tortures could possibly cause such a cry? It's as if the pain of a thousand dying souls were embodied in that one eternal wail.

Then silence. What happened to the scream; to the screamer? The dire stillness conjures images of a death that offers no peace. The silence crouches like a predator and waits.

Suddenly I found myself in my bed again. I noticed that Rachel, pacing from the bathroom to her purse in the bedroom, had not paused in her speech. I muttered a silent prayer of thanks and tried to look more aware of the world than I felt.

"Anyway, I'm glad that you're seeing the psychologist today. He's supposed to study dreams or something. Dr. Stone recommended him. You know, Kimberli said that some Native American religions believe that dreams are real and what we call reality is just illusion. Think of what that would mean . . . . Oh, well. Dr. Pearson should know what to make of it all." She had finished dressing and was heading out the door. "I'll be back by two to take you to your appointment. I love you."

"Bye."

I lay on my back for a long while, listening to the soft chunk of the door closing and the clicks of Rachel's key in the lock. Then I just stared at Rachel's little glowing stickers on the ceiling, identifying what constellations I could, whispering the names to the silence. I wondered how certain Rachel was that the psychologist would understand things and fix them. She seemed confidant, but she had appeared so sure that seeing Dr. Stone in the first place would solve everything.

Dr. Stone was my usual physician, and Rachel had brought me and my dreams to him two weeks ago. He didn't show much of a reaction as he listened to my story, but I don't think he believed me. After running a series of important sounding tests he finally decided that I was normal--physically. He explained a lot about the chemicals in the brain and how much is still unknown and concluded by recommending that I see a psychologist. So basically he thought I was batty. Well, maybe I was.

I shifted my head on the pillow and my gaze fell upon my Ancient History text. I put it there a few nights ago under the pretext that as I loafed in bed, trying to gain some kind of useful rest, I would keep up with the school I was missing. Looking at the concentric circles of glass rings on the cover I realized it would serve no better purpose as long as the dreams continued.

From my position I could see the colored bands on the edges of the paper, staining the lives and ideas of people whose lives were filled with death and sorrow into ordered chapters. My mind drifted to hordes of Mongrels sweeping south into China astride their horses. Clods of earth flew from the hooves of their mounts as blood fell from their weapons.

Twisted, gnarled fingers claw at my face. Impossibly leaning silhouettes of trees loom over, crowding closer. My breath sears through my throat, I can almost feel the flecks of blood come loose as the air rasps across the raw surface. For an instant my foot catches on something, then tears loose, leaving a flap of skin behind. I stumble and my shoulder slams into something unyielding. The bony fingers rake at my face and arm, I can feel them lunging from behind. I break free and run.

The phone rang.

The text came into focus slowly, then the rest of the world hurried to catch up. The sun no longer shone as brightly through the shades, it had risen to the point where its rays no longer fell directly onto the window. I realized that my hands clutched at my face and I made an effort to relax my curled fingers. Then I noticed the phone still rang, louder each time.

I let it ring a few times and considered ignoring it, but it continued insistently. With considerable effort I reached to the receiver. "Yeah?" I mumbled.

"Johnny? It's Rachel. I know you're still in bed. It's twelve o'clock and you should be up. And eat something too, you're going to starve at this rate!"

"Mmm?" I tried to sound casual, so she wouldn't hear the quaver in my voice, but instead it came out unintelligible, which worked just as well.

"Listen, I left a - Billy! Don't eat that! - Sorry. I left a sandwich in the fridge and there's some orange juice there too."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"I'll get up."

"All right, it's just that you never - Oh no! I gotta go, John. Greg just pissed on the blocks again! Iloveyoubye!"

"Mmm." I looked around at the room and closed my eyes for a minute. I opened them and glared balefully at the sunlight eating through the defenseless fabric over the window. Rachel was right. I struggled out of the covers and headed for the bathroom.

As I shuffled across the thin carpet I passed Rachel's full length mirror, bordered with silver carved unicorns, and accidentally caught a glimpse of myself. I hated to see what I was becoming; not that my body would ever have passed as particularly athletic, but I had degenerated to little more than a wasted shell, each rib visible from beneath the pasty white skin. My eyes were sunken and blood shot and I never looked as though I had much energy (and of course I didn't). I derived little actual rest from sleep anymore. I ate far less that I should and spent most of my waking hours loafing around the apartment, too tired to engage in any sort of undertaking.

Rachel, of course, pointed all of these facts out regularly--not that she shouldn't or was in any way incorrect, but it rubbed against my already taut nerves. She'd have been even more worried if she knew that the dreams didn't only come when I was asleep anymore, that several times in the last two days I found myself in the dream while reading, watching TV or like this morning, just sitting in bed. Fortunately she kept busy at her daycare and didn't have occasion to witness any of those events.

I spent much of my limited energy trying to keep the full truth of the dreams from her. Sometimes as I sit and stare at the meaningless lines and colors of the TV I devise clever lies to tell her in case she's around when I fall into one of the episodes. What to say if I'm just sitting, or if I'm eating or talking. But what if it's too obvious to talk my way out of? For all my thinking I can't find the right way to tell her all of it; or I just can't find the courage. I'm too used to running, to the constant fleeing of the dream to attempt any kind of confrontation. How can I make things worse for her? She's already afraid that the dream is killing me.

We were all of us afraid of something I suppose. Sometimes I doubt that we could live without that fear. I know I couldn't. I looked foreword to the dreams like an addiction. The intensity of the fear dwarfed any mundane experience of the waking world. Just hearing the dreadful whisper was like drinking pure terror. But at the same time the dream was too strange, too unnatural. It was wrong. Part of me feared I would slip into the dream and never wake, just scream forever. Part of me wanted just that.

I stepped into the shower and hoped the psychologist would have some answers. The Lord knew I had none.

Rachel arrived to find me slouching on the couch, staring at the fern by the window. I'm not sure how long I had been watching it, but didn't notice her enter, nor was I aware of her shaking my shoulders at first.

"Johnny, are you all right? Did . . . did you have another dream?"

My eyes wandered to hers and my mind followed at a more sedate pace. I felt kind of light and where a moment ago Rachel's touch meant nothing, my nerves now were super-sensitive and the mere contact of clothes on my skin sent goosebumps across my arms.

"No. No, I was just . . . thinking." I responded slowly. "Thinking about . . . about the psychologist." I'm not sure if my mind had come within shouting distance of a thought since I sat on the couch, and if any activity hummed in my brain, it revolved around the fern, but "I was thinking about that fern" seemed a particularly silly thing to say.

"Oh. Well we need to be there in a half hour, so we should probably leave now. You wouldn't believe what happened at work. Sometimes I swear it's the parents that need looking-after, they're more childish then their kids." She bustled me into the car, continuing to prattle about proper child-rearing and parents' role in their children's upbringing. Meanwhile my mind drifted to its comfortable state of inactivity, where the world quieted and memories kept a respectful distance.

We arrived at Dr. Pearson's offices a safe ten minutes early. I napped for some of the car ride over so was fairly awake and lucid for the interview, which I hoped wouldn't involve too much in the way of phallic references to dead family members.

When the receptionist escorted me into the office Rachel came with, much to my dismay. I didn't want her to know the whole truth, she was too afraid of what was happening. At the same time I wanted to discover the problem, discover what the dream was about and discover why. Why the dream at all and why me and why did I like it so much. I sat down on a soft chair and worried about what to do as brief introductions were made. Then Dr. Pearson opened a notebook and began asking his questions.

"So Johnny, how long have you been having these dreams?"

This question at least was safe, Rachel knew so I answered easily, "About two weeks."

"And is it always the same?"

"No. Well kind of, but it . . . progresses."

"Would you like to describe the dream?"

No, not with Rachel here, but she'd become suspicious if I asked her to leave. I had no choice but to describe it. Rachel had heard most of it before, so only the last part was new to her. She'd be upset that I didn't tell her about it, but she was upset about so much lately that a little more wouldn't hurt her any.

I explained how it had started, in the middle of any other normal dream, that in the beginning it contained nothing more than that one whisper, "I awaken." Somehow the word alone had been enough to bring me screaming awake. Then the scream started, and I heard that reverberating in my skull for a full week before I became aware of the running, me running through the woods. Around that point the scream and the whisper ceased to inspire the terror they once had. I still quacked at the memory but I didn't actually cry out until later in the dream. The first parts were no less terrifying, just the latter ones were so much worse. Then just a day ago the path appeared (that was one of the times that the dream came while I was awake, but I neglected to mention that.) It seemed that the dream expanded faster and faster, and the same segment that flashed before my mind a week ago in an hour took four to complete. Yet at times the entire horrid sequence would play through in minutes. The dream seemed a world in itself, where the laws of reality are a child's plaything, to be toyed with on a whim. The more I experienced the dream the more I became engrossed in it. The more intense the fear became.

Then last night I saw the swamp. The blind fear of fleeing changed to a darker more parasitic fear that slowly grew from within. Somehow I knew that the swamp held the secret to the dream, that in that place I would find an answer. And I no longer ran. I had paused after leaving the trees to look at the wetlands. I knew that when next it came to me I would enter the marsh, following the path into the gloom to find whatever awaited me.

All listened intently as I spoke, Dr. Pearson's expression growing continuously more intent and Rachel's continuously darker.

It seemed that as I spoke, my energy faded with my words. I had to grip the arm of the chair to keep my hand from trembling at the remembered horror. When I finally finished I slumped in my chair and closed my eyes at the momentary silence that ensued. I could feel Rachel's cold eyes on me and I knew I should have done something to explain myself, but the exhaustion overcame. I just slouched there with my eyes shut to the world.

Finally I lay a hand on Rachel's leg and wearily tried to tell her that it was for her comfort I kept things to myself, but there's no real way to tell someone that you lied to them for their benefit. Regardless Dr. Pearson interrupted my meager attempts.

He stared thoughtfully into the air as he spoke, mentally calling up past cases, or perhaps imagining his name in various scientific journals at the end of this fascinating case. "This is very unusual, but not entirely unheard of. Tell me, do you sometimes fall into the dream when you're not asleep?"

The question I feared had come. I felt light-headed and gripped the chair harder to keep myself focused. "Um . . . " I could lie and keep Rachel safe from further fear, but then I might fail to give Dr. Pearson some vital clue which might unravel the mystery. That and if Rachel discovered I still hid things from her she'd be even more furious than she was going to be shortly. I swallowed, trying to muster some strength to deal with the question and the following argument. "Yes. They have. Four times."

The trees part and fall behind me, daring go no further as though they too fear what lies ahead.

Rachel turned and stared at me with fury, looking straight into my eyes but saying nothing. I couldn't tell if she was going to cry or slug me. I wasn't sure if I had just remembered the dream for an instant or if it had reached out to my mind again. Shaking my head against the sensation of duplicity I tried again to explain myself, "Look, you'd only have worried more over something nothing could be done about. I was just trying to-"

Dr. Pearson spotted the argument quickly and expertly interceded. "Come now, what's important is that-"

"Come."

The swamp opens before me, perfectly still, so much so that I'm not certain I haven't entered some strange realm where time does not move. The path leads forward, beckoning.

I step onto the soft ground and a small pool of the dark water rises around my foot. The cool liquid washes the blood away but there is still no feeling other than a faint coldness. I continue, creeping forward at a slow walking pace, my eyes desperately scanning for some kind of motion or life. Above me the clouds still boil darkly, rising and tumbling about each other, yet none of the turbulent air seems to reach to this place. There's nothing but the eternal lack of motion, not even the faintest movement of air across my skin as I walk. I begin to unconsciously breath as shallowly and quietly as my need for air will allow. I set my feet down with delicate caution, trying not to break the infernal silence. I briefly consider my actions absurd, but am unable to make any sound or speak any word, somehow afraid of what that might cause.

From the silence nearly inaudible sounds begin to rise, circling above the reeds and grasses surrounding me. At first the sound whispers so faintly that I dismiss it as my yearning for motion, but it soon rises to where it takes the quality of a breeze filtering through the grass. As it grows louder I can distinguish a chorus of separate voices, each breathing something different and equally indiscernible. The sound grows steadily until the harsh whispers of a thousand voices deafen me (and still the grass moves not at all, save where I brush against it.) The voices each bear their own message of dread and pain and at the same time the word they speak is the same. Over the symphony of voices only one word carries, the combination of a thousand fragmented sorrows.

"Follow."

I woke to a sharp slap. "Are you all right? Was this one of the episodes? Tell me exactly what happened." Dr. Pearson commanded my vision, shaking my head occasionally when I started to fade. I heard Rachel anxiously saying something in the background. Dr. Pearson's stern image blurred slightly as I rapidly blinked my eyes, trying to remember exactly where I was.

Vague thoughts of soft chairs and angry words fluttered through my head. I watched them pass with mild interest, recalling something significant in their shape, but the exact truth of it eluded me. Dr. Pearson's voice instructed me, but his words were slurred beyond recognition. He shook my head again and repeated his directions, his eyes grasping at mine.

Beyond Dr. Pearson's words I could still hear the whispering, growing more urgent and determined as I slipped into consciousness. They muttered coaxingly into my mind, assuring me that everything was fine here, luring me back to the swamp. I searched over Dr. Pearson's shoulder, trying to see Rachel. Shadows of memories concerning her lay nearby. My hand weakly shoved the eager psychologist aside and from over his shoulder two glowing eyes, pinpoints of green light, focused directly on me.

The first movement in the pond other than my own bristles behind those eyes. The grey and black fur stands on end as the raccoon glares at me. A rustling in the grass causes me to look to the side where another pair of glowing eyes rests on me. Then another, and another. A fox, mice, frogs, deer, muskrats, graceful snakes gliding like shadows across the wet moss to stop at the edge of the trail and stare, unmoving, into my eyes.

I move a few cautious steps forward, and with every step another pair of eyes meld out of the stillness to rest on me. They make no gesture of intimidation or threat, merely watching, as if they know more of my fate than do I. I ignore them as best I can and with a deep breath continue down the trail, each step landing softly and completely silently in the marsh.

I travel about six steps when a chill runs deep within my spine and I feel the hairs stand on the back of my neck. A shudder wracks my shoulders and arms for a moment as I hold my breath. I can feel the presence behind me, ominously silent and dreadfully patient.

I turn around.

They have all left the path and are following me.

None of them seem at all aware of each other, or if they are they don't care. Their full attention is on me. They keep a distance of about five feet, but beyond that the path is covered with the dark forms of the creatures. As I walk step by step further into the swamp the eyes continue to appear next to me, and as I pass they leave their cover to follow with the others. They stop when I do and begin my slow pace as I move. It's almost as if they're waiting for something and know that time doesn't matter--that there is no time and no matter how long they have to wait no time at all will pass.

Another screeching sounded over the insane screams and a delirious sense of movement wrenched my senses and the dead air of the swamp brought me back to reality.

I begin to move more quickly, the animals behind easily keeping pace. The path twists among the plant life and around pools of dark water. The whispers fall into the background but never really go away, they still mutter to each other and desperately try to convey their message, but all that comes across is the hollow moan, "Follow."

Gradually, I become aware that my mouth is moving, mimicking the motions of word though no sound breaks the spell of the swamp. I soon feel a rhythm to the miming, a silent litany that I chant to myself. The meaning is unimportant, it is the familiarity of the shapes arriving in time with my footfalls that holds significance, that feel somehow right.

I look down away from the stillness and watch my feet as they step one in front of the other following the soaked and rotting path. The brownish mud beneath the slight layer of water runs in rivulets across the back of my foot like rivers of blood flowing over some barren terrain. As I lift my feet the mud falls off, only clinging to the criss-crossing lattice of cuts. The mud lifts as I step down again, flowing back into its intricate pattern of rivers

The dirt in front of my feet abruptly stops and I find myself gazing into inky non-reflectant blackness, the heart of death.

Lifting my eyes I see the expanse of the swamp, looking now more like an ocean or a desert of pure ebony. No ripples or waves mar the surface, it lies still, like everything else here. I wonder for a moment if it isn't water, but an endless void, falling in front of my feet straight to Hell. It sits gaping at my feet, an entrance to another place where things do not obey the rules that govern this universe, a place that has no right to exist.

Then from the flawless void I notice a slight disturbance, a rupture on the surface as if from far below. It grows more turbulent until the waters erupt with silent chaos and waves stretch across the entire surface.

The whispers surrounding the sea of darkness grow in pitch until they become a terrible screeching, the wretched sound encompassing the land. The shriek extends over the reeds into the rolling sky and across the endless expanse of churning water to fade away into a doomed silence.

Something breaks the chaos of the black ocean, a solid form above the rippling surface. A single black talon rises to grip the flowing mass as if it were solid. The claw is huge, easily twice the size of a human, the polished and creviced surface reflecting the clouds above. Fifty yards away another talon slowly escapes the darkness to grip the waters.

My breath begins to come in shallow pants--I can't make myself breath any deeper and I cannot get enough air. My rib cage bounces rapidly with my attempts as my mind races against the possibility rising before me. My lips form words but I've no breath to back them.

"His heart's going crazy, get him up now. One, two, three--lift! Nurse! We need help here, now!"

"Johnny! No! I want to stay here with him! I can help, I know what's happening!"

"Get the woman out of here! Get her out now!

"Johnny! God help me! Somebody please help!"

Beyond the talon thick leathery skin begins to rise, rippling as it bends above the surface. Somehow each crease and fold of the huge mass stands out perfectly clear and distinct, etched in the whirling clouds above. The black carcass grows slowly, with a calm undeniable grace that is at once unhurried and unstoppable.

I try convulsively to swallow but cannot. Finally I to regain enough control of my voice to croak out my plea to the disappearing skies, "Good God above help me! Save me!" I turn to run, gathering every bit of strength in my spirit to flee from this terror and never turn back.

Dozens of glowing eyes stare at me.

Behind me I hear the folds of leathery skin stretch and the shadows grow darker as the monstrosity extends into the sky.

"He's going into cardiac arrest! Hold his arms! You, get the other one!"

"Doctor look out!"

"Fuck! Somebody restrain those legs!"

"I don't think I can hold him alone, I need help--aaahhh!"

"Shit! Don't bother, just hold him to the floor and keep his hands from clawing at his eyes!"

With unearthly silence the animals lunge as one. The snakes strike at my shins--I feel the momentary prick of fangs before the fox leaps at my throat. I raise my arms to protect my face and something barrels into me from the side. I fall. The fox is clawing at my chest and I try to scream but something crawls into my mouth. Instinctively I bite down and putrid juices pour into my throat. Fangs sink into one of my eyes, the blood spills down my face.

I try to yell but sickening liquid and lumps of flesh clog my throat. Turning away from the attack I see a huge eye loom over me. Red as blood and blazing like the sun fueled by the fires of Hell it burns with cruel ecstasy. Then it rises to its full height and from my intact eye I see it entirely, stepping out of the water onto the bank that somehow can handle the thing's weight.

Finally, I find the strength to scream.

Rachel walked from the roaring storm into the quiet void between doors, pausing to wipe her feet respectfully on the mat. She shook the droplets of rain off her umbrella and brushed the wet hair from her face before pushing open the second set of doors and entering the large waiting room.

She swiftly approached the receptionist's desk, briefly glancing to an older couple that sat with anxious expressions by the rain covered windows. Her steps were the long and purposeful steps of a surgeon informing a family that his patient had died. Within a dozen feet of the desk she could smell the receptionist's perfume and by the time she set her cold hands on the counter Rachel had to breathe through her polite smile to avoid the overpowering fragrance.

The receptionist looked up and smiled. "Here to see Johnny?" Rachel nodded and held her breath. "Go ahead." A nurse appeared to take her to her destination, also smiling. "He's been very quiet today." she said.

Rachel nodded.

The nurse turned, taking the hint. "This way."

Rachel followed her through the silent corridors, her eyes falling on the familiar pieces of art lining the walls. Most of the works did not sit well with her taste and seemed little more than a splattered collection of colors and angles, but her sight had nowhere else to rest, so she accepted the torment of the walls. A turn and a set of doors brought her to a hallway containing her favorite photograph, that of a man silhouetted on a bridge over-looking the statue of liberty. Though she didn't slow her measured pace as she passed, she let her eyes linger on the water where it turned to whiteness from the reflected sun.

Another few turns and more empty, stale hallways brought her to her destination. She stopped outside the room and considered the door as the nurse found the appropriate key. A plastic panel sat in the center of the light wood reading, "1173 -- occupied." With a deep breath to ready herself she entered the room.

Inside the padded walls lay only a small cot, little more than a mattress on the floor. Sitting with his legs crossed and head down, arms folded in a strait jacket, was her fiancee. The nurse nodded and Rachel approached the diminutive figure, noting the sound of the lock catching behind her.

"Johnny?" she began softly. "It's Rachel." She tried to read his expression under the hair hanging before his eyes. If he heard or understood her, he gave no indication. She crept slowly next to him. "Mind if I sit?" Not expecting an answer, and not receiving one, Rachel lowered herself to the mattress next to him. Johnny shied away, crouching and looking in the other direction. Adopting a practiced, patient expression, Rachel began talking in the reassuring voice she used to speak with the children in her daycare.

"Work has been pretty much business as usual this week. Yesterday all of us got to build a great tower with all the blocks we could find, though. It was huge, almost as high as me. But then Jenny tried to take her favorite blue block from the middle and it toppled over, so we couldn't make it as high as we might have. It was still pretty impressive, though."

Johnny sat quietly and stared intently at the white floor, perfectly still. Rachel couldn't even see the fabric of his jacket rising with his breath. He was bent over like a fatally wounded soldier who had leaned against a tree for a moment's rest and slipped into death - or like a jungle cat waiting to pounce.

"It's raining out. Has been for days. All the news reports are saying that it's going to be a bad year for the crops because of the flooding."

A glimpse of unexpected movement halted Rachel's words. Johnny slowly turned his head to look at her. His eyes bored into hers with their eternally haunted expression, sunken and reddened from lack of sleep. Surrounding the desperate orbs, an intricate lattice of recently healed scars wove their way across the pale skin where he had tried to claw his eyes from their sockets. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips, but the tilt of his head took all happiness from the expression. He leaned forward as though to whisper some great and terrible secret. "I . . . I . . . ."

Rachel bit her lip and tried to hold back the tears. She knew what he would say, she knew the tormented gleam in his eyes and saw that her visit would be cut short. As she rose and gestured to the window in the door she could hear Johnny's intake of breath.

He abruptly leapt to his feet and flung his head back, body arching painfully and muscles stretched taught. Then he cried over and over at the limit of raw and bloodied lungs his message of doom to the mortal world: "I awaken!"


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