"All right, I suppose I missed one," he said.
"Yeah, tell me about it. I am so going to report you to somebody."
"Didn't you say it wasn't finished?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's probably one I threw away and you pulled it
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out to ..." I looked down at the sketch as the words caught in my throat.
The sketch was finished. Gravedigger's face was there in full detail. More detail than I think I'd ever done with one of his drawings. His skeletal mouth was twisted into an evil sneer while his sunken eyes seemed to stare at me from the page.
"What exactly is your issue here, Mr. Seaver?" Frano asked.
I swept the sketch off the table and crushed it into a ball.
"I know you did this," I said to him. "I don't know why, but you better not mess with me again or you're going to be in huge trouble."
I threw the crumpled paper at him and ran out of the room. I didn't want to see it, ever again.
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Chapter 7
I was in no shape to go back to work.
My house was only a few blocks from school, so I rode straight there. I didn't even call Mr. Santoro to tell him I wouldn't be back. There were too many other things banging around in my head to worry about being responsible. I wanted to be home. Home was safe. Home was sane. I felt sure that as soon as I got there, I'd calm down and start to piece things together.
When I got to the house, I locked the door and ran around the entire downstairs, pulling shades and closing blinds. I didn't want anybody looking inside and I didn't want to be able to look out, either. When I thought back to the face that appeared at the kitchen window, it gave me the sweats. It may have been a shopping bag, or not. I didn't know and I wasn't taking any chances. Either way I didn't want any more faces or bags or whatever peering in at me.
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I ran up to my room, planning to lock myself in and sit in a corner with a blanket over my head. I had to think. I had to figure this out. I sprinted up the stairs and down the hall to my bedroom. The door was closed. When I pulled it open, any hope of figuring out a sane, logical explanation for what had happened at school was destroyed.
Lying on my bed, fast asleep, was Winston. There was no way for a cat to get in or out of that bedroom. Or the house for that matter. The cat I saw at school couldn't have been Winston. But it was. It had Winston's tags. My legs turned to rubber. I sat down on the floor, staring at my contented little kitty. She didn't even budge. Somehow until that moment, I had been able to convince myself that there were logical explanations for everything I had seen and heard. The sounds; the artwork; the rogue breezes; the symbol; the cell phone; even what I thought was my Gravedigger character come to life ... I felt certain that with enough reasoning I could find innocent solutions to everything.
Except for the cat.
That was definitely Winston at the school, but there was no way for her to have gotten out of the house. Seeing her lying on that bed made me realize that whatever the explanations were for what was happening, I wasn't going to like them.
So much was happening that defied the rules of the world that I started to wonder if the problem was me. Maybe I was going crazy and imagining things. Why not? Grave-digger existed in my head. Frano might have been right. I might have been obsessed. It wasn't a happy solution. But accepting that everything existed only in my mind was easier to buy than any other explanation I could come up with. Because I couldn't come up with any. What did "going crazy" mean anyway? Was I going to be committed to some institution and live in a rubber room? And if I had
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suddenly gone out of my mind, why then? Things kind of sucked since Mom died, but that was a few years before. Why would I suddenly start getting all nutty now? Was I going to have to lie on a couch and talk to some psychiatrist guy in a beard while he nodded knowingly and took notes? I didn't feel crazy, though I wasn't sure what crazy was supposed to feel like.
I really wished Dad was home. I needed to hear a normal, strong voice. I went downstairs and used the kitchen phone to call his cell. After three rings I was afraid I'd get his voice mail. On the fourth he answered.
"Hey, you!" he exclaimed brightly. "H-T-H are you?"
Hearing his voice was the best thing that had happened to me all day. Dad was talking loud because he was on the convention floor. The background noise was a dead giveaway.
"I'm okay," I said, lying. You can't start a conversation with: "I'm going out of my mind. H-T-H are you?"
"This place is nuts!" Dad yelled.
I wanted to say, "Don't get me started," but decided against it.
"Business is great," he continued, sounding genuinely excited. He then called out to somebody. "Can't now, I'm talking to my son." He focused back on me and said, "What's going on? Any problems?"
I wanted to say, "Yeah. I'm imagining things and it nearly got me shredded," but couldn't get the words out. Thinking about what I would say and how I would say it made it all seem so . . . silly. As much as I wanted to talk to him and hear him tell me how everything was going to be okay, I couldn't. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. Not from a few thousand miles away. I wanted him to get on the next plane and get home ASAP ... as he would put it. But that wouldn't have been fair. Whatever problems
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I was having, they would have to wait until he finished his trip. It would give me time to come up with a way to tell him I was going crazy without sounding like I was going crazy.
"No problems," I said. "Just wanted to say hi."
"I'm proud of you, Marsh!" Dad yelled into the phone. "I'm sorry I have to be away so much."
"It's cool, Dad. This way I don't get sick of you."
He laughed. "Gotta run. Call me later, okay?"
"Yup," I said. "Later."
"G-N, kiddo," he said, and the line went dead.
"G'night, Dad."
I was so incredibly alone. I wondered if any of this would have happened if Dad hadn't gone on the trip. Does your mind hold off on turning wacky until you're at your most vulnerable?
I felt something touch my ankle and nearly screamed. As it was, I jumped back and nearly trampled Winston. She had rubbed up against me, probably to ask for dinner.
"Was that you at school today?" I asked the cat.
Winston chirped an answer, though I think it was, "Shut up and feed me, nut boy."
I scooped her litter box and gave her food and water. I didn't have much of an appetite but put a frozen pizza in the oven anyway. Even lunatics had to eat. While the pizza cooked, I did my best not to look at the window over the sink. A reappearance of Trader Joe would have dropped me off the deep end, so I kept my eyes on the oven. The room started getting dark earlier than normal because a storm was headed in. It made me want to be there even less, so as soon as the pizza was done, I threw it onto a plate and brought it up to my room with a can of Coke. I sat on the floor to eat, but the pizza tasted like nothing. I didn't know what I was supposed to do next. My mind was everywhere and nowhere.
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I glanced up at the photo of the temple and flashed back to the sight of it covered in blood. That pretty much killed what little appetite I had. I pushed the pizza away and sat there listening for odd sounds. Or for no sounds.
It wasn't long before the storm arrived and rain started to fall. It pounded on the roof, filling the room with white, wet noise. It made me nervous. I wanted to be able to hear in case something was out there.
Something? What did I think was there? Gravedigger? I kept running the events of the past twenty-four hours over and over in my mind to try and make sense of it. I must have sat there on the floor staring at nothing for a couple of hours with nothing to show for it but a sore butt. It had grown totally dark. Dark was bad. I went around the house and turned on every light. Dad was going to get a surprise when he saw the electric bill, but I didn't care. I thought about playing a little 360 but figured it would only wind me up. I was better off slee
ping. At least when I was asleep my mind couldn't play tricks on me. Or so I hoped. Before hitting bed, I took a shower. We had a big, glass-walled stall that took up most of the bathroom. I liked to run the hot water and let it fill up with steam to pretend I was in a sauna. It didn't matter that it was summer and eighty degrees outside; for some reason being in a warm cloud was relaxing.
Since Dad wasn't around to yell at me for using all the hot water, I took my time. It was great. Being in that steamy enclosure was like being in my own private world. For the first time in a day, I relaxed. Nothing strange had happened since my trip to school. It made me think that whatever I was going through might just be over. I decided to stay there in my safe, warm cocoon until the hot water ran out, but that wasn't meant to be.
I saw it before I felt it.
The steam that filled the shower started to swirl. Small
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white clouds moved past my face. It made no sense until I felt a faint puff of air. My back stiffened as I instantly went on full alert. Whatever it was had returned. I was suddenly feeling vulnerable. Like Psycho vulnerable. I was standing butt naked in a shower stall, facing the tiled wall with my back to the glass. If something was out there behind me, there was nothing I could do about it. I didn't move. Where would I go? Several seconds went by. I felt a breath of wind on my wet back and got the shivers. It didn't matter that hot water was rushing down on me. The goose bumps were up. I heard a squeaking sound, like somebody's finger was sliding across wet glass. I knew I had to turn and see. Looking around, I found the only thing I could use to defend myself. It was a wooden back-scrubber brush hanging from the shower knob. I reached out cautiously and clutched it. It was ridiculous. What did I plan on doing? Give somebody a good brushing? Still, it gave me the slight bit of confidence I needed to turn around. I moved slowly, first turning my head to get a look over my shoulder (I wasn't in any hurry to face an intruder naked).
My heart thumped. My eyes traveled across the steamed-up glass until they came upon the impossible. It was the symbol. The triple swirl. It was somehow drawn on the glass by wiping away the moisture that had collected there. The sight made me jump. My back hit the tiled wall. Was I imagining this? Was this something my mind had created? In that moment I actually hoped I was crazy, because the idea that some entity was in that bathroom drawing symbols on the shower glass was far worse. I had to know. I tentatively reached toward the swirls. Though it had to have been a hundred degrees in that shower, my hand was shaking. My fingers touched the glass and wiped through the interconnected circles. It was real. Or at least my mind was telling me it was real. As my fingers slid across the wet glass, a realization came to me that nearly
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made my head explode. The moisture was on the inside of the shower. If something had actually made this symbol, it wasn't out in the bathroom. It was in the shower with me.
I cranked off the water, yanked the shower door open, leaped out of the stall, and ran soaking wet out of the bathroom and down the hall into my room. I threw on sweats and flip-flops, not bothering to dry off. Once dressed, I stood there, still wet, not knowing what to do. Should I run? Scream? Go for the heavy iron again? I grabbed my cell phone, thinking I should call the police. But what would I tell them? And what could they do besides think I was crazy . . . and they would be right. I thought about calling Dad, but he couldn't help-- he was on the other side of the country.
There was only one other person I could think of to call. Cooper. I had no idea what I would tell him, but I knew I wouldn't have to worry about it like I did with Dad. We were best friends. Who cared if we had an argument? Our friendship was stronger than that. I was ready to tell him everything and sound like a lunatic. I didn't care. Maybe he'd come home with his parents. The lake was only a few hours away. I could hold out that long. Yeah, that sounded good. The Foleys would come over and together we'd all figure this out. I didn't know how we'd do that, but I definitely wanted to try. For sure I didn't want to be alone.
I punched in Cooper's number and got back an automated voice that said: "The number you are trying to reach is temporarily out of service. Please try again later." I quickly hit end and tried again. Maybe I had dialed the number wrong. No go. I got the same message. Damn! Cooper's parents must have killed his cell phone as part of his summer exile. I didn't have any other numbers for them. I wanted to scream.
My eye caught something on the table near my bed. It was a business card. Ennis Mobley's card. I had completely forgotten about his odd visit. He was worried about me and
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wanted to know if anything was wrong. Back then everything was fine. That had changed. Dramatically. I wondered if what was happening had anything to do with Ennis's concern. I couldn't imagine what kind of connection there might be, or how he could predict that I was about to go off the deep end, but at that moment I didn't care. He said to call if I needed help and I definitely needed help.
Ennis's number had a 212 area code. That was New York City. He said he was leaving for Pakistan and didn't give me a foreign contact number. I had to hope that his calls were being forwarded. What did I have to lose? I punched in his number and waited. There was a series of beeps. Beeps were good. It sounded like I was going to be forwarded to wherever he was. What time was it in Pakistan? I didn't know and didn't care. I also didn't know what he could do to help me from so far away, but if there was any connection between his concern for us and what was happening to me, I wanted to know. Was it possible that he had predicted this? Whatever "this" was?
The beeping was replaced by a harsh sound I had never heard over a phone before. There was static along with some shrill shrieks that cut through me like fingernails on a chalkboard. I had to hold the phone away from my ear because it was making my hair stand on end. I was about to hang up and try again when I heard a faint voice through all the noise.
"Hello?" I said.
I figured it was a bad connection and checked the bars on my phone. My reception was solid. Whatever was wrong was happening on the other end. The voice was still there, but I could barely make it out.
"Hello?" I said again.
The voice came somewhat clearer. "... make the journey . . . ," I thought I heard. It was a man's voice. That much
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I could make out. It didn't sound like a recording, either.
"Can you hear me?" I said. "Ennis?"
"... the source . . . ," I heard.
"Who is this?" I demanded to know.
The static grew less, but the shrill squeals continued. The man's voice seemed to grow out of them.
"... search is over . . . journey will begin . . ."
"What journey? Who is this?"
Suddenly the static stopped. The squealing stopped. I thought the phone had gone dead. It hadn't. I heard a deep, booming man's voice clearly say, "The journey along the Morpheus Road."
I snapped the phone shut. Morpheus Road. It was the word from my dream the night before. A dream. Was it possible I was still dreaming? Was that the answer to what was happening? Was this all a dream? Was I still lying on the couch in my living room, missing a TV show about sharks?
I heard music. It was so faint, I thought it might be coming from next door. Or maybe it was the TV and it would wake me up from this nightmare. It sounded like a music box. Or something the ice cream guy plays from his truck when he trolls the neighborhood. It was odd but not threatening in the least. If anything, it was strangely compelling. I walked in a daze to my bedroom door. When I opened it, the music got louder. It was coming from inside the house. As far as I knew, there was nothing we owned that would play music like that. I stood in the doorway, listening. It only took a few seconds to recognize the tune. It was a Christmas carol. "Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town." As strange as it was, the music was soothing. It made me think of holidays when I was little. It reminded me of Mom. I remembered coming out of that same room on so many Christmas mornings, carefully making my way down the stairs in the dark, wo
ndering if Santa Claus had paid a visit and what he
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might have left under the tree. The music was calling me to the magic.
I walked slowly along the upstairs hallway, headed for the stairs. The house was dark. Had I turned out the lights? It didn't matter. It only added to the familiar sensation of a predawn Christmas morning. As I crept down the stairs, the music grew louder. The song played over and over again. I had a brief thought that if it was a wind-up music box, it must have a pretty huge spring to be playing for so long. Looking to the bottom of the stairs, I saw a warm glow of flickering light coming from the living room.
I questioned what was happening but wasn't scared because I was experiencing one of my favorite memories of childhood. I was being swept along in a kind of euphoria. I loved Christmas morning. What could be better? It made me think of hot cocoa and candy canes and parents who would ooh and aah when I opened every gift from Santa as if it were the first time they'd seen it. Sure I was confused. I knew it couldn't be real, but part of me wanted to pretend it was. If only for a little while.
As I moved down the stairs, I focused on the mysterious glow of dancing light that came from the living room. I knew what I'd see when I hit the bottom and turned the corner. The music continued. Did I have a music box like that when I was a baby? Maybe. It sounded so familiar. So comforting. So inviting. I reached the ground floor and walked the last few steps that would take me to the living room. The anticipation was way greater than anything I had ever experienced on mornings of Christmas past. I hoped the payoff would be just as good. When I turned the corner to look into the living room . . .