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STEPS
The white Victorian was elegant through every cornice, eave, and window, looming over the manicured lawn like a celestial guardian. Peace and comfort, Annie thought. Warmth and happiness for the rest of our lives. She believed it, too. No going back now. Annie and Eric Durgess had found a place to call home. The house (she knew this was a sappy thought) smiled, something on the door perhaps—a bright yellow circle with a smiling face—the one you saw on bumpers, a yellow button on a jean jacket. The yellow sticker (or button), instead of ‘smile’ said, “I’m here for you. And you for me. Together, we’ll bring another member to the family. Make it three. Not counting me.” Did it wink? Annie held her belly and chuckled. She was getting sappy, but she didn’t care. Beasley, the family beagle, barked a single time from where he lay on the grass. He yawned, stretched—paws extended, belly toward the sun—looking around as though he didn’t understand why he’d barked in the first place. Maybe he’d had a bad dream, Annie thought. She
stood and looked at the house. They’d
been in The house did seem to look at her. The white guardian spoke, letting her know: I’m protecting you. The sun was a bright yellow ball making its presence felt. For some reason, the sun seemed jealous of her thoughts, or maybe it was starved for attention. Talk about sappy, she thought. She’d been working in the yard for the last two hours. Light blue gardening gloves grimed with dirt fit snugly over her hands. Her black hair spilled out in thick locks under a red bandana. She was wearing one of Eric’s long, denim shirts. She liked Eric’s clothes, and he enjoyed the fact that Annie liked to wear them. Something sexy about his ‘significant other’ partaking of his wardrobe, he’d once said. It brought them closer together, he’d said. “Oh, that’s sweet,” Annie had told him. Eric had rolled his eyes, looking as if he needed to get in touch with his masculinity, and caught him blushing. Still looking at the house, Annie Durgess thought of what it was telling her now. Yes, soon, we’ll make it three. The nights would grow long and sleepless with the new baby, dirty diapers, but she was optimistic. Annie didn’t think of the hardships of parenting, only the rewards. The future proved optimistic. The white Victorian told her this now in its elegant facade. Under a cloudless, pristine sky, yellow rays of warmth embraced her arms. “You,”—as if competing with the Victorian—the sun said, “are the big red bow on top off this package. We know it’s early for Christmas, but what the hell!” Warmth surged through Annie’s chest. Was that contentment? A multitude of emotions—all of them glorious—moved alongside the contentment. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time. She wondered if it was a combination of the sun, the house, the flowers, the perfectly, manicured lawn, Beasley, and the expectation of motherhood. Annie looked at Beasley and smiled. Turning back to her task, she knelt and planted another petunia—purple this time—along the walkway. The front yard was warm and welcoming already. Annie wanted their house to be the most inviting on the block. By the looks of it, she was doing a fine job. A war of color was taking place between Annie’s and Mrs. Duncan’s yard across the street. They’d been laughing about it for over a week now. The Victorian spoke again, or maybe it was God. Through everything she and Eric sought, they were where they belonged, where they’d always wanted to be. Another
feeling of contentment? Is it possible to feel
too good? The
sun moved in, pushing aside the Victorian’s optimism, letting the
house know it was his turn to shine and put a smile on Annie’s
face. Annie
took a deep breath over how good it all felt.
Today, she felt reborn, made with newness.
She and Eric had made the right decision coming to It had been hard. They’d made sacrifices, but it had been worth it. They’d had their trials as couples will, arguments, frustrations. But the pain and sweat had granted rewards… They’d
made the move, the perfect change, and purchased their first home.
It was going to be a good life, the Victorian told her. Make it three, Annie thought, and touched her belly. How could it not treat them well? The
change came three months ago from Eric’s business was on the rise. E&D Contractors (and the seed in Annie’s belly) were starting to grow. Things had a way of being completely, unalterably perfect, she thought. She almost felt bad for feeling so good. As
she looked at the house—planting another petunia (pink this time)
along the sidewalk—Annie stood, put her hands on her hips, and
surveyed her work. She shook
her head, unable to believe they could afford this: the house, the lawn,
even the flowers. She
couldn’t believe they lived here, that Eric’s business was doing as
well as it was. It hadn’t
sunk in yet, despite how long they’d been here.
Not that the Victorian was a castle or that Or was it, she thought? “Yes it is,” Annie said. “To me, the house is a castle. To me, it sits on the clouds.” The possibilities were everywhere, things she could do with the yard, the basement, the empty room across the hall—what would soon be the nursery. Maybe they could turn the extra room into a study, an office for Eric. Wallpaper here, fresh paint in the dining room, bookshelves, more counter space in the kitchen. The possibilities were endless, and as Annie thought about the possibilities, she grew mentally tired thinking of all the hard work it would take. What was that about relaxation and leisure? But
it’s ours, this time. We’re
not asking permission to renovate a house we’re renting anymore, so it
can look good for whoever moves in after us.
We’re not working on someone else’s kitchen or storm drains.
This is ours. Everything
we decide from here on out is permanent.
Well, at least until we change our minds.
When
Eric wasn’t inspecting various job sights in the surrounding towns of “See,” he’d told her that day. Cars raced by on the track. The sun was blistering, blinding. Eric rested his forearms on the fence. “If you buy coffee and doughnuts for the crew, take them out to lunch once and a while, you’ll not only save them money, they’ll see you as pretty dang nice, and they won’t want to let you down. Make it enjoyable for them; they make it easier for you. At least I hope. It’s all about getting the best performance out of your workers, snooks. There is a method to my madness. I’m basically trying to deceive them.” Annie laughed and shook her head. Going to the racetrack with their parents (a coincidence hey both thought scary, considering they were in their late twenties at the time, and neither lived at home), they’d said goodbye (much to the chagrin of both sets of parents), and disappeared for the day. “No, don’t worry,” Annie told her parents. “I’ll take a cab home.” Her mother and father looked at one another, raising their eyebrows. “Ice cream would be a great way to wash down that hot dog,” Eric had told her on that blistering day. “Besides, you smell like onions. I don’t want onions to be the memory of our first kiss.” Annie raised her eyebrows, stunned by Eric’s approach. He’d captivated her as well, though. Playfully, she smacked his arm. They were married six months later. Yes, someone will need a room of their own, Annie thought, planting another petunia. She grabbed a white one this time from the cardboard tray on the sidewalk. Eric’s
peers mentioned Now, E&D was bigger than ever. New
house, new baby, Annie thought. New
life. They were lucky, and for a split-second, she closed her eyes, soaking it all in. It
was good to get away from the scorching heat of Something about healing, she thought. Annie couldn’t look at Eric when the noises haunted him. The sounds, she learned, came with a torrent of pain. She’d thought his troubles were nothing more than migraines. She’d seen him moving his head to the sounds once. “What’s it like?” she’d asked. They
were living in a small apartment in Annie put her hand on his knee. Eric looked at her with tears in his brown eyes. “Huh?” he asked. “I can’t hear you, sweetheart. It’s like a marching band in here.” Annie heard about Dr. Livesey’s methods and called him the next day. Dr. Livesey had performed a miracle, no doubt about it. According to Eric, he hadn’t heard the sounds at all since the hypnosis. Annie
prayed—because of Dr. Livesey—the haunting in Eric’s brain was
over. Their life was headed
in a new direction. They
didn’t have time for it. It
was in the healing, pristine skies of Just stay perfect, she thought. Looking at the house and its beaming white facade—the freshly cut grass—a fantasy transported Annie into thoughts of grace. The contrast was so pleasing, she almost wept. She was glad Eric wasn’t there to witness it. Motherhood was making her emotionally unstable. Another nursery. That’s what we’ll do with the empty room across from the nursery we already have. That’s how we’ll fill the space. Feeling a jester, Annie wondered what Eric would think. She knew exactly what he’d say: “Let’s just make it through this baby first, hon.” Annie
took a deep breath of the Contentment? “No,”
she said, aloud. “ Beasley issued a single yelp from the lawn. Annie laughed. Whether or not Beasley approved, she couldn’t tell. The dog was barking at everything these days. * Eric
Durgess experienced a similar euphoria driving home from work that April
afternoon, welcoming the beginning of their new life.
He’d been hesitant of the cold winters of His dreams had come true in ways he’d never imagined. Instead of working the long hours like before, he drove to each job sight, nodding with approval, making suggestions here and there, listening to what the owners’ expectations were. All the while, trying to bring the white Victorian together. Watching Annie, made him equally happy. He saw how excited she was; he would be home more often instead of working the interminable hours, trying to get the job done. From
the small outfit Eric began in But
that’s over now, Eric thought.
The noises are gone. For the first time, he felt the truth in that statement. The haunting was over. Gone. Finished. Thank God. At heart, though, he was skeptical toward their new beginning. “Yeah, it’s going great, but…” “Yeah, we’re making more money, but…” It drove Annie crazy. Eric couldn’t let it go, however, enjoying the ride that things were different. Simply, he wanted everything to stay perfect. After all, they had a booming business now, a beautiful house, and the expectations of parenthood. How could he not worry? If he was confident about anything, it wasn’t being a skilled worker, but wanting to be the best husband and father he could be. Father, he knew nothing about, but Annie made him feel successful as worker and husband. He couldn’t help but smile as he drove the Chevy. Boy or girl, he didn’t care. He knew the trials would come, the frustrations. Not all things went smoothly. Blemishes were real. You’ll
think about it again after that little boy or girl is a teenager.
You always think about the teenage years.
He’d worry about that when the time came. As it was, he steered the Chevy into the driveway of their new home, the white Victorian guardian looming over a manicured lawn. Annie, face glowing with the onset of motherhood, sat on the porch-swing drinking lemonade. Beasley raised his head and let out a single bark at his arrival. Eric chuckled. Not a bad way to begin the evening, he thought.
* Eric turned on his side and took a deep breath of Annie’s hair, a lingering aroma of blueberries. Annie breathed deep, locked in the confines of—what he hoped—were untroubled dreams. How
far under is she? In the dark, after an eventful day, dishes washed (the two of them yawning enough to go to bed), Eric lay smiling in the dark, not thinking about their monetary problems or the bills they had to pay. Into their life—their new life—he thought about how happy he was. With the weather turning warm, they had more opportunities to work in the yard, Annie’s specialty. Eric didn’t think about his troubles then, or past horrors, a rare thing because he had a natural inclination to worry. He did not think about noises or bad dreams. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath of Annie’s hair. Blueberries, he thought. He loved what Annie was doing to the house. He noticed something different everyday when he came home. They worked together over the weekend: laying tile in the bathroom, staining bookshelves for the living room, rolling out new carpet for the nursery. There was still an empty, unfinished room down the hall. They hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Annie had joked with when he came home about turning it into another nursery. His heart skipped a beat when she’d told him. “What about the office?” he’d asked. Annie smiled, pattered her belly, and told him she was only joking. Worry
about it later, Eric thought. Sleep
peacefully, dream deep. Remember
who’s sharing all this with you. Annie had supported him through every sacrifice. Where would he be now if not for that fateful day at the track? He didn’t want to think about it. What a lucky man you are, he thought. “Annie,” he whispered. “You made my dreams come true.” He put his arm around her. “Love you, baby,” he said. Annie did not move, did not stir. “Far away?” he said. “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.” Eric pulled Annie close, her head on his chest, and was asleep in seconds. * The
weeks moved rapidly by. Eric
was itching to tear into the kitchen.
He had an idea for building an island with a deep fryer and an
indoor grill. The yard was
bright with flowers now, the lawn thick and lush.
He’d have to invest in a riding mower.
The house—with more order each day—was coming together.
They were enjoying the magic of their new life, new house, new
town. Things were looking
up. Eric and Annie remained
optimistic and hopeful. The
bids Eric put in for renovations were being accepted.
Yes, talk was Eric was one of the best and most reliable
contractors in this part of *
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.
Unmelodic bells 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 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 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 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, too. 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 “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 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. Lying 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? Laying 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. The sound was not a marching band, he realized, but a hammer banging on a nail, his own trade tormenting and betraying him. Eric located the source through his nightmares, the first step toward it. An alien burrowed into his flesh, manipulating his mind. Something changed him, turning his brain inside out. He had dreams Dr. Neadley was helping him, curing him, but outside his dreams, a demon worked under his flesh. It laughed at his susceptibility. He opened his eyes. Had he been dreaming? No? Yes? Resting his eyes? He couldn’t tell. Eric stood from the recliner. Anger distorted his features. He was virtually foaming at the mouth. Yes, he realized, something had bitten him while dreaming. Poison seeped into his blood, into his brain. He had rabies! He had it now! Awake
now, yes! Driving me,
controlling me, clutching me by the throat is that lunatic sound! He
was no longer Eric Durgess, husband, contractor, father-to-be.
He was an ill-tempered beast, brainwashed by relentless
screaming. The percussion
wedged itself between his ears and tuned him into a monster.
He’d gone to sleep a perfectly troubled man and awoke as
something else altogether. Eric
Durgess was a shrieking locomotive.
The noises drove him, manipulated him.
The sounds were palpable; they could do anything they wanted, and
they steered him toward violence. He
needed to kill the sound, he realized.
He needed to find its source and destroy it!
That’s what it had been telling him all along…
Had
it ever been his head? Had
it always been on the outside, waiting for the right moment to play him
like a puppet? BAM!
BAM! BAM!
BAM! BAM! It
was physical, taking control, the sound.
It picked him up and dragged him across the living room floor.
It pulled him through the kitchen and toward the garage door.
Gripping the knob, Eric threw the door open. “WHAT
THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?” he bellowed. Annie
stood by the workbench, the place where Eric had put cabinets, shelves,
and other countless items together.
The things for the home, his home, their home, the
beautiful white thing they’d made, the life they had… Annie
stared at him as if he were joking.
He’d often pulled puerile stunts before, trying to make her
laugh, but he wasn’t succeeding now.
What was it he’d said about the right time for humor?
This certainly wasn’t the time. She was building a coffin, he saw, a rudimentary thing but a coffin nonetheless. Yes. Beasley had died. She was driving in the last of the nails. Did
they even have a dog? Eric
couldn’t remember. Reality
morphed with strange distortion. Nothing
made sense. The box Annie was building only resembled a coffin. His perception was inside out still. It could’ve been the size of a mansion or a toy box for all he knew. The coffin was for him, and that was all he knew. Annie wanted to kill him for what he’d done to Beasley. She wanted to bury him in the backyard. She was preparing early was all. “FOILED
YOUR PLAN!” Eric shrieked.
“WHEN DID YOU THINK YOU’D DO AWAY WITH ME?
THOUGHT YOU’D WAIT ’TIL I WAS SLEEPING?
MAYBE IN THE CHAIR? HAD
IT ALL PLANNED, DID YOU? THOUGHT
YOU’D TAKE OVER THE BUSINESS FOR YOURSELF?” Annie couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Despite her grief, she tried to smile, tried to look amused, but it was forced. She wasn’t amused. This wasn’t the time for games. Goddamn you, Eric, how can you do this to me? Eric stormed down the steps of the garage, making footprints in the shavings on the floor. He hurried around the workbench and snatched the hammer from Annie’s hand. Who was this lunatic, Annie thought? What was he doing? “Eric?” she said. Before she realized it wasn’t a joke, Annie braced herself. Worse things to come? Bad omens? Oh,
yes, darling dear. Bad
omens, indeed! He looked worse than a rapid dog, a demented jackal. Spit gathered at his lip and plopped to the floor. Whoever this monster was, it was not her husband. The man holding the hammer had come from somewhere else, someplace else. The hammer came at her like a speeding gray blur. She heard the wind of it like a Japanese movie. She had enough time to understand what a baseball felt under the swing of a power hitter. The hammer collided into her brain. Lightening bolts careened through her skull. The hammer tore through her cheekbone and eye. White flashes blinded her. Bone, blood, and teeth exploded through her mouth. A din of sirens wailed between her ears, followed by a numbing, prelude to darkness… Annie fell to the floor, her head spilling gouts of blood. Was she alive? Was that the sound of her demented husband above her? I
love you, Beasley… Eric
swung the hammer into her brain. Her
skull caved in under the force of the blows.
Loving wife, mother to be, collapsed dead on the floor. Eric positioned himself above his wife, delivering repeated, vengeful blows to her brain. In lunatic delight, he laughed out loud. “THAT’LL TEACH YOU, YES SIR! DON’T LOOK SO RESILIENT NOW, DO YOU? A TERRIBLE WAY TO GO, WOULDN’T YOU SAY? LET THAT BE A LESSON TO YOU!” Through his head, however, the sound berated him: Bam! Bam bam bam bam bam! Eric stopped. He dropped the hammer, stood up, and looked wildly about the garage, his eyes wide in madness. Hearing the noises, he was more determined now to locate their origin. “I’ll get you, you little cocksucker!” he said. “I know where you’re hiding!” He leapt over the still form of his wife, bounding through the garage, up the steps, and into the kitchen. He stopped, looked around him, and breathed like a beast. Bam
bam bam bam! The sound was coming from upstairs. He ran through the kitchen and up the stairs. He stopped in front of the room he often visited in his sleep. Eric grabbed the knob and threw the door open. He leapt inside, expecting a band of marauders, but the room was empty. Cold walls, dust, and empty floors surrounded him. A single window shed a pale glow from the coming dusk. In
the time and space of memory, Eric vaguely remembered this room when he
(and his wife?) toured the house, the real estate agent saying, And
you’ll have plenty of room for a study, an office, maybe a playroom…
The door slammed shut, locking him in. A section of the flooring—three feet square—flew open, revealing a dark space below. Ignoring the forces at work, Eric moved to the opening in the floor. A staircase made of stone led into an endless limbo of black. Somebody whispered his name from below: “Eric,
come down and play.” The stairway was something from a ruinous castle. If he’d created anything, labored with any skill and precision, he would’ve made steps just like these. Ah! He had it now! These were his steps! He’d chiseled and carved them himself a mason in lives past. That’s where the noises are coming from, he thought. The darkness below. Eric didn’t hesitate. He jumped onto the first step and began the descent. *
The three-foot section above slammed shut, sealing him in. The staircase was gold. It emanated an amber light in the surrounding black. He owned more than the talent of a mason. He was a magician, too. Worry? What more could there be? The berating noises continued to rocket through his head. How could the noises lead to a worse place, he thought? Eric Durgess continued his downward flight. He was more determined now to locate the origin of that lunatic sound. Blackness hemmed him in from all sides. Only the amber hue of the staircase lighted the way. Endless
limbo. Thoughts of my soul.
If he launched himself over the edge, would he sail forever? Eric didn’t want to find out. He didn’t have sense enough to understand who he was, who he’d been. As he moved downwards, it didn’t take long to realize the steps went on and on without end. Not once through the downwards flight did he come to a room, a door, a window, a single dead end, the most endless, lunatic flight of steps he’d ever seen. The bottom never came. Eric hurried on. He skipped in delight, taking them one by one, driven by the clamoring sound of bells. Were the bells in his mind, those crashing cymbals? They seemed outside him now, echoing up from the black. He was anxious to find the end. He hurried down for almost an hour before realizing the steps’ futility. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted through the dark. Up ahead, however, a landing came into view. Not a landing, but another staircase. This one, too, rose through the black, strangely connected to the one he was standing on. The steps came to a halt, flattened out for several feet, then climbed up, as though someone had tried fusing the two together. Cymbals careened through his brain, prying his skull apart. The sounds never left him. Eric’s eyes watered in pain. He took the steps leading upwards. His legs were weary and tired from running, but he ventured on, nonetheless. It didn’t take long before he realized this staircase, too, was the same, unending flight leading upwards, deeper into the black. Cursing, grumbling as he went, the sounds tormented him. Maybe he was part of the marching band. BAM
BAM BAM! Again, just ahead, another landing… He had more than one choice now. Two staircases merged outwards from the one he was already standing on. Illuminated in the same amber hue, the steps branched outwards in opposite directions. Eric came to a halt where the stairway forked: the left staircase traveled downwards and into the black; the one on the right ascended above. He could take the one going down, the other leading higher, or he could turn and go back the way he came. “That would be three choices,” Eric said, wanting to pat himself on the back. His legs were already tired, so what did it matter? He took the staircase to his left, leading down. Determination forced him to find that still-driving sound. In answer, it came again inside and outside his head at the same time: BAM!
BAM! BAM!
BAM! Eric
Durgess never watched The Flintstone’s.
He didn’t think it was funny. The sounds grew louder. He was sure of it. How could they possibly grow louder? They were more frequent now, too, merciless volition. They stayed, never leaving him. It’s
just you, the stairs, and the sounds in your head.
Did you really expect to find the origin of sound?
If it comes from inside, how is it tangible?
You’re looking for something that’s not even there! Eric
didn’t listen. He didn’t
recognize the voice. He
continued his downward flight, jogging now, eager to find the end of the
interminable staircase. He slipped and fell because of his hurried. His feet sailed out from under him and he lost his balance. His shin colliding into stone. Pain jolted his knee, splitting his flesh open. Warm blood coated his leg. He came to a halt after some amount of tumbling, and ignored the pain. Eric got to his feet, almost slipped over the edge, and continued his jaunt. He would not be deterred, he told himself. He was on a mission! But he was deterred, and Eric stopped again. His mind failed to grasp what he was looking at… Another set of steps came into view… Eric gazed in wonder and awe. Glowing, amber steps encircled him from all sides. Some led high above; others, far below. Some led in straight horizontal lines away from him, like flaxen triangles in the dark. Preposterous? This was lunacy! He was in a haunted house of steps and staircases. The Hall of Mirrors had nothing on this! Eric chose a random staircase leading downwards. It was easier on his legs. He laughed at the lunacy, but in a way, he was having a joyous time! He felt like a kid at a carnival! What had he come down here for anyway? During the journey, he couldn’t remember… He ignored it. He was resilient and kept moving. Some prankster would jump from the shadows any minute…he’d simply gotten lost. “Ha ha! Very funny!” Eric shouted into the dark. “You won’t get away! Do you hear me? I’ll get you!” He hurried on, moving faster with each step, but once again misjudged them, and slipped a second time. He held his hands out in front of him and collided hard into rough stone. He’d tried turning his body, so he could take the impact on his side, but he wasn’t fast enough. His wrist snapped, slamming awkwardly into the steps. Eric cried out in pain. The same bleeding knee he’d injured earlier banged again into a corner of stone. He somersaulted down the staircase. His hip shattered. His left elbow snapped in half and he cried into the echoing dark. His screams came back to him like the sounds in his brain. His forehead clonked against the stone, ripping the flesh open above his eyes. Blood gushed across his face and neck. He did not fall over the side and into the dark, however. He tumbled down the steps until he came to a halt. He was on yet—another landing… Was he alive? Was that possible? Why hadn’t the lights gone out? Or was that just the glow of the steps leading the way? He was made of rubber, his bones shattered to a million pieces. How come he wasn’t dead? He opened his eyes. It did not surprise him—when he moved—that he was able to stand, crooked and broken on shattered limbs. It was magic, he thought, a time of fantasy, castles and kings. It
was…predictable. Another maddening conglomeration of staircases surrounded him more terrible than the last. The dark brimmed with steps of all kinds, meshed together in every lunatic way. Some ascended frighteningly high, disappearing into the black; some descended hellishly below. Some curved like corkscrews up and down throughout the endless limbo; some zigzagged in golden glows, yet all were strangely tied together…They encircled him, hemming him in from all sides. Claustrophobia pressed close. He stood on a platform where every staircase came together. He was at the crux of the steps. He looked at them carefully, steps moving away from him in every mind-bending, maddening direction. No, this wasn’t lunacy. This was worse. This was madness at its finest! The beauty, however, was how they glowed. Illuminating the dark was that same flaxen hue. But even the light failed to penetrate the black. BAM!
BAM! BAM!
BAM! Eric laughed at his ridiculous determination. He picked a staircase leading upward. His broken limbs carried him on. How that was, he didn’t know. He didn’t question the impossibility of how his legs were able to keep him upright, how he was able to…move. He was walking on his ankles, shards of bone splitting through his flesh, leaving trails of blood on the steps. His view (since his neck was broken) was only where he could move his eyes. He could not lift his head and tried hard not to stare at his feet. His spine had twisted during his previous fall, arms dangling crooked and useless at his sides. Because his neck was shattered, he looked at everything in a sideways, upside-down view. Maybe it’s down there, he thought, the sound, in the blackness all around… It wasn’t the steps, he realized. They didn’t lead anywhere at all… Eric stopped running and contemplated something new. Dawning reality lighted his brain. Whatever it was, it would be different, right? He smiled. A memory came into focus—an old dog, a white house he might’ve lived in at one time. Didn’t he have a wife, too? What had he come down here for anyway? Coffee? Milk? The photo album? Eric didn’t know, couldn’t remember. Instead, he focused on the surrounding, impenetrable black and smiled. He had resolve, a plan! He would get that little bastard, the origin of sound, the one who’d called to him, led him down here in the first place! To get there, he had only one thing left to do… He tried to nod, but his bleeding head swayed back and forth. Eric Durgess launched himself over the edge and into the dark… He would find it…He would die trying… The bottom became his goal. Whatever, whenever that was…the sound he would make when he got there… If you reach the bottom, he thought. But he didn’t listen. “Yessirree,” he shouted, plummeting through the dark… Big,
white, beautiful paradise… “Bam!
Bam!” he cried. For
Eric Durgess, only the endless wind rushed coldly by…
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