Chapter 11

1.  The Escaped Man

The rain was falling heavily. It was like driving through a thick curtain of water. He eased off the accelerator a little. Had to be careful driving on wild nights like these.

The last thing you'd want is to have an accident or breakdown. You just want to be at home on these stormy nights. The thwack-thwack of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic.

He stared out into the glow of the headlights. The rain sounded like white noise interference as it battered the car. He was reminded of the opening scenes of a Hitchcock film.

Through the wash of the rain he spotted a figure at the side of the road. The person wore a green parka and had their thumb jerked out.

Why on earth would anyone be hitchhiking tonight? Surely you would just stay put until the morning. They must have been in a rush to get where they were going.

He signalled down and pulled over. The hitchhiker climbed in. He shut the door quickly, glad to be out of the rain. He pulled his hood back and sighed.

He was somewhere in his mid-twenties and had wild red hair and a thick beard.

'Awful night, eh?' said the driver.

The hitchhiker held his gaze for a long moment. Drops of rainwater trickled down his face.

'Yes. Yes it is.'

The driver pulled out and continued through the storm. The hitcher glanced over his shoulder into the blackness behind them.

'You okay?'

The hitcher simply nodded.

They drove on in silence for a short while. The BBC radio phone in blaring out from the car's speakers filled in for conversation.

They listened to the radio and their own thoughts as they moved on.

'Where are you headed?' asked the driver.

'North.' The hitcher pointed.

'Are you travelling to visit friends?'

'Hmph.'

The driver couldn't tell if that was a yes or a no. He adjusted his tie nervously. The hitcher stared at him in his suit and tie.

The hitcher seemed scruffy in comparison in his parka and Pink Floyd t-shirt.

'Do you work around here?' asked the hitcher.

'Yes.' said the driver. 'I was stuck late at the office. You know how it is.'

'No. Not really.'

Again they drifted into silence.

The talk radio show carried on as they drove through the wind and rain. The hitcher shifted in his seat and stared out the windscreen.

'No music?' the hitcher asked.

'What?'

'Is there no music we could listen to?'

'I like the talk radio shows. I'm not really a music fan.'

The hitcher's eyes glazed over for a moment. Then he spoke.

'I like listening to music. It calms me down.'

The driver said nothing.

Several miles later there was a news bulletin on the radio. The reporter tried to remain professional as she read the announcement.

'We are getting reports that a patient has escaped from a Manchester psychiatric institution. The man is said to be psychopathic and is said to have a history of murder.'

The hitcher jabbed a finger on the button on the radio panel. Tinny pop music blurted out from the speakers. The driver stared at his passenger, his question unasked.

'I hate the news.' answered the hitcher. 'It's so depressing. It brings me down. There is never any good news, is there?'

The driver did not reply.

'Don't worry. I'm not the killer.' said the hitcher, fidgeting with his coat.

'No?' said the driver. 'I mean, no, of course you aren't.'

2. The Dark Walk Home

Let me tell you the story of Lucy Spring. She used to love it here. It was so vibrant. So colorful. Things have changed. She left Mayview City two years ago, with no plans of ever returning. Death has a way of bringing people home.

She had hoped the familiar sidewalks would comfort her in a way the funeral visitors couldn't. Instead, they made her uneasy. She has a long walk to her car, wit ha phone as dead as her little brother.

Why hadn't she called Bekki? She would have liked to hear her voice. What Lucy is hearing now isn't a voice. Lucy stops. The footsteps don't.

3. Psychosis

I'm not sure why I'm writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess I've just noticed some odd things. It's not that I don't trust the computer… I just… need to organize my thoughts. I need to get down all the details somewhere objective, somewhere I know that what I write can't be deleted or… changed… not that that's happened. It's just… everything blurs together here, and the fog of memory lends a strange cast to things…

I'm starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that's the problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment, the only one in the basement. The lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven't been out in a few days because I've been working on this programming project so intensively. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange, I know, but I don't think that's it.

I'm not sure when I first started to feel like something was odd. I can't even define what it is. Maybe I just haven't talked to anyone in awhile. That's the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been idle, or they've simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last e-mail I got from anybody was a friend saying he'd talk to me when he got back from the store, and that was yesterday. I'd call with my cell phone, but reception's terrible down here. Yeah, that's it. I just need to call someone. I'm going to go outside.

Well, that didn't work so well. As the tingle of fear fades, I'm feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went out, but I didn't shave the two-day stubble I've grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guessed that I'd run into at least one person I knew. That didn't end up happening. I wish it did.

When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly. A small feeling of apprehension had somehow already lodged itself in me, for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two. I peered down the dingy grey hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building's furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it; I bought a soda from one the first day I moved in, but it had a two year old expiration date. I'm fairly sure nobody knows those machines are even down here, or my cheap landlady just doesn't care to get them restocked.

I closed my door softly, and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the soda machines, at least for the moment. I got to the stairwell, and took the stairs up to the building's front door. I looked through the heavy door's small square window, and received quite the shock: it was definitely not lunchtime. City-gloom hung over the dark street outside, and the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow. Dim clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city, hung overhead. Nothing moved, save the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember shivering, though I wasn't cold. Maybe it was the wind outside. I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew it was that unique kind of late-night wind, the kind that was constant, cold, and quiet, save for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves.

I decided not to go outside.

4. Uncle Tommy's Visit

"Now remember, I don't want you talking to him unless I'm around, you hear?"

"Yes, dad."

"I'm serious. Now tuck in your shirt — he's here."

The front door swung open and there stood Uncle Tommy, drenched in sweat from a day's work in the summer heat.

"It's a scorcher out there, ain't it?" he said, putting his bag on the floor and untying his boots. "I appreciate you letting me crash for the night."

"Just so long as you're gone in the morning," my dad replied coldly.

"Of course."

"Now," Uncle Tommy said, turning to me and lowering himself to a knee. "Where's my hug at? Been a while since I seen you last."

I took a couple steps toward him and leaned in for a hug. His tight embrace made me uncomfortable, and I let out a light whimper.

"Don't you know it's a hundred degrees out there?" he asked, tugging at my long sleeves.

"I haven't been outside today," I recited to him.

"Don't you have some chores to finish up?" Dad interjected.

I knew that was my cue to leave, so I shuffled off to my room.

Later that night I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to be comfortable, when I heard the thud of footsteps in the hallway outside my bedroom. After several long seconds of silence, the door opened quietly, the dark silhouette of a man entered the room, and the door closed again. For several more seconds there was nothing but unrelenting silence. I might have thought I had dreamt it all if it weren't for the sound of a hushed breath being carefully released.

I could feel him getting nearer. The warmth of another person in the room was unfamiliar at this hour. I was not prepared for this; I prayed he would go away, to even come back in the morning if he must.

He reached down and touched me. He rolled me onto my stomach and lifted up my shirt. From the corner of my eye I could see two things: the faint beam of a pocket flashlight, and Uncle Tommy's eyes studying my bare skin. His rough fingers ran up and down my back. Suddenly, he got up and walked to the bedroom door and left. I tried again to fall asleep, eventually succeeding.

He was gone by the time I awoke.

Around noon the phone rang while my father was out.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey buddy."

"Uncle Tommy?"

"Yeah. Your dad around?"

"No sir. Went to the store."

"Good," he said, sounding a bit nervous. He paused for a moment. "I'm calling about last night. I don't know if you were awake or not "

"I was."