I Forget - Halloween 2014 Short Story

by: Roger A Wilbanks

“You have no idea how difficult it is to begin.” I took a sip of water.

“Just start at the point where you feel the most comfortable.” He pressed record on his tape player. “How long have you been dealing with this?” he asked.

“This is all relatively new to me,” I said, “but it has been building in intensity over the past few years.”

“Has it always been this severe?”

“That just began.” I couldn't maintain eye contact with the man asking me these questions. I looked instead at the wall behind him and focused on the framed diplomas he had there. Rutgers man. I never saw Rutgers. Somewhere in New Jersey. That's where the Devils play.

Hockey.

Ice.

“Mr Granger?”

“What? Who are you?” I demanded. I didn't recognize this man or where I was. I was scared. “What am I doing here? Am I in trouble?”

“Do you know where you are, Mr Granger?” he asked.

“Of course I do. I am sitting in a chair, yours by the look of it. What have I done? Why do you have me here?” The door was close. If he became dangerous, even as old as I am, I could make it in time.

“You asked to see me, Mr Granger. My name is Doctor Ford. I am one of the nation's foremost experts on memory disorder and we are here in my office because you made an appointment to see me.”

“I think I would remember doing such a thing.” I said.

“That is why you are here, Mr Granger.”

I looked at the man before me. He sat calm and relaxed. He had the look of a teacher or a professor. Someone who demanded attention. Someone who had answers. “Did I slip again?” I asked.

“Yes. What do you remember this time? About just now. Do you recall any specific feelings or memories?”

“No. Not really. I saw your diploma. Rutgers. That's in New Jersey, isn't it?”

“Yes. Does that hold any significance for you?”

“Hockey,” I said. “The Devils play there. I remembered watching the Stanley Cup on television in a dark room with wooden walls. A lot like your office. What did I say?”

“You thought you were in trouble.” he said.

“It must have been because you look like an authority type. Always had an issue with that type.” I said.

“Well, I am a doctor.” he said.

We laughed.

“Do you remember the slip?” he asked.

“Vaguely.” I said. “It's like a TV show I watch from the corner of my eye while I am busy doing something else. I have an idea of what is going on but no idea regarding the who or the why. That seems to be a common thread with these episodes. I feel like I am watching someone else's life unfold but I have no idea why I am there.”

“Alzheimer’s doesn't have any rules, Mr Granger.” he said. “It has some common threads across its tapestry but it is precocious. It will throw you curve balls that make even us experts swing and miss.”

“What have I got to look forward to?” I asked.

“How frequent are these slips?” he ignored my question.

“Random. I was getting one a day, sometimes more. They seem to be triggered by memories. I get off on a thought tangent and my mind wanders. Once it gets going down that path it has a tendency to keep going that way, like a car rolling down an icy hill.”

“That is one of the common threads. How much of your self do you maintain in these slips? Your true self.”

“No idea. If by self you mean I know what I am, then a bit. I really lose the who and the why but the what remains constant. It's like I am plucked from a past memory and dropped into a current one with no context. The only constant is the feeling of total dread that overcomes me.” I took a drink.

“Before. You mentioned you felt you had done something wrong. Is this also common?”

I paused. “Yes. These slips always center on the feeling that I have done something wrong; like I have intruded into someone else's story or I am being called to the carpet for something I have no knowledge of. The recurring feeling is one of blame. Blame focused on me.”

“Delusions of persecution are the most common in Alzheimer’s patients, but often the fear is of loss, as if someone were trying to steal from you. In your case I think it stems from your own feelings of guilt. It is my guess you somehow feel responsible for your disease, as if you brought it upon yourself. I have referenced this as the Leper Mentality stemming from the Middle Age belief that Leprosy was somehow self-inflicted. It was thought of as an ailment brought down on one due to living an impure or unclean life. I can assure you now that there is nothing you have done or not done that brought this disease upon you. Regardless of what any televised charlatans say, there is neither a magic berry or super fruit you could have eaten nor any vice you could have avoided that would have prevented this. In truth, Mr Granger, you were born with this disease and it has been lurking deep within you biding its time until your body's natural recuperative powers waned with age. Anyone who tells you different is from Oz and is trying to sell you something rather than being truthful with you.”

“I believe you, Doctor. I really do. But I know deep-down in my subconscious, in that part of me that is immune to outside influence that it doesn't matter. That is the part of me in the driver's seat when I slip and no one can reach that particular version of me because it is impossible to hold. Like Mercury in your palm.”

“That is the true face of this disease, Mr Granger. The blank subconscious face of nearly every Alzheimer’s sufferer in existence. You retain the essential sliver of yourself but you lose all the context. This is not something a Psychiatrist like myself can fix I can only explain it to the you that remains constant in the hopes that it provides you with a base. It is my hope the part of you that refuses to participate in your life might someday see that as well, but it is not something I hold a lot of faith in.”

“This must be what Hell is like, Doctor Ford. The constant cycle of on and off I endure. It feels like a carousel ride sometimes. Like I keep moving past the same point on a circle but sometimes I just don't recognize it. I stopped traveling in a straight line a long time ago. I just cover the same ground over and over again and at no point in this does that slipping part of me understand or even acknowledge that fact. It is left to the tired and old me to sort out the pieces when I come to my senses. I owe thanks to my dear son for putting me in this institution because now, when I 'return' I am always here where it is safe instead of having wandered off to God knows where. I woke up one time in an Adult theater. No idea how I got there.”

“I read that in your file. It must have been frightening.”

“No. The terrifying part is the blanks. The parts I never remember. The terrifying part is how I feel when I have no understanding of my surroundings. I slipped while standing in line one time. I somehow remember staying in the line even though I had no idea how or why I was in it. When I got to the counter, I was crying. I told the attendant behind the counter that I had no idea who or where I was. They checked my wallet, called my son and now I am here. Safe.”

“Yes, this is a safe place, Mr Granger. It is my belief that now that you are in an environment that has removed that factor that your slippages may wane, if not in number, than perhaps in severity as your feelings of sanctuary grow. While you will never be free of this disease, its effects upon you will loosen their hold and allow you to enjoy what remains of your life.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That is very reassuring.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That is very reassuring...very reassuring”

“You have no idea how difficult it is to begin.”  I took a sip of water.

**********

“What's up with him?”

“Alzheimer’s. He's one of the new ones. Has this conversation over and over with some invisible doctor. He hasn't eaten in days.  I think he's a goner. Got no family to claim him. We found him in an Adult Movie theater having this conversation and he hasn't stopped.”

“That's sad.”

“Yeah. I guess so. What are we serving these guys for dinner tonight?”

“Meatloaf.”

--end--

The Bottom Man - 2013 Halloween Story

Dallas. 12:30am. August 20.

It was a little game they would play. Henry would come into the 7-11 for coffee on his way to work the night shift and Agnes would pretend not to remember him. Each time it was the same and in 2 years of consistency, Henry found comfort and Agnes found the respect from a fellow human being not often afforded one behind a counter.

August in Dallas, for those not familiar with the geography, meant it was hot enough to fry eggs on the hood of old cars. The local television stations all relished the ratings boom that hit when the thermometer allowed such a display as much as the residents hated the constant reminders. The heat had the bad habit of lingering long after the sunset, eliminating any logical expectation of relief, like the random acquaintance that sat at your table in the bar and refused to get the hint that you would rather be left alone. In this, it became just as annoying.

Henry's headlights shone in Agnes' window alerting her to his arrival and the start of their game. He entered as he usually did but something was different this time. Henry looked shaken.

“What happened, Mr Henry?” Agnes ignored the game for the sake of her friend. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

“I'm...I'm not sure, Agnes,” he looked back across the river in the direction from which he had come. “I was driving through West Dallas like I always do but just as I got to the bridge across the Trinity, some fella jumped outta the shadows onto the street, waving his arms like a wild man.”

“You didn't hit him, did you?”

“No! No...but there was something in his eyes....or rather missing from them. It set something off inside my head. Scared the shit outta---oh, sorry. Scared the Dickens outta me. It wasn't like he wanted help. No. It was like he wanted...”

“Like he wanted you.” A voice from the coffee bar answered.

Both Henry and Agnes spun around to see the owner of this voice.

“You didn't stop, did you?” she asked.

“No. HELL No!” Henry said. “Why would I? I don't know him. Some crazy crackhead jumps outta the bushes? I don't care if he was just shot. I'm crazy enough driving through this part of town just to shave 10 miles off of my commute. I don't need to add getting chopped into little crackhead kibbles to that list.”

“That won't no crackhead you seen, mister. Saw him just fore you crossed the river, yeah? Jumped outta them shadows like come outta nowhere, yeah? Looked atchoo like he know you, yeah?”

“...yeah. How do you know all this, ma'am?”

“Cause I seent that man too. Dat tha Bottom Man.”

“The wha?”

“Tha Bottom Man. He come from the river bottom, snatchin up souls what wanna cross that river. Everywhere there a river where the folk live, there a Bottom Man live too. He pure Evil, he is.”

“Bullshit, lady. That was no supernatural entity I saw. That was a crackhead. I have seen one there almost every night I drive past. It's where they hang out. Next thing you'll tell me you seen the Lady of the Lake. Over at White Rock Lake? Is that his sister?” Henry laughed.

“No. I never seen her, but she diff'rent. My folks grow up over there before the war. They saw that lady. She wasn't tryin to snatch no souls. She jus tryin to get home is all. Like I say. Diff'rent.”

She hobbled closer to Henry and he got a good look at her. She was an ancient looking woman no taller than a 7^th grader. Her skin was as weathered as the cotton dress she wore and she put a gnarled finger into Henry's chest. It was much stronger than it had any right to be.

“Don be fooled, child. Da Bottom Man don't never look the same way twice. You seen him many time but now he seen you too. He know you and he tellin you he want you. You can't go dis way no more. You gotta never pass that way ever again. Promise me you won't never go that way no more!” Her eyes glistened through her pleading. “He know you weakness now and next time you see him, he gonna go fo yo throat like a Pitt Bull an he ain't never gone let go.”

She clasped a bony fist in front of Henry's face to drive her point home. “You be careful if you ever come this way again, child. Don't stop for nobody nohow at that bridge.” 

 She paid for her coffee and hobbled away into the darkness. Henry and Agnes stood in silence as she vanished into the night. They said nothing to each other as Henry paid for his coffee and resumed his midnight commute. Agnes watched his headlights fade into the hot summer night and took a breath. She realized it was the first one she had taken since the old crone had started talking.

Another blistering weekend passed before Agnes returned to her post at the convenience store counter. She had spent more time worrying about her friend than she was willing to admit. She returned to work on the hottest night of the year. It was still in the 90's at 10pm, one of those nights when it felt like Hell itself had given the Earth a smothering hug. 

Agnes was hot and sticky even inside the air-conditioned confines of her store. Customer after customer passed before her counter but Agnes paid them no mind. Her eyes darted to the clock over the cooler at the back of the store as she waited for 12:30 to arrive. Her coworkers filed out to leave her to her solitary post as the clock passed midnight. Any second, Henry would pass through that door and they would play their little game and laugh at that crazy old woman.

Her eyes never left the parking lot as 12:30 came and passed. There was no sign of Henry, but this was no cause for concern. Often he would be running late and bypass his coffee to get to work on time. This had happened many times over the years. This time, it felt different, although Agnes refused to acknowledge that fact.

Three more nights came and went with no sign of Henry. Agnes felt now that she had permission to worry. She called in sick Friday night for the first time since she began working at the store and borrowed her neighbor's car. She drove into Oak Cliff to the nice part Henry lived in. He had described his house often enough to her she knew the way by heart. She saw no sign of his green Jeep Cherokee in the driveway. 

She turned around and followed the path he took on his commute, passing several other open convenience stores that sold coffee. This made her feel a touch of pride that her friend came to see her more for the companionship than the coffee. She passed beneath the highway as she drove down Westmoreland Avenue north towards the river. She drove through old West Dallas where Clyde Barrow grew up and past all the night walkers that inhabited this downtrodden neighborhood. 

 She saw how easy it was for Henry to assume the man was a crackhead from the many that loitered at the intersections even on this blast furnace of a night. The streetlights were out here in the City's attempt to conserve power at this time of peak electrical demand. The radio in her neighbor's car was unable to hold onto a station, but this was the Bottoms and that was to be expected.

Wary of running into an unseen obstacle on this dark street, Agnes hit the car's bright lights. To her shock, Henry was standing in the middle of the road less than 100 feet in front of her. She slammed on the brakes as hard as she could and screeched to a stop inches from where he stood.

He was torn and covered in muck from head to toe. 

He stood in the middle of the street and made no effort to communicate. He stared at Agnes as she sat behind the wheel but she felt him looking deeper inside her than any eye has the ability to. Any human eye, that is. 

 She began shaking as Henry turned and began shuffling around to her door. He walked one step at a time with a deliberate measure that frayed her nerves, all the time never taking his eyes off hers, until he stood right outside her window.

His broken fingernail tapped on the glass three times. Each time Agnes felt the window would shatter from the sheer malicious nature of the blow that struck it. She could see holes in Henry where no holes belonged and there was a worm that had erupted from his forearm, flailing against the air that had replaced the flesh it had just gnawed upon.

Agnes rolled down the window that stood between her and her friend and was never seen alive again.

Four Ghosts

[This is the first section of this story I have written. The story itself is a horror story and looks (so far) like it will be a good one. I was literally shaking with anticipation as I wrote this during my lunch break yesterday, shooing away coworkers who only wanted to kill time and talk to me. "I have more important things to do right now." I said. Sometimes it sucks to know a writer.]

“Horseshit.”

“You may want to rephrase that, Lucas.” Ronnie cautioned.

“You sit there straight-faced and try to tell me that both you and your hippie mother talk to ghosts and they TALK BACK?”

“More or less. But everyone can talk to ghosts. They only talk back to the ones that want to hear them.”

“I want to hear them.”

“Um.” Ronnie looked at his mother who smiled and and nodded her permission. “Are you sure? This isn't a jar of peanut butter you're opening here. This door's a little harder to close .”

“Don't care. OKAY Ghost. I want to know what happened to Caroline's patient...”

“...That's too easy...” Ronnie laughed.

“...AND to increase the degree of difficulty,” Lucas continued, “I want you to tell me by fax, I want you to throw something, say it on the radio, the television and the telephone.”

Ronnie covered his eyes with his hand, shook his head and sighed.

The two stared at each other. Ronnie wore a look of knowing regret. Lucas wore a confident smile, convinced his new friend and his strange mother would soon be discredited.

Three minutes passed with no reaction from the ghost.

“You see? Nothing. Full of shit, just...” The lights flickered off and relit at a fraction of their intended brilliance. The television sparked to life with a late night used car salesman.

“I don't care what we gotta do....” the salesman screamed and the televiosion fell dark and silent just as fast as it came to life.

In the corner, a beaten up weather radio's dial lit with an eerie glow.
“This time we are GOING to MAKE them Listen!” the angry conservative radio host bellowed as the radio once more went dark and fell silent.

The fax machine sputtered and hissed as it began to disgorge a single piece of paper. As the sheet left the disconnected device, it bore only the picture of a bottle of poison, complete with the skull and crossbones.

Lucas took these events without trying to hide outward expression of the fear that now gripped him.

riiiiing. riiiiing. riiiiing.

“You going to get that, Luc?” Ronnie smiled.

Lucas picked up the phone, grasping the receiver as if it weighed fifty pounds and placed it to his ear as a voice that otherwise would have been mistaken as wind whistling through dark and wet treetops said, “M u r r r r d u u u u u r.........b u u t...n o t........b y.........h e r r r r r ….”

He dropped the phone, his face drained of all its previous signs of arrogance and composure.

“You forgot to throw something.” Ronnie said.

A rubber duck flung itself across the room, striking Lucas in the chest and falling to the floor. He looked as if he had just been hit in the chest at point blank range with buckshot.

“That one's always been a bit of a smartass.” Ronnie said. “Sorry.”