Beckoning Souls (A Psychological Thriller) (5 page)

Rose appears to be in complete shock, but I can't blame her. Before all of this, I would've never believed it either. "All the more reason to go talk to the psychologist. I've read about this. Hell, I've seen it in the ER, Nathan. If you're mentally ill, we need to get you on medications."

"I'm not mentally ill." I shake my head. "This is not schizophrenia or whatever the hell else they call it."

"And how do you know that, Nathan? How can you honestly say that?"

"I just know." Honestly, I don't know. I am completely clueless about the whole situation, but being labeled as mentally ill will be detrimental to me in more ways than one, the main thing being my job.

"I don't think you're trained to know that."

"I don't think you are either," I spat back. "So you're suggesting I go check myself into a nut house? Go get drugged up to the gill so I don't know what's reality and what's not? No. Hell no. I'm not doing that."

Rose walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. I'm shocked she's not more sympathetic about all of this. I've always been sane. Not once have I ever conjured up ideas like this, and now she does not believe me. She comes back out dressed in pajama pants and a loose shirt, and grabs her pillow off the bed.

"I'm sleeping on the couch again tonight. I want you to think about all of this. You've got a high stress job that can make even the strongest of men develop problems. There's no shame in that, and I'm not sure why you're getting so offended at the fact that I want you to get help." Finally, it's the first sign she shows that she cares and a few tears fall from her eyes.

I don't know how to respond, so I nod my head. I miss her next to me in bed. I miss our late night conversations about anything and everything. I miss making love to her. That is the best therapy for me.

"I want us to find out what is going on before it gets worse, okay Nathan?"

Again, I shake my head. I don't want to talk to the psychologist. I don't want to get on medication. "America is so quick to suggest popping a pill for every little thing. What happens if they put me on something and it doesn't fix anything? Instead, it's replaced by other side effects that might affect my ability to be a firefighter. Think about that? Every day I live and breathe for the department. If that's taken away, what do I have?" I feel the tears begin to fall down my cheeks, and I quickly swipe them away with the back of my arm.

"At least you'd still be living and breathing, wouldn't you?"

Chapter Five

“At least you’d still be living and breathing, wouldn’t you?”

Rose’s words echo through my head. Lying on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and think about our argument. I’ve recently looked up what psychosis means. It hits home, but at the same time, I can’t admit to it. She tosses around words like mental illness and schizophrenia, quick to put a label on me before she even knows what the hell is going on. Like I’ve told myself a thousand times, America is so quick with diagnoses, rather than taking the time to find the truth behind something.

The truth behind something.
What exactly is going on? The things I’ve been seeing are so familiar to me, but at the same time, I can’t peg where or what they’ve come from. Could I be mentally ill? I guess there’s a chance, but I’ll never admit it out loud. Psychology is a scary thing. Some say it’s real. Some say it’s made up. Many believe a person who is mentally ill is demented. And I can’t forget how young the science is. Lobotomies and old psych wards – need I say more?

A chill runs down my spine and I feel the hair on my neck stand up. Rose is on the couch, as promised. I wonder if our relationship will ever be the same. I knew the minute I told her what was happening she’d have the reaction she did, but with her continuous nagging, it’s impossible to keep it all to myself. Adjusting my weight under the covers, I try and close my eyes, but I’m scared of what I’ll see when things go completely black.

I try to find some consistency in putting together the times I’ve heard the voices or when I’ve seen the woman. Does it happen at the same time everyday? What are the circumstances behind it? Middle of the night, in the afternoon – there is absolutely no consistency. It even happened on the job with the little girl. The fact that it has affected work really pisses me off. How am I supposed to control something like this when I can’t even get a handle on it?

I grab one of Rose’s pillows and put it over my head. I just need some sleep. Some long, restful sleep where I won’t wake up until the morning. Maybe I can get up and make Rose and Rusty breakfast. It’ll show them I’m not completely crazy and that I am trying to get things back to normal. My body and mind fails me. My thoughts kick into overdrive and every time I close my eyes, I see the haunting images that are forever burned into my skull. I won’t ever forget the tinny voice that asks me questions. The young girl’s glossy eyes flash in front of me and I feel myself slide off the edge of the bed, crashing to the floor with a hard thud. My head collides with the nightstand and a sharp pain shoots down my neck.

“Son of a bitch…” I mutter, feeling the blood above my eyebrow with my index finger.

Crawling on the floor, I finally fight off the vertigo and stand up. Why in the hell is the room so cold? Did someone turn the heater off? It’s so chilly that when I breathe, I can see it as if I’m outside in the middle of a cold front. I check the thermostat on the landing. It’s set for seventy-two, just like we usually keep it.

Hugging my midsection, I look over the railing and see that all of the lights in the house are out. Rose must have gone to bed early, but when I look at the alarm clock in my room, it shows it’s after midnight. Maybe I did doze a little and not realize it. Ambling toward my bathroom, I feel another wave of dizziness take over my senses and I lean against the wall to brace myself. The cut above my eyebrow is still bleeding, and I dab a wet washcloth against it to clean it up. The gash is deep and painful, and I wince as I apply pressure to it.

I’m starting to look like a homeless man, and my reflection haunts me almost as bad as the other things I’ve been seeing. How much longer of this can I take before physically, I give out?

Dipping my head, I splash warm water on my face, savoring the way it feels against my cold skin. The water drips down, pooling in the bottom of the sink and I stare at it as it swirls down the drain. Lifting my head, I look in the mirror again, only this time it isn’t me staring back, but the same woman who always appears in my TV. Her face is bloody and she reaches out, clenching onto my neck. Her grip is tight and her nails dig in, sending the most excruciating pain throughout my body. I try to fight her off, but her strength is no match for me. Pulling on me, she slams me into the mirror, shattering it into several pieces.

I yell out, but my voice doesn’t work. She’s clamped down on my vocal cords, and with each attempt to scream, she squeezes harder, her black eyes dark as she stares at me. Her expression doesn’t change – it’s pure evil as she clenches her teeth. The edges of my vision grow black and fuzzy, and I feel my legs give out. I try to gasp for air, but none makes it to my lungs. Is this it? This is how I’m going to die?

She finally releases me and I crash to the floor, landing on top of the shards of the mirror beneath me. The woman, or whatever the hell she is, hovers over me, staring down at me as if she’s about to try something else.

Glaring up, I muster just enough energy to say, “What do you want from me?” It’s a struggle to get the short sentence out, but by the way she blows up, she’s obviously heard every word.

“Your life since you didn’t save mine.” It comes out in a hiss, and it takes me a second to register exactly what she’s said.

Blinking, I go to respond, but she’s gone. It’s as if she has never been here. I’m left alone on the cold wood floor near the toilet, pieces of mirror around me. I know I’m bleeding, as my shirt has soaked some of it up against my skin. My head is killing me. I’m still unable to catch my breath. I lean my head against the wall, and in a matter of seconds, my body finally gives up, my adrenaline fades, and my vision goes black.

***

Rose

The crashing coming from upstairs wakes me up from a deep sleep. My initial thought is that someone is robbing the place, and I worry for Rusty’s safety. Taking the stairs two at a time, I check his room first, but he’s sound asleep. How he’s able to sleep through something that loud is beyond me, but I press on. That’s not my worry. Is Nathan okay? With all of the strange stuff happening lately, I fear the worst, and my heart sinks when I go into our bathroom.

“Nathan?”

He doesn’t respond and I kneel beside him, attempting to assess the situation. The mirror above the sink is completely demolished. He’s passed out on the floor. Checking him over, I notice blood soaked into his shirt. There’s a new cut above his eye, and he’s got scratches and redness around his neck.

I try to wake him up again and check his pulse. He’s breathing and his pulse is strong. “Nathan, wake up!” I raise my voice and get a response out of him – he raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t open his eyes. A guttural moan escapes from his throat, so I say his name again. “Nathan!”

Lifting his shirt, I check the cut. It’s not bleeding as bad as it looks to have been just a few minutes before, but it’s definitely deep enough that he’ll need stitches. I apply pressure to it, and it finally gets a reaction out of him. His eyes shoot open and he lets out a deeper yell.

He attempts to move away, but is unsuccessful. Instead, he stares up at me, almost like he doesn’t recognize me.

“Nathan, it’s Rose. What in the hell is going on?” I know he’s hurting – he’s definitely got some injuries that need to be looked at, but I want to know how in the hell it happened.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“The back of your shirt is covered in blood. What happened to the mirror?” I hate to doubt my husband, but I have to think about self-mutilation and how people with mental illness are known to do this to themselves. Is he capable of doing this much damage to himself? A few weeks ago I would’ve never even considered it, but with everything that has transpired, I know it’s a possibility now.

“I’d tell you but you wouldn’t believe me,” he whispers, staring straight into my eyes.

His comment kills me. I want to believe him. I want to believe that he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I just can’t. I’ve been doing research. I’ve talked with other nurses without making it obvious that I’m speaking from experience. Firefighters go through extreme mental stress. Nathan has been on the job for twenty years. Why won’t he just go talk to someone? I feel the emotion bubble up inside of me, but I have to put on a brave face. I’m sitting on the floor with my injured husband in my arms. I can’t turn into a blubbering fool right now. I can’t let him know that I’m worried sick and think that he’s hurting himself.

“Tell me what, Nathan?”

“I didn’t do this, Rose.” He closes his eyes and winces. “I swear I didn’t do this.”

“We’ll talk about this later. Right now, we need to get you to the hospital.” I take another look around the bathroom, and back down to Nathan. There is definitely something wrong with him. I wish I could force him to get the help he obviously needs.

***

I tried to convince Rusty to stay home, but instead, he’s pacing in the waiting room with me as they take Nathan back to examine him. He was between consciousness and sleep, but his bleeding had stopped and he seemed to not be in as much pain. At least it’s the night ER staff. They don’t know me as well on this shift, but I can already hear the rumors flying around. It doesn’t matter – It’s the closest hospital to us and Nathan needs help.

Sitting back down, I take a sip of my coffee. It’s cold, but at least it’s got caffeine in it. Rusty is skimming a magazine, but he tosses it aside. He’s worried about his dad. I can’t even imagine what’s going on in his head.

“He’s gonna be fine, Son.” I pat his knee, but he jerks it away.

“Was someone in the house? Did he get attacked?”

A question that shouldn’t be this hard to answer. I guess I’ll never truly know. “I wish I knew, Rusty.”

“What else could it have been?” He glares at me, looking just like his father that it’s uncanny.

I glance up at the TV. Nighttime television can’t even save me from this awkward conversation. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. We’ve just gotta wait and see what the doctor has to say.”

“You think he did this to himself, don’t you?” His voice rises. “How could you think that Dad would ever do this to himself? Why would he do it to himself?” Standing up, Rusty kicks a chair and leaves the waiting room. Thank goodness there aren’t many other people around, but it is still enough to get some attention.

Why would he do it to himself? Lord, if I only knew. Just as I’m about to lose my cool, Dr. Parsons walks out and sits next to me, handing me a fresh cup of coffee. It’s a temporary relief that soon goes away when he begins to speak.

“Your husband needed about twenty stitches in his side. There were a few pieces of the mirror in the wound, but we got them out. He’s also pretty bruised up around his neck and face, but he’s going to be fine. We’re going to keep him the rest of the night for observation and pain management, but he can go home in the morning.”

I bite my bottom lip. It should be relieving news, but it’s not. I’m glad he’s going to be fine, but it’s still all very unsettling. “Thanks, Dr. Parsons. I appreciate you coming out here personally to tell me.”

“What happened, Rose? Did you guys have an intruder tonight?”

I feel the warmth gather in the corner of my eye. I work with Dr. Parsons everyday, but I’ve never really confided much in him. “Could this have been something Nathan could’ve done to himself?”

The doctor’s eyes widen at my question. “Is he suicidal? Do we need to put him on suicide watch?”

Good question. I have no damn idea. I don’t think he’s suicidal, but just like with everything, I can’t say that with confidence. “No, Dr. Parsons. I was just wondering if the wounds look like something a person could do to themselves.” I’m trying to be smooth in playing it off as curiosity, but he’s not stupid.

“Aside from getting him stitched up and cleaned up, I didn’t really look to see. I guess it’s possible though. You think your husband is hurting himself?”

I’m scared to admit it. I know everything we discuss is completely confidential, but I don’t want to disclose anything that might just be me overreacting, but who better to talk to about it than a doctor? “I think he could be, yes. I think he’s mentally ill, Dr. Parsons. I can’t say for certain, but there’s been some strange things going on.”

“I can get a psych evaluation on him before we discharge him. Would that be okay?”

“I don’t know. I need to talk to him when he wakes up. Can I let you know?” Why am I hesitating? It might answer a ton of questions.

“We’re getting him moved up to a room right now. We’ll let you know when you can see him.”

***

Nathan

Bright light is the first thing I notice when I open my eyes. What in the hell is going on? There’s a sharp pain in my side, and when I try to sit up to find out where I am, it feels like a knife is being stuck into my kidney. Gritting my teeth, I fight through it, but someone’s hand pushes my chest back down.

“Don’t try and get up.”

I squint and see Rose standing over me, her arms folded over her chest as she looks at me. Why is she pissed? Bits of memory flash before me, and I remember being slammed into a mirror.

“Rose?” My throat is dry like sandpaper, and she hands me a foam cup full of water. It tastes amazing, and I drink it too fast.