Authors: Ada Uzoije
“Thanks mum. I’ll be right down.”
Doug had it sorted. He had slept since dawn, for over six hours! No nightmares, just a dark, dead sleep which was more than welcome after all his troubles.
“It was the oddest thing,” Jean said to Norman that night as they got into bed, having no idea that Doug had made himself a pot of coffee and got four new movies to keep him occupied through the night. “I caught him sleeping all day long, Norman. He hasn’t slept through the day, or in daytime, since he was five years old,” she said as she settled in.
“Don’t worry about it, love,” Norman replied, recalling the previous night in the kitchen and understanding Doug’s fatigue, “I am sure he was up with that bloody spider thing.”
Jean looked at him with befuddlement, but rejected the urge to inquire. She only smiled at the obvious encounter her husband must have had with another spider, something he could blame things on for days afterward. It was rather amusing.
The following day Jean had to leave early to see her friend off at the airport and she left Doug a note on the fridge that she would be back before lunch. It was a still, hot day with no clouds in sight and the neighbours decided to go out for the day to swim. In Doug’s room it was quiet. His music videos were still playing softly on his computer, the way he set it just before he had gone to bed at 7 a.m.
Outside on the smooth green lawn a man with a suit and hat climbed out of a red Ferrari parked in the street. He came to the front door and knocked three times, three heavy pounds upon the wood of the front door. Doug wanted to open the door to tell the man that his parents were not there and that his knocking is disturbing his day sleep. He went downstairs as another set of knocks had the door shuddering.
“Oh my God, can you knock like a normal person?” Doug said to himself as he came to the door with his hair in a mess. He opened the door with his eyes still sandy and thick, but he quickly sobered up his act when he jerked the door aside. Just on the other side of the threshold, the man from the bridge stood- upside down. Doug’s entire body seized up in an icy grip and he tried to scream but all he could utter was a despondent grunt which rasped from his gullet to his teeth. He could not close the door as he watched the ghastly thing hang upside down and then the dead man’s head simply tore from his neck and fell to the ground with a thump. It reached out with its right hand and slapped Doug across the face, the way the detached hand had slapped him on the bridge that day of the wicked incident. Another slap of the cold, dead hand ripped him from sleep and he screamed loud and long before he realised that he was sitting upright in his bed.
Outside it was a lovely sunny day and he could hear birds and laughter as if he was locked inside, away from all happiness and peace. Shocked still, Doug just sat in his bed for a moment with wide open eyes and a pounding heart. Then he simply burst out in tears. He sobbed violently. Now it was clear, once and for all. The man from the bridge could get him even in the day time. The nightmare, the evil apparition could walk the daylight as well as he could walk the lanes of the night. Now Doug knew – he would never escape him.
Just another long and uneventful day at school had Doug wishing he was somewhere else. Math class was especially tedious, and after-school sports were nothing short of punishment for him. The teachers would march them all up to the football field to establish which of the students were secretly gifted at various sports, whether running or activities of strength such as shot put and javelin, which he loathed. Doug hated sports. He liked swimming on the farm, but only to play. Why people decided to swim for time and technique was above him. It was supposed to be fun, like most physical activities. Not an excuse for sadistic teachers to force upon children their own broken dreams of attaining medals, he thought. He tried out for swimming and fared very well according to Mr. Browning, and therefore he had to stay longer. Mr. Browning had chosen six students for his possible team and asked for them to attend the final tryouts later today.
For once, Doug decided to give the sport thing a try, knowing that any form of distraction would do him well and to top that he would perhaps find something he could pursue which could cultivate some peace and achievement in him. His mother had called. She told him that they would not be able to collect him from school this afternoon. It was alright. He could take the scooter and besides, he was going to be longer with tryouts anyway.
It was late afternoon when Doug finally packed up after swimming practice and made his long way home. The sky was strange above him, as if it waited just for him to emerge from the school gates. Vast and reddish, it contained the picturesque morphing of dark grey clouds which circled like a gang of bullies. They ushered in a current of unnaturally cool air which twirled about his ankles like an amorous cat as he got on his scooter and flung his satchel over his shoulder. Doug brushed his hair from his brow and focused on the hideous road home which by now was teeming with annoying traffic and impatient adults who thought they owned everything. It was after work for most and the road crowded up with congestion at every block he passed. Uphill he went, hating the exertion after sport and when he reached the summit of the not-so-impressive mound, he stopped for a breather.
From a few blocks away where he was now at the top of the school road, he could see the sunken area ahead of him reaching a few miles in curved road and then came the bridge at the bottom twist. At least he would enjoy the wind in his hair as he descended the hill. It was a thrill, a small pleasure like those you discover when you least expect it. An inkling of juvenile fun thrown randomly in the middle of your day. Doug always had time for some fun, no matter how trivial it may seem to others. Things like lying on the grass looking at the circling birds on his grandparent’s farm or jumping the wooden beam fence at the roadside shop instead of going around it, even if he fell on his ass on occasion.
It was a rare moment of carefree abandon, the few blocks downhill on the sidewalk where the cars could not come. For a second or two, Doug forgot all his problems and just existed. No thinking, no worry and no concern for time. Jean knew her son would be late and it was fine. Everything was fine.
Then he saw the bridge. Wind rushing through his hair compelled his jacket to flap wildly, giving the impression of wings. It was as if the atmosphere had gone cold. Doug immediately thought of Icarus and how his wings had sealed his fate. With the reminiscence of the legendary boy’s doom Doug approached the bridge, gradually slowing down as the end of the walkway came into sight and he knew he could ride no further. Keenly eyeing the structure burdened with cars he pushed his scooter as he went and the wind increased its buffeting somewhat as he started crossing. Perhaps it was merely the weather turning, but for some reason Doug thought the icy breath over the land was meant for him.
He remembered that fateful day clearly now as he progressed toward the spot where it had happened. In his shattered mind the pieces came ominously together with every step he took. Beneath him the wheels of his scooter shrieked like a witch’s teeth, overwhelming his reality as the traffic and all its bustling faded into the background. All the young boy could hear now was his heart pounding in his ears. No interference. Closer he came to where the Ferrari man had placed his briefcase and looked over the barricade – where he had locked eyes with Doug. Those pale blue eyes, shrinking into a forced smile before the terrible thing happened.
Doug stopped at the spot where the two of them had their first and only moment and recalled the face of the dead man in the posh suit. Upon his brow there were many lines, as if he frowned a lot, worried a lot, but those eyes…
Passing the daydreaming boy, a truck honked loudly and suddenly, ripping Doug from his spell. The driver was concerned that the school boy might wander into the roadway under the grip of whatever held him so enthralled, but he scared the life out of the poor child.
“Idiot!” Doug shouted at the fading vehicle which almost gave him a heart attack and he placed his scooter against the steel barricade. Placing his hand on his chest, he tried to calm down again so that he could look over the barrier before continuing on. People stared at him as they crawled by in their cars at a snail’s pace and he felt quite disgruntled by the scrutiny. Obviously they were intrigued by the odd boy loitering by the edge of the bridge, as he could see on some of their faces. He noticed their attention, as if they expected him to resort to something unexpected or ghastly, much like the pale-eyed Ferrari man had done. Maybe they were there that day, or read about it in the paper and now thought the obscene terror might replay itself. Doug did his best to look as calm and happy as he could to avert their concern.
Now he was so close to the side of the bridge that the wind jerked his lean body about effortlessly and those molten clouds spread across the entire sky.
For a moment he stood looking over and then he saw it.
Beneath him, afloat in the rushing river that the bridge crossed, drifted the black briefcase he remembered so well. Doug caught his breath and felt the cold grip him once more, but he had to retrieve the case. It called to him to pick it from the damage of the water and he immediately started toward the end of the barrier, so that he could get down under the bridge.
Some motorists now stared, others had their cell phones ready for whatever the suspicious-acting boy might do. Doug paid no attention to them and set his mind to the task at hand.
Whipping about his sides, his jacket wings flapped to remind him that he was not invincible, but he ignored all sense to complete his mission. Mockingly the briefcase bobbed on the surface, slower than the current of the water as if it waited for him in the pandemonium of the strong gusts and the awkward slant which would bring him to the river bank.
He could hear people exclaiming at his movements to the steep incline of loose gravel and weeds as he slowly navigated his footing, but soon realised that there was no way to the river from the flanking banks. Rather than meet his fate, he reconsidered. Besides, the only way to the briefcase was straight into the raging water and as much as he desired to collect the elusive item, it would be suicide to attempt it.
Suicide. Yes, indeed, there was that word again. It drifted in front of him, yet out of reach and so he stood defeated, just looking at the compelling and unattainable thing. Behind him the traffic still crawled, roared and clamoured but he heard nothing. Disappointed he stood glaring at the river he could not breach when suddenly a firm hand clasped his upper arm in a vicious grip.
“Are you out of your bloody mind?” a deep voice roared behind him, startling Doug. He turned at saw the burly policeman staring at him with a stern scowl. He was an older man of about 57, in uniform, holding his hat with his free hand so that the wild gale could not abduct it. “Come on, then, I’m taking you home.”
He roughly pulled the scrawny school boy upward towards the road, much to Doug’s protest. Incessantly the police officer cussed and moaned as he pulled the boy, motioning to the glaring motorists to continue their journey.
“Nothing to see here, then, nothing to see. Damn teenagers think you are funny. Just until you land up in hospital …” he looked at Doug, “… or
dead
!”
“But sir, I was looking at the briefcase in the water!” Doug tried to explain, but the robust lawman would hear none of it.
“I don’t give a damn what you were doing, sonny. You are distracting the motorists with your antics and before long we’ll have a big bloody pile-up here and who will be responsible for such a mess? You!” he shouted, and Doug thought of how angry his father was going to be at him for engaging himself in such things, especially those concerning the blasted accident they had witnessed.
As Doug looked back at the drifting case, a furious gale swept over the river and pushed it toward the other side, slipping it down the speeding current now. He watched it gliding over the silvery foam until it disappeared in the distance where he could see it no more.
The glare of the computer drove Krista crazy tonight. No matter how she tried she could not get any further with the banking details she was trying to enter on her bank’s online site. It kept rejecting her code and she finally just minimized the screen and with a pursed mouth and a yelp of frustrated rage she jumped up to walk it off. On her digital clock a song cracked through the static and she turned the knob to get the needle on the right frequency. How she loved jazz. It had such a calming effect on her, even when she was in the throes of depression, holding the blade inches from her skin. Jazz always reminded her that everyone has problems and nobody ever escapes heartbreak or the nightmares of self-doubt, failure and hurt – the trick was in how one handled one’s problems. She hated those self-righteous pricks who never had a day’s misery in their lives and then went around telling her how her problems were her own doing. It was simply not true. Many times a bad patch hit her because of some idiot who would not employ her, leaving her broke and in trouble. How was that her fault, then?
Now Krista pouted, but the music soothed her out of the heavier upset at the banking site and its terrible tech which vexed her no end. She found the clearer side of the station and turned up the music, allowing the blaring saxophone to take her thoughts off the irritation which could easily drive her into dangerous temper tantrums at the drop of a hat. Unknowingly she had been grinding her teeth and her jaw began to ache as she turned up the music, but soon her stress declined somewhat as the delirium of the vibes from the meagre radio speaker possessed her heart. Krista twirled with it, barefoot, in her room and she soon twirled her way to the fridge for a soda. It was too hot for coffee, she decided, and elected to enjoy the bubbly coldness burning down her parched throat.
A ping sounded from her room as she stood in the dark kitchen, swallowing a huge gulp of soda until her skull ached with brain freeze. Again the ping came.
“What?” she shouted into the atmosphere. “What do you want?” But she was curious about who it was, so she decided to tolerate her annoying online toils to investigate. Can in hand, she sauntered to the computer and seated herself, opening the screen. It punished her eyes with that wicked sharp glare and she adjusted the screen to accommodate her eyes a bit better.
It was Icarus. Krista smiled.
“Hey you!” she wrote and watched the pulsing cursor.
“Hi Suicide Queen,” Icarus answered and the two engaged in some small talk over the boring events of the day before Doug started talking about the briefcase he wanted to retrieve, but failed to catch.
“Why the hell would you do something that stupid? You could have drowned, you know?” she said.
“I know, but I simply have to know what is in the case. It is driving me crazy!” she read, and shook her head.
“You should just give a thing like that to the police, Doug. You never know what is in it,” Krista advised him.
In his ill-lit room, Doug watched her message come through, confirming what he thought she would say. Like all the other people, she did not grasp the urgency he felt for the case and its contents. Nobody seemed to understand the things which happened to him, so he decided to change the subject and they spoke for a while longer before Doug excused himself and said goodbye to his Suicide Queen for the night.
Before he went to bed, he thought about the swimming tryouts and how Mr Browning said he had potential to be really good. It made him proud to know somewhere he was doing
something
right. It was raining outside. Jean had been complaining all week about the unusually arid conditions in the city of late and Doug imagined how happy his mother must be that her precious garden would not be wilting away after all. The rain pattered against his small, shuttered window behind his drawn curtains.
”Good sleep weather,” Doug thought as he sank snugly into bed and turned off his bedside lamp s that the room was beautifully illuminated by the ever–so-slight blue light of his aquarium. Tonight he could not hear the bubbles, as the rain hammered on the walls and glass. For a change he felt utterly peaceful and accomplished and sleep came easily, for once.
Under his feet the loose stones and broken pieces of tar cracked as he walked, pushing his scooter through the wind. He was so glad there was no traffic today and no motorists snooping to what he was doing. Of course there were no cars – it was late at night and the stars above him glimmered over the dismal stretch of empty road. Black and warm from the day it quietly snaked over the bridge and onto the next few miles of meandering curves into the faint horizon where it disappeared.
It was not cold, but Doug lamented forgetting his jacket as he lurched through the unforgiving gale force wind which left his hair unkempt and wild. Then Doug noticed that he was not in his body anymore and he watched himself pushing the creaky chrome scooter along the shoulder of the road where it started over the bridge. Not even a quarter of the way across he noticed something in the water below. For a moment Doug wondered how he could see so well in the night, but the street lights perched across the sides of the bridge shone like sunshine. Sunshine? He saw himself walking to the barrier to make sure he saw what he thought he did. Clothed in his school uniform, the boy leaned over the barricade and to his astonishment, there it was!
Bobbing along the rise and fall of the water of the water surface, Doug saw the black briefcase again. This time it hardly moved forward and he knew this would be the best chance he would ever have to fetch it once and for all. In his gut the excitement grew at the possibilities of finally discovering what it held and he quickly descended from the road onto the whipping weeds which bent under the force of the wind. Without any reservation, the curious young man leaped into the water and caught his breath. It took a bit long for him to resurface and around him the water was dark and murky, bubbling and churning in the thrall of the angry current. He wondered why it wasn’t cold. In fact, he could not feel the water much as he paddled with his outstretched arms to reach the outside air before he drowned. Krista said he would drown and he felt his chest burning as he failed to reach the top while the water threw his body about. Submerged under the river he watched himself struggle to come up and he told himself to remember what Mr Browning said.
Remember, you have potential! You can swim well if you really try!
With a mighty effort Doug slid through the water and broke the surface with a loud gasp. Outside the wind was howling but the water had no temperature, still. The briefcase was just out of reach and did not drift any further than it had when he first saw it. It was waiting for him. With great glee he started swimming, just like he had that afternoon at school and he was good, too. Quickly he approached the item he so wanted to get his hands on and from the foamy water he reached out to it. It felt hard and warm under his hands as his eager fingers grabbed at it to get a firmer hold. Doug pulled the case closer until he had it in his hands and hoped it was not locked or sealed with a code.
Clumsily his wet fingers fumbled to pull the two knobs aside and unlock the hold.
‘Click’
He loved the sound of the right lock opening and shortly after the left. Not even bothering to get out of the river, he stood waist deep in the current in the starlit sky which looked exactly like a dusky day and he lifted the lid to see what hid inside. The first thing he saw was his own eyes, staring back at him. Doug’s body jolted with fear and disbelief as he opened the lid wider to reveal his own hair and face, his expression contorted in a frozen fit of terror. His mouth agape and his neck severed, his decapitated head filled the briefcase just perfectly inside. It seemed to be screaming and he could have sworn he heard his own scream before realising it was him, uttering an involuntary hysterical shriek which echoed across the river and the reverberated under the confines of the bridge. Raw and coarse, his throat kept hissing under the force of his screams, but he felt nothing come out. It was his head screaming.
With a start, Doug awoke in his bed. The rain and thunder pummelled the exterior of the house and he could hardly hear anything else but the clamour of the restless weather. Soaked with sweat, he wiped his brow and panted to catch his breath. His throat still hurt as well and far away in another dimension he could still vaguely hear himself crying out in shock.
Maybe he was just thirsty. Caught painfully between his teeth, his tongue felt swollen and dry as his eyes combed the smooth bluish walls and ceiling. Doug sat up with much effort and a deep unhappiness crawled around in his chest. Just when he thought he would be okay. Turning to get out of bed the poor boy looked right into the ghastly fiend which visited his bedside this night. Standing beside the foot of his bed, Doug saw the dead man once more as large and true as a real person, staring ahead of him in a trancelike state. The thing’s mouth was slightly open, like someone waiting to say something, and his dead papery eyes were pale and opaque in the blue light where he stood motionless. The teenager froze in fear, choking on his dry tongue and the horrid feeling of his burning chest. But it was not the water which burned his chest now, no, it was pure and raw terror attacking him and he wished he could scream for help before the thing saw him, but he found his throat constricted.
He had to! He had to make alarm or this would not end well for him. With all his might Doug collected his breath, expanded his chest while tears swamped his terrified eyes. And then he screamed. The petrified boy screamed with every ounce of strength he could muster, careless now whether the ghost could hear him or not. He screamed as if his very soul depended on it, loudly and long as his voice brought with it all his fear and desperation. From deep inside him it came, shaking his body under the sound of his bellow and he did not waste time taking another breath.
Above him the dead man moved, stirred finally by his screams. It turned its head robotically, only its head. A grotesque and filthy demon of nightmares with a posh suit, it looked down at the frightened child with no life and no mercy in its eyes. The gaping mouth fell wide open while it stared at Doug and without warning the dead man brought forth a wicked and high pitched shriek. Like a banshee he wailed, letting out a deafening and horrible sound which smashed all the windows of Doug’s room simultaneously. Throughout the house he could hear the glass explode one by one as the sound overwhelmed the whole house.
“Doug! Doug!” he heard his mum and dad calling frantically.
The two adults had raced into the room of their screaming son after being woken by his unsettling shrieks in the embrace of the stormy night. He opened his eyes and slipped from the nightmarish blue room with its broken windows and beheld his parents standing by his bed, holding his hand and consoling him. He was so relieved to find that his first sight was his parents and he calmed down immediately. The windows were intact and everything was back to normal. Heaving, he fell back into his bed in relief, elated to know that it was just another nightmare. He was certainly relieved when he realised that it was Saturday morning and he did not have to be at school.
Krista hated the news. She hated actuarial programs, health shows, reality shows and documentaries. Only sitcoms, movies and music videos ever made it onto her TV screen. There was something deeply distressing about reality and the sour reports of everyday life, other people’s bad luck and sadness, which she avoided in her life ever since she left high school. Her mother always said that happiness is a choice and, at the time, she would mouth off about her pathetic life and the total lack of choice in her life, but her mother, much like a Japanese sensei from an ‘80s movie, would simply smile and say, “You know it’s true, Krissie.”
Krista smiled as she went back in time and she could have sworn she could hear her mother’s voice.
“You’re just too stubborn to shut up for longer than two minutes so that the idea can get through to you. All this fighting against the truth, against anything you don’t agree with, will just wear you out, and when you are tired and tapped out, you will have no choice other than to listen, to feel.”
And it was true. Happiness was indeed a choice, she would find out later, too late, after her mother had succumbed to a heart attack at 55 and Krista could not tell her that she understood it now.
So she chose to lock out all things that made her unhappy or announced the misfortunes of others. Surely it was a form of denial, but it worked for her and she refused admittance to any source of misery. All she cared about now was her animals and her newfound appreciation for cycling, something she took up to whip her overweight butt back into shape in hopes of at least landing a husband before she was a full-blown spinster. Then again, she doubted any man of proper calibre would pay attention to a scarred ex-officer who flaked out on several occasions and now tried to make amends to life by washing dogs and listening to jazz. At least she found quite a few kindred spirits on the website and she could actually help people who took it more seriously and had more trouble to deal than she had. It felt good to use her darkness and her road to hell to teach others the other highways they could take instead of the one she decided to travel. She had many friends there and they didn’t see her as a freak or a head case as most people in the normal world would.