Night Visions Read online

  Night Visions

  Thomas Fahy

  To my parents, Tom and Eileen, with love and gratitude,

  and to my brother, Michael, for his inspiration and friendship

  Come sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace…

  —SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Parasomnia

  1 Night Terrors

  2 The Return

  3 Missing Pieces

  Parasomnia

  4 Lost and Found

  5 Endymion’s Circle

  6 Martyrdom

  Parasomnia

  7 Light Without Shadows

  8 Visionary

  9 Memento Mori

  Parasomnia

  10 Boxes to Fill

  11 Connections

  12 Dangerous Crossing

  Parasomnia

  13 Other Voices

  14 The Small Crucifixion

  15 Dead Ends

  Parasomnia

  16 Quicksand

  17 Simon Falls

  18 Transmutations

  Parasomnia

  19 Scars

  20 Master of Escape

  21 The Face

  Parasomnia

  22 No Returns

  23 Tiresias

  24 Love Letters

  Parasomnia

  25 Five Thousand Feet

  26 Mrs. Brinkmeyer

  27 Intermezzo

  Parasomnia

  28 The Faceless Man

  29 Deus ex Machina

  30 Crimson Doors

  Parasomnia

  31 A Pyrrhic Victory

  Parasomnia

  32 Aria

  Coda

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Parasomnia

  CHAPEL HILL, NORTH CAROLINA

  DECEMBER 31, 1989

  6:57 P.M.

  Simon the Sorcerer flew.

  It was an ancient story that came to Butner Creedmoor in his dreams. Simon, a man consumed by his need for power, used magic and illusion to convince the people to worship him as God. Even Emperor Nero believed Simon’s trickery. He sought his counsel in matters of the empire, built monuments in his honor, and proclaimed him guardian of the city.

  When Peter heard this, he traveled to Rome and publicly challenged this self-proclaimed deity. He exposed Simon’s lies, and in the name of the Lord he raised a man from the dead. The people who had believed in Simon were enraged and drove him from the city. For months, he lived among the shadows and beasts of the hills. Outcast. Forgotten.

  One day, he returned to Rome in secret, asking the emperor to gather crowds on his behalf in a large piazza near the capitol. Hundreds watched, including Peter, as Simon climbed a tower, leaped off, and began to fly.

  Nero turned to Peter. “It is you who are the deceiver!”

  With these words, Peter looked into the gray sky and cried out: “Angels of Satan, who keep Simon aloft, carry him no longer. Let him fall!”

  Simon dropped to the ground, his screams filling the square until his neck snapped against the earth. Grieved and outraged, Nero condemned Peter to death.

  Crowds surged as the executioners brought him to the cross. They wanted to intervene, but Peter begged them not to act, not to hinder his martyrdom. He then asked to be crucified upside down, saying that he was not worthy of dying like Christ.

  Nero nodded in approval and watched as they nailed his feet above his head.

  Years ago, Butner’s mother told him this story, and he can still hear the cadence of her voice. He had forgotten it until recently, but now it seems to be the only story he knows.

  In the quiet, he breathes deeply and knocks on the apartment door, wearing his old UPS uniform and carrying a heavy rectangular box.

  “Package for Miss Erin Winesburg.”

  She peers through the opening of the chained door. “A delivery on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Yes, Miss. UPS doesn’t believe in holidays.” He makes his voice sound strained, suggesting the weight of the package, and she opens the door quickly, smiling at the joke.

  “Just grab the clipboard on top and sign by your name. Where do you want me to put this?”

  “Oh…on the table over there. Thanks.”

  Butner steps inside the sparsely but stylishly furnished apartment. A black coat and a bottle of white wine have been placed on a midnight-blue armchair. Erin is wearing an elegant black dress with crimson flowers; it stops a few inches above her knees. She has long, slender legs and wavy chestnut-brown hair. The mark under her chin suggests that she plays the violin or viola, as his mother did for years, and he imagines Erin onstage—the audience torn between listening and watching her statuesque figure. As she hands him the clipboard, he wants to hear her play, to touch the soft material of her dress. He wants a choice.

  Tightening his right hand, he strikes her across the jaw. The force of the blow knocks her against the wall, spraying blood on the door.

  Butner closes the blinds, then the front door. The dead bolt locks with a hollow clap, and the phone starts ringing. He opens the package, pulling out a strand of wire, two long spikes, and a hammer.

  Erin lies crumpled on the floor, blood on her chin and cheek.

  Part of him doesn’t want any of this, but he knows it’s the only way. He hasn’t slept in over a month.

  While dragging her body to the bathroom, he hears the answering machine beep.

  “Hey, girl, you’re probably on your way. If not, get a move on. We’re waitin’ for you. And guess who’s here? Josh, the man of your dreams. Anyway, I’ll see you soon. Bye!”

  The machine beeps again. The outgoing message rewinds.

  Erin begins to moan.

  JANUARY 1, 1990

  5:53 P.M.

  Officer Jennings knew it wouldn’t be like television, but he has secretly hoped for something more all along. Traffic tickets, drunken college students, paperwork, and more paperwork. No, law enforcement isn’t a glamorous life, but as his sister reminds him after every complaint: “At least you’re not being shot at by some crackhead serial killer!”

  True enough, but he secretly hopes for something more.

  After responding to several calls about flat tires and stalled engines, he and Officer Bland fill out a report for a stolen car that “reappeared” after the owner sobered up and remembered where he parked it. Now, off to an apartment on the west side of town. Apparently a young woman never showed up for a party yesterday evening. Her friends can’t reach her by phone, and she isn’t answering the door—even though her blue Saturn is parked out front.

  It’s going to be one of those days, Jennings thinks.

  He knocks again and sends Bland to get a key from the manager. While waiting on the porch, he imagines breaking down the door and yelling, “Chapel Hill Police Department. We are entering under exigent circumstances!” His gun carefully poised in front of him as he peers into the dark corners of the home. “Clear!”

  “Hey, Bob. Bob? We have to remember to leave this in the drop box.” Officer Bland hands him the key.

  “Sure.” He unlocks the door, and they enter.

  “Hello? Miss Winesburg? This is the police. Hello?”

  The room feels hot. Jennings notices a bottle of wine on the armchair. Their footsteps echo loudly against the hardwood floors, and a glass bowl on the living room table rattles with each step. Jennings signals Bland to check out the kitchen while he walks into the bedroom. The door creaks as he slowly pushes it open. Someone is in bed, curled on top of the comforter, facing away from the door.

  “Miss Winesburg?” he asks. Muted sunlight passes through the closed blinds, and the haze makes it difficult to see.
“Miss Winesburg, are you all right?” Jennings takes a tentative step toward the bed, and the figure rocks slightly. He stops.

  There is a sudden crash behind him as Officer Bland stumbles backward into the room and bumps into a dresser.

  Jennings turns, startled. “What the hell?”

  Bland’s lower lip trembles. “She’s…she’s in the bath—WATCH OUT!”

  Officer Jennings spins around, and the figure on the bed slices an upward arc into his chest. He falls back with a yell, and the entire room shudders when he hits the floor. In two quick motions, the attacker tears down the blinds and opens the window. He vanishes through the opening before Officer Bland can unlatch his gun.

  Jennings winces as he gets to his feet and follows.

  Garbage cans and boxes clutter the narrow, grassy alleyway. Jennings is panting now, and his temples throb rhythmically with each footstep. In the sunlight, he sees the man’s all-brown outfit; it looks like a uniform of some kind. The suspect’s lead increases, and he leaps over a fence like a track-and-field athlete. For Jennings, the climb is more labored. The chain-link rattles and bends under the weight of his body. One. Two. Three. Over.

  Nothing.

  Dogs bark wildly along the fence behind him. He pulls out his gun again and edges forward slowly. His shirt sticks to the blood on his chest, and he wipes sweat from his forehead. A few more steps until a clearing. Closer. He tries to breathe steadily, waiting and gripping the gun with both hands. He leans against the large brown Dumpster.

  Go.

  He spins into an open field, panning with his gun, looking for a target. Rusty iron pipes, scattered trash, a dilapidated wooden shed. No movement. He can hear sirens getting closer, and the throbbing in his head almost blinds him.

  A few minutes later, Jennings returns to the apartment and walks to the bathroom with deliberate, heavy steps. His face shines with sweat, and his lower lip starts to quiver when he sees what terrified Officer Bland—Erin Winesburg’s body hanging upside down at the back end of a bathtub. Wire cutting into her ankles, fastening them to a metallic towel rack at eye level. Her head and shoulders against the incline of the tub. Each hand elevated and positioned—the right nailed into the porcelain tiles, the left into the Plexiglas shower door. A circle has been carved into her torso, and bloods drips from the gash across her neck.

  “What the hell happened here, Jennings? Bland said you went after the suspect.”

  He turns to see Detective Hicks standing behind him. “A man was asleep in the bed when we arrived.”

  “Asleep?”

  “Yeah. I woke him when I entered her room. Then, before I knew what was going on, he attacked me with a knife and jumped through the window. He was wearing a brown uniform.”

  Detective Hicks looks at Jennings quizzically. “Get the paramedics to check you out.” He turns, barking orders to no one in particular about searching the area.

  Jennings lowers his eyes, then walks outside.

  A small crowd of neighbors has gathered, wondering what has happened. They look at the officers for reassurance. They want to hear that everything will be all right, that they don’t have to be afraid.

  Jennings turns from them.

  They should be afraid, he thinks. They all should.

  1

  Night Terrors

  THURSDAY

  Her eyes open suddenly in the darkness. At first there is only panicked breathing and the tympani of a pounding heart. She struggles to lift her arms and legs but can’t move. Car tires screech on the street below, and she turns her head toward the window. Moisture beads on the inside of the pane. She tries again to move, straining until her body rises like an anchor from deep waters. One at a time, her feet touch the floor, and she begins to feel safe. Sweat bleeds through both sides of her T-shirt.

  The bedside clock reads 3:20.

  That night, she isn’t focused on the match. Her opponent, a beginner, hopes to win by brute force, but fencing is about refinement, strategy, precision. En garde. Relying on strength slows him down, and his body telegraphs each move. Once again, he overcommits to the attack, lunging too hard with little sense of timing or distance. Her right arm feels heavy, slow. She blinks twice, trying to ease the sting of her tired eyes. Foils clash around them, and she glances at a nearby duel. Each movement there seems choreographed, almost rhythmic.

  Suddenly, she sees the metallic masks as cold and tortured. The fencers look like the faceless men who come for her in dreams. Coal-black eyes and bodies without shape. Her arm stiffens and her rhythm falters. A brute force punches through.

  He scores a point.

  “Gotcha, Sam.” He smiles arrogantly through the wire mesh.

  The masks return to normal.

  Other than giving her a few bruises, he hasn’t accomplished much in the last five minutes. Now, with this point, he can feel less embarrassed about losing to a woman. En garde. It’s time to finish the match and go home. She attacks on his preparation, lunges, and parries for a quick point. Match.

  “Damn!” He yanks off his mask and glares.

  “Maybe next time, Jim.” Samantha tries to sound encouraging but is too exhausted from her sleepless nights to really care.

  “Yeah, yeah…” He hesitates, and Samantha wonders if he is going to ask her out for a drink. Again. She has used a string of unimaginative excuses to dodge his advances in the last few months, and she senses his growing resentment about her lack of interest.

  They shake hands, and instead of speaking, he turns abruptly.

  She can’t be bothered with his bruised ego, she thinks. He’s a poor fencer and a sore loser. She walks to the locker room with her head down.

  Samantha undresses slowly. Her white cotton T-shirt is damp and heavy with sweat. Standing before a full-length mirror, she notices the way the light seems to reflect off the crescent-shaped scar on her abdomen. Its pallor disrupts the brown planes of her skin.

  An image suddenly appears. A blade slicing through her yellow shirt into the skin. Her attacker’s hand steady, the motion even and smooth.

  She blinks, moving her head quickly from side to side.

  She pulls a loose gray sweatshirt over her head, then frees the back of her shoulder-length hair from the collar. She grabs the gym bag at her feet and looks again in the mirror. Her thin body seems frail in the reflection. Dark circles have formed underneath her deep brown eyes.

  She leaves the club without saying good-bye to anyone.

  A cold, steady wind pours honey-thick fog over the hills of San Francisco. Samantha wraps a thin coat around her body and hurries past the vacant shops and dark office buildings. Even in a city this large, the streets can feel empty. Shadows from trees and parking signs quiver under the yellow streetlights, and her footsteps ricochet against the brick and plaster walls. At times she changes the rhythm of her steps to hear the sounds shift. It makes her feel less alone.

  Samantha parked near her favorite church in the city. It’s a few blocks out of the way, but she likes listening to the choir that rehearses on Thursday evenings. In the vestibule, she picks up the program for Sunday Mass, then steps into the nave. Dozens of candles glow peacefully in front of an altar to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Some of her white toes have turned flesh-colored from the hands and lips of the faithful. Her outstretched arms point downward.

  Samantha has often considered lighting candles in a gesture of prayer but can’t bring herself to worship. Instead, she sits in one of the back pews. It smells like dry leather and incense.

  Inhaling deeply, she thinks about the long-ago Sunday mornings with her family. While Father slept, Mother would get her and Rachel ready for church. Then after dressing in their nicest outfits—faces shiny with makeup and hair brushed back and clipped—the sisters sprang into action. They pulled hair and tugged at clothes. They yelped and screeched while chasing each other through the house, dodging precariously close to end tables and floor lamps. Invariably someone fell. Invariably someone cried for Mother. A few
scratches and quickly forgotten tears later, they were out the door at 8:40. Mother in the middle. One girl clinging to her right hand, the other to her left.

  All of this while Father slept.

  The brisk walk in the cool air never failed to restore peace. Mother smelled like orange blossoms and lilacs, and her long, soft dress moved in waves as she walked. Samantha remembers thinking she wanted to smell that way when she grew up. She wanted to take long strides and wink while smiling. A few minutes before Mass, they climbed up the wide marble stairs, dipped their fingers into a bowl of holy water, and slid into a hard wooden pew. They fidgeted and half-listened as the priest started muttering in Latin that couldn’t drown out a chorus of crying babies. The mixture of colognes, perfumes, and sweat made her dizzy. The air felt like a skin-tight sweater. Hot. Uncomfortable. She leaned closer to Mother and inhaled.

  Samantha can’t fully recall Mother’s smell or even the touch of her hand. Sometimes a stray scent—a waft of perfume or springtime flower—brings back a gesture or expression. But it’s never quite right. That is the worst part—not forgetting but not being able to remember either.

  She was twelve when her mother died in a car accident. Her father, who slept on Sundays and preferred silence to the clamor in church, was too devastated to comfort anyone else. It was the first time she realized that some wounds were too deep to heal.