Mind's Shadow (2) "What kind of junk?" Malcolm interrupted. "I dunno, this... stuff. Just hold on, I'll get to it." Malcolm shot him a look that made Jamie feel uneasy. He cleared his throat and went on. "Anyway, so this guy brings this junk over and he's like, you gotta try this stuff. But nobody would do it, so Erin offered to do try it. So she takes a puff of off this thing and at first she's okay, but then she flips out!" "She started seeing things, you mean," said Malcolm dully. "Yeah, that's it," Jamie continued "and she started talkin about bugs or somethin and we was all like, hey that's pretty cool, then it started to get really weird." He stopped and waited for Malcolm to say something and when he didn't he went on. "She got all quiet and wouldn't talk to any of us. And whenever any of us tried to talk to her or somethin she would just put her hands on her face and shake her head. Then she started mumblin about little kids in the closet and I don't even HAVE a closet. And then she got up and looked in my bathroom for some reason and she went all pale and sat back down. Then she looked up at the ceiling and screamed, and I mean LOUD. I'm glad my dad wasn't home. We tried to talk to her and calm her down, but she just pushed us out of the way and took off." Malcolm reclined in the cheap folding chair and thought about Jamie's story. Jamie, meanwhile, sat in the uncomfortable silence and played with his thumbs. Finally, Malcolm spoke. "Do you have a tv in your room?" Jamie raised an eyebrow. "No, I wish I did. Why?" Malcolm shook his head and got up from the table and asked: "Did any of you smoke this stuff?" Jamie shook his head, his long greasy hair that dangled like spaghetti around his ears swinging. "Do you have anymore?" Jamie's eyebrow once again rose and Malcolm thought distractedly that his face might stick that way if he's not careful. "Yeah, but you don't want to smoke it, man." "Just go get it." Jamie shrugged and went into his room. A moment later he came back with a bag in his hand full of what looked like pot. Malcolm took the bag from Jamie. "Where does the guy live, the one you got this from?" Jamie wrote it down for him and once again was unclear of Malcolm's intentions. With the address in hand, Malcolm left without another word, leaving Jamie sitting alone in his kitchen. While story Jamie told didn't match up exactly with what Erin had described, Malcolm didn't think it was because he was lying. This thought echoed in his head as Malcolm drove home. The sun was losing its place in the sky and was dipping behind the horizon when Malcolm finally made the trip to the address on the slip of paper. For the second time that day, he was banging on the door of someone's house, demanding attention. The gentleman that answered the door this time was the exact opposite of Jamie Kellner. His hair was neatly trimmed and barely reached his ears. He was dressed as if he were headed to a golf tournament. He looked to be about twenty years old. "Can I help you?" he said. Malcolm found the man's southern drawl abating. "Uh, yeah. Are you Marshall..." he checked the paper, "Berkeley?" The man looked at Malcolm for a moment, sizing him up. "Yeah, that's me." Malcolm pulled the bag from his pocket and held it in front of the man. "This look familiar?" The man gave the same penetrating to the bag that he had to Malcolm. He shook his head. "I dunno what'chur talkin bout." "I think you do," The man laughed and again said he didn't. Malcolm was becoming annoyed with the man's games. "I know for a fact that you sold this stuff to a... a friend of mine. You can't lie to me." The man laughed again and Malcolm realized that he'd very much like to hurt Mr. Berkeley. Finally, the man at the door gave in. "Okay, okay. I can see that I'm not gettin away from you," he said condescendingly. "Now what is it that you want so badly? To arrest me?" He held out his hands, waiting for Malcolm to slap a pair of handcuffs on them. Malcolm ignored them. "Nope, I'm just here to enlighten. Do you have any idea what this stuff does to you?" "Never smoked it Muhself," Berkeley said, grinning. "I never took a likin to doin drugs. Nasty habit." Malcolm pulled a gun from his coat pocket and pointed it between Marshall Berkeley's eyes. He tossed the bag to him. "Well, you're going to now." Before Malcolm went to Marshall Berkeley's house, he slipped stealthily into his father's study, and from a cabinet his father just happened to leave unlocked, had retrieved the handgun, tipped with a silencer, he now pointed in Marshall Berkeley's face. "Just what do you think yer doin, little man?" Malcolm pointed the gun at the bag in his hand. "You're going to smoke every bit of that." "Or what, you're gonna shoot me?" A piercing blast of sound erupted from the silencer-tipped handgun, and Malcolm indifferently planted a slug in the man's bicep. With a startled cry he staggered backward, tripping over his feet. He fell heavily to the floor with another cry of pain. It was only later that Malcolm realized that they could trace the bullet back to him, but by then it didn't matter. "That is the idea," Malcolm sneered. Malcolm pulled the man to his feet and with the gun jammed between his shoulder blades they made their way to a small room in the back of the house. The man sat in a chair in the corner of the room, with Malcolm standing next to him, the gun pointed in his face. He looked scornfully up at his captor. "What is your problem, anyway?" he snapped. Malcolm returned the man's scowl with one of his own. "It's because of you that my girlfriend is dead." Berkeley laughed. "It's 'cause of some chick? That's why you're pointin a gun at my head and forcin me to smoke this crap?" Malcolm drew back and struck Berkeley hard in his right temple with the butt of the pistol. He then grabbed the front of the man's shirt and buried the gun in his belly. He pulled him close, their faces almost touching. "If I hear another word out of you about Erin, or anything else," Malcolm hissed, "I'll make it the last thing you ever say. Is that understood?" With a look of hatred burning on the man's face he nodded. "Get busy, then," Malcolm said. Drawing from the tiny packet of small, square shaped pieces of paper he'd pulled from his back pocket, the man began the arduous task ahead of him. Soon the cramped room was clouded in smoke. Malcolm coughed and tried vainly to fan it away from his face. When half of the bag was gone, Berkeley was twitching nervously in his seat. "I-I-I can't take anymore, please, let me stop...," pleaded Berkeley. "I'm not a drug dealer, I just needed the money...I'm sorry about your girl...I..." "I don't care," Malcolm said. "Finish it." With a deep breath, the man started again. Before long, the bag was empty and Marshall Berkeley was a wreck. His breathing was quick and rapid; he looked side to side at unseen demons. Disregarding him completely, Malcolm went into the living room and picked up the telephone. After punching in a quick three-digit number, he said: "Yeah, there's a guy here, and he's freakin out real bad." He told the person on the other line the address and was told to remain on the other line and wait for help to arrive. He promptly hung up the phone and left. Malcolm's head was swimming as he searched for his car key in the dark. Finally, he found it and jammed it into the ignition. He began to back out of the driveway, but stopped when he saw a little girl in his rearview mirror, standing directly behind his car. She held in her hands what looked like a large raw piece of meat. Only it seemed to pulse in her grasp. "What the...," Malcolm spun around in his seat but the little girl was gone. "Dumb kids, gonna get themselves killed." After making sure the way was clear of any obstructions, he resumed his descent down the large driveway. He sped away from Berkeley's house, where to police were on their way to. Malcolm had taken the route that wound through a large forest (which was a county park) and was halfway back home when a white blur leapt in front of his car from the woods to his right. He slammed on his breaks, but it was an effort that was too little, too late. He struck the thing and it rolled up the windshield and down the back of his vehicle with a sickening, wet plopping sound. Malcolm sighed and rested his head on the back of the seat. After a long while, fished a flashlight from the glove compartment. He stepped out of the car and made his way around to the back of it. His heart froze in his chest as the flashlight beam fell upon what he had hit. It was Erin. Bloated, soaking wet, and wrapped in what looked like a white shower curtain, but Erin nonetheless. Malcolm watched, horrified, as the dripping cadaver got to its feet before his very eyes. He could hear bones popping as it straightened its gnarled back. It turned to him, its eyes covered in a yellow film, opening its mouth. Leaches poured from it and with minute plops, struck the pavement, some bursting and splattering blood all around them. Even with the continual leak of leaches from its mouth, the Erin-thing spoke: Why, Malcolm, it said, its voice a low hiss of air escaping a corpse. Why am I dead instead of you? Malcolm took a step back from the shower curtain-wrapped monster. "I...don't understand..." he said weakly. The Erin-thing pointed an accusing, rotted finger at him. You should have been there, Malcolm, should have protected me from them. "Protected you from who?" he cried. "I didn't do anything!" You abandoned me and let me die. "I didn't do anything..." he fell to his knees and the flashlight fell from his hand, clattering to the street. The Erin-thing took a slow, deliberate step toward him, another bout of leaches spurting from its mouth. Malcolm shrank back from it, scraping his hands on the road. He grabbed the flashlight and held it out in front of him like a shield. But it was gone. The leaches, the shower curtain that had fallen from its cold body. All gone. Malcolm rose shakily to his feet, his stomach threatening to empty its contents all over himself as he did. He leaned against the car, breathing heavily. What's happening to me? As if in response to his silent question, the radio came on, braying static into the previously quiet forest. Malcolm climbed into the car and closed the door. He pressed the off button on the stereo, but the loud static didn't stop. It grew softer instead and Malcolm could hear voices behind the crackle of static, some of them laughing, some crying. As he listened, they grew into screams; screams of the frightened and those of the tortured. The shrieks blaring out of the speakers all around him then quieted, and were replaced by a single voice. It was his. "Oh, by the way, I won't be able to make it to Jamie's on Saturday. I do have to go to the funeral." "You can't get out of it?" Erin's voice said. "I dunno, probably not. I'm not going to even bother asking." "Oh well, I'll be fine. It's just Jamie's after all." "Alright then, I'll talk to you later." There was a soft click. Malcolm jabbed the off button again, this time turning it off. He slid the key into the ignition, but didn't expect the car to start when turned it. It whirred to life and Malcolm shifted into drive. The going was difficult. Malcolm could see shapes moving in the woods on either side of him, and he struggled to avoid the strange creatures that would stagger out of the woods and in front of his car. He heard voices whispering in the back seat, but dared not turn the radio on to drown them out. At long last he made it home in one piece. He parked the car in its customary place and made his way into the house. The darkness inside was devoid of any kind of comfort. He reached beside the door and flicked on the lights. Sitting at the dining room table was what looked like a large dog, its black eyes burning into him. That's a werewolf. It stood suddenly from the table, its muscles rippling under its shaggy pelt. Saliva dripped from its muzzle in yellow globs, its teeth bared in a psychotic grin. It crossed into the living room and made its way toward Malcolm, stepping around chairs and endtables with stunningly human grace. Malcolm, beyond fear and more exhausted than he'd ever been in his whole life, remembered the gun and pulled it from his coat pocket; he aimed it at the too-huge dog. It stopped and gave Malcolm a questioning stare. Malcolm pulled the trigger and the werewolf uttered a scream. A scream that sounded eerily like a woman. It collapsed on the floor in a big, furry heap. "Malcolm! What's gotten into your mind!?" screamed his mother from the floor. She sat clutching her leg, blood flowing from the wound and pooling on the cream colored carpet. "Huh?" said Malcolm, confused. What's wrong buddy? Malcolm jerked toward where he thought the voice had come from, but it had originated from his head. "What?" said Malcolm to the voice. "Malcolm, what's going on?" demanded his mother. Malcolm ignored her. He instead focused his attention toward the voice. Are you having a hard time? "Yes!" he screamed at the voice. "Tell me what's going on!" You mean you don't know? It's a contact buzz, buddy. "A...contact...buzz...?" he said the words slowly, trying them out like a fine wine in his mouth. Ayuh. Smoke was a little thick in there, huh? When he turned back to his mother, he saw that she had disappeared, as did the blood on the carpet. There was, however, a large hole in the wall directly in front of him. "What're you talking about?" he demanded of the disembodied voice. There was no reply. Only footsteps coming down the stairs to the left of him. His parents appeared at the foot of the stairs. "You're home. And why are you yelling?" asked his mother. "Where've you been all day?" said his father. He gaped at the gun Malcolm clutched in his hands like a crucifix against vampires. "That's my pistol. Malcolm, are you in some kind of trouble?" Malcolm smirked. "Oh, nice try," he said. "Thought you could get me again." He fired two shots and his parents sank to the ground. Uh-oh... "No, no," Malcolm said to the voice. "They're not real. It's okay. Just like the werewolf...and Erin..." But there were no bullet holes in the wall this time; only a matching set in each of his parent's foreheads. Malcolm sank to his knees. "No...not...why?" Erin shrieked at him from behind: "You murderer! You killed your parents, just like you killed me!" He spun around, and she stood there, completely normal and alive. Only her black, empty eyes conveyed a since of the death that had taken her. "No...I...didn't kill you..." "No? Well, you sure killed your parents didn’t ya!" "I..." he looked at the pistol lying heavily in his hand and slowly raised it to his temple. "I don't have to listen to you." Erin laughed; loud peals of laughter that rang throughout the house. “Go ahead. Do it.” No more of this, no more of anything... He died listening to her laugh.
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