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By AUDREY YEAGER
of TheColumnists.com
HIS EYES were staring into darkness as he roused from some deep
sleep. He was in the fetal position, knees bent, arms drawn tight
against his chest. One side of his face was pressed against damp
grass, and his body was weighted with some awful lethargy. He
blinked once, then twice more in quick succession. The night
pressed in closer, falling about him like drifting spider webs.
With agonizing effort he pulled himself to a sitting position
and peered into the gloom. At first he was almost relieved to
see a dim glow far off to his right. Then a sense of unpleasant
familiarity swept over him. Something about the scene set a trembling
fear nibbling at his brain.
He turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings. A
shadowy park took shape, with weirdly twisted, black-on-black
children's swings lifting the hair on the back of his neck. Untended,
overgrown flowerbeds gave off the stench of decay. He wanted
to pray no child would ever know this place.
Where, in God's name, was he?
With a jolt the man realized he didn't know his OWN name.
The appalling lack of sound bore down on him as he stood shakily
and frantically searched the pockets of the white shirt and pants
he was wearing for some proof of his identity.
The strange silence made his ears ring. What was wrong with this
place? Nights were always full of sounds: a bird's cry, the honk
of a horn, a dog barking.
His pockets were empty and his mind began to search for explanations.
Maybe he had been mugged. The empty pockets indicated that possibility.
Yet, he had no lump or sore spot on his head. Still, he felt
dazed and disoriented. Had he been drugged? Why couldn't he remember
who he was?
Then, just at the edge of hearing, someone seemed to call from
very far away. He listened. It didn't come again.
The man began to walk toward the murky light.
With waning strength he finally approached the street lamp. What
had promised to be a possible solution to the mystery only compounded
it.
Although an asphalt-covered road ran off in both directions under
menacing, low-hanging trees, there was only that one light post,
no others evenly disbursed along the gray, cracked sidewalk as
he had expected.
He looked hard to the left--nothing but inky blackness. It was
the same to the right--and there was no vehicle in sight.
Great, lumbering mansions hunkered up and down both sides of
the street. Why were there no lights in any of the windows? He
pleaded with the night for just one lamp in one window.
Again he thought he heard that nebulous call that hinted at reality.
Maybe he was dreaming. But, no, he knew that wasn't true. He
wished he was, and wondered how much longer he could keep control
of himself. Shaking badly and without any planned direction,
the man began to plod on once more into the darkness. The soft
footwear he had on made not the slightest sound on the old-fashioned,
lined sidewalk.
"Step on a crack, break your mother's back."
He would have to be careful.
After ten hesitant steps the man came to a dead stop, his heart
clamoring. There was a sound somewhere behind him! He spun around,
eyes straining to see everything in his field of vision. He didn't
know whether to be terrified or hopeful. There was nothing there,
even after he stood and waited several minutes.
He wanted to yell at the top of his lungs at the injustice of
what was happening to him, but he knew if he did he wouldn't
be able to stop--and she would have won. Who would have won?
What a crazy thought.
Once again he started out, realizing he wouldn't get very far
before the single street light behind him ceased to be of much
help. But there it was again! This time he was sure he'd heard
something! He stood frozen in place. Yes! There it was again!
It was whispery footsteps, padding very slowly his way. Turning
quickly, he longed to expand his senses--to see, to hear, to
know! What was coming so softly, but inexorably toward him?
"Hello, who's there?" he shouted, his voice quavering
no matter how he tried to control it.
There was no reply, only that "feeling" of a whispered
call from the unknown darkness ahead. The steps had ceased.
The debilitating weakness he had experienced from the beginning
was threatening to overcome him. He turned back and began to
move as fast as he could away from the light. Maybe he could
find a place to hide, a place to rest a little.
Yes, the footfalls were coming also, faster now. He knew they
would. Some gear had dropped into place. Without stopping, he
turned his head and looked back. A long, low figure was silhouetted
against the backdrop of the lamp's slight glow. She swung from
side to side as powerful muscles carried her along.
It wouldn't matter now if he stopped. She wouldn't.
Someone WAS calling him--faintly, so faintly.
He rounded a corner, panting and nearly at a run, and saw what
he now realized he had been seeking. The weatherworn Victorian
mansion stood on a small knoll at the top of a long set of stairs.
Pale light shone from several windows.
He suddenly knew he was coming out of this triumphant, with all
questions answered, (WHY had she done it?) and all scores
settled, (it never seemed to stay done.) He took the long flight
of stairs two at a time, enlivened with a burst of superhuman
energy. No lock barred his way.
There was no use to close the door behind him. That would only
prolong the long-awaited victory, and so he kept going to the
top of the house and to the furthest corner of the furthest room.
The following apparition bounded after him--and he realized she
was just as filled with excitement as he was.
The man knew they really were calling him now: "William!
William!"
They were quite insistent, but didn't they realize he couldn't
respond until the confrontation was faced and conquered? They
should have learned that by now.
He threw himself into the crimson-carpeted room on all fours
and made his way to the corner. With a snarl, he turned and waited.
The ebony head leaned around the door frame, and for the hundredth
time he looked into those vicious green eyes.
"William! Can you hear me!?"
* * * *
A SHORT time later, in a different place:
"But Doctor, he seems so calm today, not nearly so agitated.
Surely he's getting better."
"No, Mrs. O'Hara, he isn't. On the contrary, you need to
know William's condition is worsening, and there doesn't seem
to be much we can do about it. I had to give him a sedative an
hour ago because he was again in the throes of the repeated,
violent nightmare he has. I worked with him for some time, calling
him over and over, and was barely able to bring him out of it.
One of these times--and I don't believe it's far off--he won't
come back to us."
The woman was sobbing quietly. "Poor William. It wasn't
enough that his mother had him institutionalized for six years."
"He was 18 when he was released, right?" he added,
giving her time to calm down.
"Yes, with all those years lost, and filled with such suffering."
She reached for a fresh tissue.
"You don't think there was anything to her claim that he
tried to kill her?"
"Absolutely not. Why Doctor, you know William. It was utter
nonsense. You'd never meet a gentler man. I'm just so puzzled
as to what started his odd behavior eight months ago."
"As I recall, Mrs. O'Hara, William's mother died shortly
after his release from the mental facility."
"That's right. She was in some kind of accident that severed
her spine. I feel bad about that, but I'm glad I never knew her.
She was a terrible woman."
The doctor shook his head, "Hm, so William has told me.
He always refers to her as 'the black panther?"
Before she left the state hospital Virginia O'Hara looked through
the slot in the door of the small cubicle that held her husband.
He seemed so totally untroubled as he studied something held
between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. It was
a short, black hair no human ever grew.
©
2001 by Audrey Yeager. The drawing is from the IMSI Master/Clips
Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael CA 94901-5506,
USA.
You can contact Audrey Yeager with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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