Sometimes the man in the black suit enters the room
backwards so that I hear him speak before I see the dreadful leer of his face.
There is, in the man in black’s face, something
deeply…. unsettling. Beyond the constant expression it wears of mingled derision
and sickly, unwholesome smile, there is in the features of the face itself more
than the suggestion of deformity. Or maybe distortion, as a scrambled
television signal, is a better word.
It is nothing easily identified; a certain
asymmetry, perhaps. As if the face had been split in two and reassembled by
inexpert hands. Maybe it is simply the dark and deeply set eyes like black
holes in the skull, tugging at everything in the room, sucking even light into
themselves…
Emma Jason paused, her black ball-point hovering
over the page, considering what she recalled from this latest dream of the man
in the black suit. He had been appearing in her dreams, and her journals,
intermittently for years. Always he spoke to her, in a voice crawling with
earthworms and subtle innuendo, and always she failed to comprehend the
communication; as if he was speaking not English but some unknown tongue. Or
maybe gibberish. The last few weeks had seen an unexpected and unpleasant
increase in the dark man’s visits. Last night, for the first time she realized
with some alarm, she had actually understood some portion of his sepulchral
speech.
Her hand faltered and she rested the ball-point at
the end of the ellipsis she had just jotted down... Damn if she could remember
what she had finally understood! The words glinted in the shadows at the edge
of memory, fading farther back into darkness even as she tried to draw them
forth. It was maddening but she decided to let it go, confident it would come
to her in time. Not that she was eager to hear whatever it was this sinister
figure might be trying to tell her, but she knew it was probably important.
A sudden shrieking of tires somewhere nearby
startled Emma to her feet. The sound, for some reason, brought Virginia
flashing into her mind. Then she remembered that Ginny was driving to San Pia
with her new girlfriend today. What was the blonde’s name? Amanda? Rachel? No…
Rebecca! They’d left early that morning, or so Emma believed. She was also
fairly certain that the girls would have been driving on the opposite side of
Piney Oak to connect with the southbound freeway from their new place on
Geometry Street. It was irrational to think that her daughter was in any way
connected to the sound she had just heard. Yet, she found herself suddenly
worrying about Virginia.
She reached down and closed her dream journal,
dropping the pen on top of the black cover. It was quiet now. There had not
actually been a collision of any kind, thank God. Only a near miss with
squealing tires and, no doubt, copious amounts of adrenaline and expletives. Most
likely, airbags had not even been deployed. Suddenly, she cocked her dark head,
listening. Somebody was crying. A woman, out in the street.
As upon most weekends, this particular Saturday
morning found Emma in the office; or The Stall, as she knew everybody but she called
the small, anonymous storefront founded by her father more than half a century before.
So it was that she left the desk where she’d been writing (Gordon’s space
Monday through Friday) and, exiting the shop, stood out on Oak Street,
listening for the sobbing that she still heard, though dimly now.
She looked up and down the street but there was
nothing unusual to be seen. Cocking her head again, she determined that the
sounds of distress seemed to be coming from her right. It must be fairly close
to be as audible as it was. Somewhere on Bonner Avenue, most likely. Making
sure the door was closed behind her (no need to lock your door in this town,
but keep it closed or risk coming back to find raccoons setting up shop), she
started down the block toward Bonner Avenue. As she progressed, the sobbing
grew louder in her ears.
Then she paused, realizing quite suddenly that the sound
wasn’t in her ears at all! Standing still and alert, she listened anew. The
street was actually quiet; the only sound, birdsong drifting from the trees. None
the less, she heard somebody crying. Telepathy? If so, it was the strongest and strangest she
had experienced in her nearly sixty years. Sure, she had spoken to Angels and
Demons, seen ghosts and UFOs, socialized with psychics of all kinds, but nobody
had ever been in her head quite like this.
"Help me, Emma…”
The words rang like a bell in her head, a bell with
an English accent! A bell that knew her name! Startled by the sound, or thought,
of her name, compelled to move by the plea for help, Emma now broke into a run.
Good genes, and the good exercise she got walking around town, kept her fifty
something year old corporeal form in good shape. She reached the corner of Oak
and Bonner in just a few seconds and still breathing more or less normally.
All sound in her head had stopped now. But there in
the middle of Bonner Avenue was the car she had heard, a blue, four door sedan
of some kind. In the car, hunched behind the steering wheel, a woman, her shoulders
occasionally heaving as she silently sobbed. Hesitating only a moment, she had
always been one to take charge in a crisis, Emma moved forward.
As she approached, the woman in the driver’s seat
stirred and gazed in her direction. “Oh, thank God…” The voice, English
accented, in her head again. “Please tell me what to do, Emma…”
Emma, circling around the front of the vehicle now,
nearing the driver’s door, wondered what she was getting herself into here. She
suddenly recalled the Tarot spread she’d thrown for herself two nights ago. The
lightning struck tower. The Devil. Gripping the door handle, she gazed in at
the tear stained woman in the driver’s seat – small, fine featured, coppery
hair – and smiled. If this dainty creature was driving with The Devil, then
perhaps Emma should take the wheel.
