Otherworld (33 page)

And there was Captain Graham Lattimer. Gruff, seemingly sour Graham Lattimer, who unknowingly joined his spirit with many others in his small town as he prostrated himself beside his bed and wet the carpet with tears.

This man would appear unrecognizable to his daily acquaintances had they the opportunity to see him in this moment. Graham, a man normally commanding complete authority without a word, a man often thought of as emotionless, so foreign to helplessness both in demeanor and deed, buried his face into the floor, gripping it as if it might give way. As if the very earth underneath it was seconds from dissolution.

“Dear God!” he cried, and aloud too. It seemed the only fitting way to pray now. “What is happening here? What is happening?”

His cries burst out, poured forth from a mouth so known for its unintentional frown (the “Lattimer frown” passed down from Graham's father), his heartfelt prayer the culmination of days upon days of pressure and desperation.

“Please help me!” He echoed the plea over and over, digging his fingers farther and farther into the floor. And then his words gurgled out, rushed out, a river raging with depression and insatiable need. And as he screamed out to God, his headaches returned with a vengeance, like the pounding of nails into his skull.

He howled in pain but continued praying nevertheless, working his throat-wrenching warbles into petition.

And if he could have seen into the other world—
the
otherworld
—at that moment, he might certainly have died, for standing over him, drenched in darkness and dripping evil, was a dark emissary, its arms thrust downward, its muscled claws drilling into his head.

He groaned and tried to lift his head but found it paralyzed. “Dear God! What can I do?”

The big man, the strong man, strained beneath the weight of things unseen and was a child tugging at the cloak of the Father. A spirit stooped down to whisper a message: “It will be over soon. Be assured …”

 

Malcam followed Mike around the house as Mike prepared for their trip to Dr. Bering's home. Malcam's presence made Mike uneasy, but the excitement over what lay ahead kept him from entertaining the suspicions he should have had.

Malcam said they would have their “session” at Bering's place. Mike thought Malcam held the keys to the meaning of life, but he wondered why the being had to study him as he put his clothes on. Malcam's movements were smooth, effortless. He glided about the house, sometimes seeming to pass through the walls.

When it was time for Mike to leave for Dr. Bering's house, Malcam simply said, “See you soon,” and disintegrated. Mike noticed the air seemed warmer after his departure.
I can't believe this is happening
, he thought.

But it was, and he had given himself over to the fantasy of it all. Real or not, he embraced the experience as real
enough
. He'd tried to wake himself up from his own life a thousand times, but it was a dream world of shocking permanence. He hoped this new adventure would eradicate the nightmares.

He didn't know that the real nightmare lay ahead.

 

The crushing weight of evil ascended from Graham and into nothingness sometime during the night, but he had long since passed out. The morning broke through his bedroom window, the light sneaking in and bathing him in warmth. Slowly opening his eyes, sore from tears, he realized first that his headache was gone.

He rose from the floor, from the indention his body stamped in the carpet, like a man waking at his own funeral, perplexed by the proceedings. He crept to the bathroom. The shower revitalized him, and he decided to return to the Dickey farm. This time he wanted in the house.

Pulling into the driveway, he noticed that Pops's truck was gone. He knocked on the door. No answer. He peered through the porch window. He could barely see through the tightly drawn curtains, and there were no lights on. The living room looked empty. He knocked again. Nothing. He yelled, “Hello? Is anybody home?” Nothing.

Graham walked around the side of the house. The broken window sat high above his head. It was still covered, but not completely. Graham rose on his toes, tilting his head up. He lacked a good six inches. Looking around, he noticed a bucket a few yards away under a faucet. He set it on the ground under the window and stepped up.

The slits between the wood covering the window were wide enough to see through, but the room inside was as dark as the living room. He cupped his hands to the sides of his eyes, trying to let his vision adjust. He focused his vision afar, and when he could actually see, he could make out the numbers on a clock on the far wall. He adjusted his focus, bringing the rest of the contents of the room into his line of sight.

When his vision processed the outline of a person, he froze. A lone figure sat in the room. Graham placed a hand on his gun. He leaned closer, trying to make out the face. He ultimately realized that he was staring at a person's back. He saw a mess of white hair. Graham couldn't be sure if the person was alive, or even real. The figure remained motionless, almost frozen in space. Not a hair rustled, not a muscle twitched. He pulled his gun from the holster. Resolved, he asked, “Who's there?”

The figure immediately burst into wild spasms, throwing itself against restraints Graham couldn't see. Graham jumped, tumbling off the bucket. His gun discharged, sending a bullet into the ground. He landed on his back but quickly leaped up. He heard the figure groaning, practically squealing. He shouted, “Police! Who's there?”

More squeals. A thumping sound came from the room, wood knocking against wood.

Graham ran back to the front door. “Police! Coming in!” He kicked the door hard, shattering its lock into fragments of twisted metal. He was welcomed by a gun blast.

 

Steve Woodbridge's wife, Carla, awoke in an empty bed.
If he slept on the church lawn again, I'll kill him
, she thought. But she remembered Steve at the previous night's dinner, complaining about not having any meat.
Threw it out
, she explained. They hadn't gone to bed together. Carla retired early, leaving Steve to read in his office. She rose, dressed, and went to brush her teeth. Steve was sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed.

“Steve? What are you doing?”

He was awake. He lifted his head, and Carla gasped at the redness of his face. His eyes were puffy. “Steve, what's wrong?” She crouched next to the tub, slipping an arm around him.

“I—” he began, but sobs stepped in and interrupted his thought.

“Steve. Tell me what's wrong.”

Steve gulped. Taking a deep breath, he rolled his head over, nestling it between her chin and shoulder. “Do you ever look at our life and wonder how we got here?” he asked. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

Carla paused. “I'm not sure what you mean,” she said.

“Is this how you imagined our life?”

“I don't know how to answer that.”

“Just answer it. Yes or no.”

“Well, I thought we'd have kids by now.”

“Is that it?”

“No, I guess not. I mean, I never thought we'd live in Houston, but I'm not upset about it. Are you?”

“You don't have any regrets?”

“No, no. Why would I? I married the man I love, we've got a nice house with nice things, and we have lots of friends.”

“
You
have lots of friends,” Steve corrected.

“Is that what this is about? You've got friends, Steve. What about Graham?”

“No, that's not what this is about.”

“What's wrong? Are you depressed?”

Steve sat up. He sat cross-legged, his knees rising up to his chest. “Probably,” he said.

“What's wrong?”

“I can't really say. Isn't that depression? I don't know. I don't know anything except that something doesn't feel right. I think somewhere along the way, I disobeyed God and I've been wandering aimlessly ever since. I have this weird feeling I'm supposed to be doing something else. That I'm supposed to be somewhere else.”

Carla didn't say anything. She wrapped both her arms around him, kissing him lightly on his cheek. She could taste the salt his tears had left behind.

 

A blast of hot, acrid air attacked Graham, blazing by like lightning. The shotgun fired its death at him, narrowly missing his neck. He felt the sting of its wake before he heard it whiz by. His ears had gone deaf, his face hot with the flash.

He tumbled onto his back, his head dangling freely over the porch steps. Scrambling to his feet, he returned fire, shooting wildly into the open doorway. He shot his gun dry and crouched outside the door to insert a fresh clip of ammunition. “Who's there? This is the police! Drop your weapon and put your hands up!” He listened. The air was still, the silence unnerving. He thought he could hear the sweat bubbling from his pores. “Drop your weapon!”

Again, no answer. He could hear the other person moaning from the bedroom. Graham cautiously peered around the corner, his pistol ready. No one was there, and he noticed the shotgun on the floor, still smoking. A long white string ran from its trigger to the doorknob through a strange mass of boxes and duct tape, Pops's violent approach to a Rube Goldberg contraption.

Graham quickly spun into the living room, still crouched low. He looked around the room, scanning for more booby traps. He slowly stood, his gun held out perpendicular to his body. His muscles tensed. He walked to the bedroom, keeping his back to a wall with each step. The door to the bedroom was closed. “Who's there?”

The moaning continued. Graham slowly turned the knob, keeping his body to the outside of the door frame, lest another gun await him on the other side. With a flip of the wrist, he popped the door inward. It swung in slowly, carried by minimal momentum, uncovering the room and revealing Gertie Dickey gagged and bound to a chair.

At the sight of Graham, she screamed through her muzzle, a wide strip of duct tape. She rocked back and forth. Her eyes bulged, vibrating in terror. Graham rushed to her, pulling the tape from her face. Her words came out in a torrent: “My Pops is crazy he's gone crazy I don't know I don't know he's gone crazy what's happening he's crazy he's crazy I don't know …”