VI.

I never actually re-emerged from the hole; I just . . . woke up, in my bed, as if I’d never left. Maybe that woman was right, I thought. Maybe I really was in her dream. But . . . it was too real; too vivid. The blood on my pants is really there.

Just as I had after every nightmare, I checked the front door. Still locked; still chained shut; no way out of the apartment. Something was different though. Something entirely wrong. . . .

There’s this dresser I found in the apartment when I moved in. I’ve got a couple photos on the top of it, which I think I mentioned already. There wasn’t any reason for me to get rid of it, and it looked alright there against the wall, so I kept it, stored some old photographs—ones I’ve taken; ones of my family—in there, and let it stay. For all pragmatic purposes it worked just fine.

Maybe Frank found a way in while I was gone? . . . Maybe when I was in that world he came in and looked around? . . . No . . . that’s not possible. The chain’s still up, and I never actually left the apartment. Did I? I was in the bed when I came back, just like every other time since. It doesn’t make sense. Who could’ve moved it?

The dresser was pulled out a few inches from the wall, and to the right about six more. When I went to move it back, there was . . . a handgun, loaded. It was dusty; looked to’ve been there for months, maybe even since before I moved in. I’d never held a gun in my life; never had any intention of doing so. But with it here, it very well turned out to be the most propitious weapon against those monsters . . . whether they’re in my head, my dream, or another world altogether. But still: Who moved my dresser?, revealing this handgun?, and more importantly that note?, and that hole. . . .

The faint hope I had is slowly changing to despair. I’ve somehow
managed to tunnel this far, but no matter what I do, I can’t get
any farther. The hallways, the windows, the walls. . . . It feels
like this room is stuck in another dimension.

Eileen never noticed.

The hole peers into Eileen Galvin’s bedroom of all places. Don’t know where that one came from either, but it . . . looks to’ve been man-made, by something with a sharp point; could be just about anything. Just another something I can’t worry about right now; nothing to fret over at least.

Those words stuck out to me: Eileen never noticed. I looked through the peep-hole: Eileen was sitting on her bed, apparently looking for a broom—it was right in front of her!—it stood in the corner, right by the hole. When she came over, she didn’t see a thing: not the hole; not even my eye (fortunately). So . . . whoever lived here before me was watching Eileen too, and may have been the one to leave the gun behind. Is that it?

Anyway. That’s when the phone started ringing. I don’t know how: It’s still disconnected; it’s still unusable—but I darted to my bedroom and answered it: It was Cynthia. . . . There’s no way she could possibly have called, but I’ve given up hope in trying to understand the how’s & why’s of this . . . place—it’s no different of a place than a dream, where there are no laws of physics or boundaries, but this isn’t a dream; this room is very much reality, as much as I hate to admit it. Beyond that hole, however, is another world. *EXCURSUS (ON A TINY SLIP OF PAPER, STAPLED TO THE EDGE OF THE PAGE): Thinking back on it: It must’ve been Cynthia the first time the phone rang that morning. It was the same breathing; the same quavering voice. It had to be her.

Cynthia said over the phone that I would need a token, and that she had one there. I took it for what it was worth and returned to that world via the hole still in my bathroom wall. I keep asking Why me? This makes no sense. And with every page there’s a reminder of that hole in the impression left on the pages beneath it: there’s that circle, that transom, that eye, staring me down, reading the words I’ve written through its own mirror.

When I returned, I ended up in the exact place I left at; the same hole through the same tunnel to the same restroom. In the first stall though to my immediate left, was a doll . . . well, almost. It looked just like Cynthia, but made of plastic; some kind of mannequin with doll joints. Who knows where it came from. It’s palm outstretched, it held a token for the Lynch St. line, so I headed that way.

I fired the gun for the first time, at a pair of dogs—the skinless variety, that is—and dropped’em instantly. It took a few more shots than I’d like, but it’s not like I’ve ever had any practice with this sort of thing; didn’t seem as if I did too bad though, not to justify myself or anything; nor pat myself on the back.

The hallway led to the main terminals, and down either the King St. Line or the Lynch St. Line—strange names for the roads, huh?, they never stood out to me before. I dropped the token into the slot, opened the gate, retrieved the token, then headed downstairs.

The fear I’d once experience was nothing in comparison to what happened next. As I reached the landing, I began feeling sick: my head was pounding; vision began to blur; skin felt to have caught fire; throat wanted to close. It started to feel just like that dream.But, isn’t this a dream? I thought. Maybe so. Maybe this was something else. It didn’t make sense until the wall began to crack.

Just like the dream. Where I’m not myself, but am in my room—that’s not really my room. That black viscous substance began to appear, on a wall, at the bottom of the stairs, next to where I walked. I stopped to examine, but I couldn’t see clearly: that’s when it started. It’s hand began to rip through the concrete—well, the goo really—and grabbed at me; I avoided it, went down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, there was an open door, which I mistakenly went into, evidently to await what I-thought-was-my-coming-doom.

(It looked familiar, that ghost. I’m not sure where from—I’ll think about it; look around some—but it looked like someone I’d seen before.)

When it got too close, my head would throb, my face would burn, my hands would shake—there was something inside of me when it came that close. I aimed the gun, shakily, at its vested body—what kind of ghost wears a three-piece suit?—and fired several rounds. The shots must’ve hurt it, weakened it: the ghost collapsed, and the pains I’d been experiencing dissolved. It was just that fast. I didn’t linger for more than a handful of breaths: I could see it beginning to arise, albeit slowly. Sticking round would’ve been suicide.

Sprinting past the downed-ghost, I headed further into the Subway, closer to the tracks, thinking I heard screaming. I was right. After jumping, mostly, down some thirty steps—not the entire way down, mind you: maybe five or six at a time—a subway cart came into view. Behind the doors was Cynthia, locked in, trapped. And here I was: skinless dogs on either side, and another ghost lurking to the left. The same symptoms occurred, but I dealt with them—as best I could. My aim was off, but I had nothing else with me: how does one go about stopping a ghost anyway?, what good would a three-foot steel pipe be? I don’t know now, and I sure as hell didn’t an hour ago. . . .

*EXCURSUS (ON A NOTECARD): Something stands out now, now that this has happened again, about what Cynthia said locked in the Subway. She said:

Help me! Someone’s coming! Get me out of here!

I didn’t remember—did I want to?—her saying Someone’s coming!, but I do now; it stands out; it means more than the rest.

I should’ve hurried; this didn’t need to happen, did it?

I tried opening the door. It was locked: an automatic locking-mechanism was in effect, so no matter how hard either of us pulled or kicked or smashed, it wouldn’t budge. Running down to the front of the train, the door was open—all the others locked—and inside a button to unlock them all. Pressed. I stepped back outside, Cynthia was running towards me. She asked where I’d gone, and why had I left her, but I didn’t answer. How could I? What was I supposed to tell her?: I crawled back through a hole that led me to my bedroom, where I’ve been trapped for five days. As outrageous as what was happening to us just then, that seemed even more absurd.

I couldn’t say a thing. I didn’t speak a word.

After Cynthia was released, the ghosts seemed to have disappeared. They weren’t anywhere around at least, nowhere in sight. Didn’t want to take a chance so I hurried Cynthia up and started rushing through carts: I wanted to get us the hell out of there.

There was so much junk in the subway carts. I couldn’t possibly begin to describe it all here. Clumps of flesh from what looked to be fresh corpses; chained-up torsos, rotting in the stagnant, stifling air; old newspapers, dated years ago—why were they there?, talk about terrible sanitation; also a box. A strange toy box with a strange hand-drawn symbol. It looked like an 18. Maybe a dollar sign. A crossed-out eight, I guess. Don’t know what else it could be, or its significance. I tried opening it, but nothing doing. Locked shut, not to open. Never did find a key for it. Seemed too out-of-place to be coincidental. Or, maybe I’m wasting time thinking about it.

There was a lot of junk down there.

The carts looked as if they hadn’t been used in years. Maybe that’s the case; maybe that’s the truth. But is any of this Truth? I don’t even want to know anymore. . . . Maybe this place isn’t so much that, but instead Time? I wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining something like that—not that I’m doing that good of a job at it as it is. But what’s important?, what matters now?

I led Cynthia to the otherside of the tracks where I found a door, unlocked. I’m not sure what the room was exactly, some kind of utility room, I guess, with a ladder going down beneath the tracks—must’ve been for maintenance workers. That makes the most sense. More distractingly, there it was: the eye, staring right down at me, into me, that great expanse, that abyss, just beckoning, calling me into it. When I turned to grab hold of Cynthia’s hand to lead her inside, she was gone. I opened the door to see if she was still out there, but, no, she was gone, vanished into thin air. What could I anticipate in that place? I don’t feel safe here either any longer, but I don’t have any other options, do I?

The hole was asking me to step inside. I couldn’t do it. I had to find another way out of that place.

I took the ladder, further down.

Standing on chain-link fence for a floor, I moved cautiously—as best I could. The walls were red, like blood & skin. It reeked of rotting flesh; I wanted to puke. I almost did. I’m glad I didn’t. At that same time, my head began to pound, my vision blurred, and my chest flared up: another one of those things was coming. I fired shots at where I thought it was—somewhat randomly, that is—but I guess it was hurt—it slowly fell to the ground. It was one of the same one’s from before, when I first entered this place; wearing a suit, with the back of its head missing. I wanted to keep firing at its downed body, but it wouldn’t have done any good, I’m sure of it—there was another turning the corner anyway; I had to hurry.

As the other one progressed slowly towards me, I managed to maneuver past it, by dodging its lunge towards me. Turning left then another right led me down a flight of stairs; there was a door there too.
As soon as it opened, I breathed the most foul, vile, repulsive smell imaginable; I can’t even begin to describe it. Dangling down from the ceiling, above one of the tracks, was a gigantic . . . worm? It must’ve been hundreds of feet long—it appeared to’ve gone on forever—and about four feet in diameter: about as wide as that hole. . . .

Before I had time to look at it—not that I wanted to, but I couldn’t draw myself away, I didn’t want to stand too close anyway—Cynthia’s voice came over the intercom.

Henry, I found the exit. . . . Come to the turnstile. Hurry!
Hurry! It’s him. . . . He’s coming! . . .

Then it clicked off. Without any idea where I was, I ran straight ahead. There were skinless dogs everywhere, but I didn’t have time to deal with them. I kicked one in the face as it got close, but I went straight for the escalators back upstairs.

I don’t know for how long it went. Miles or minutes, what could’ve been days. I wanted to see the end of this tunnel, light at the top, shining down, the refulgent exit, waiting for me of all people. In my hypnosis, something struck me, stirring me back to this world. There was something crawling out of the wall, something with sharpened teeth and sharpened claws and sagacious smile, stuck to the wall, immobile and furious. Without wanting to sound lazy, I’ll just say it lasted too long, blood was lost, theirs & mine, and no matter how fast I tried to make it up, it wasn’t enough to save her.

The sirens outside when I began this were singing for her. She’s dead now. I watched her. I don’t know what happened, or how, or by whom, but I know she’s gone. The police have somehow interfered with my radio, so I could hear their words. The numbers on her chest were real. Whoever did this really carved into her body. It sounds familiar, too, but I can’t remember where from. Maybe one of my books; maybe it’s just a story.

When I made it up the escalator, I found my way to the turnstile—where she told me to meet her. On the floor: make-up, tampons, condoms, some cash, photographs, ID, bus pass . . . the contents of a purse. Also, on the door: a green placard labeled “Temptation.” More importantly: blood. Too much blood. I knew it was hers. Rushing through the doorway, she was laying there, panting, weeping, gasping for breath, blood on her face, her chest, her hands, everywhere. She wasn’t going to survive. The numbers were visible on her chest, her clothes torn & ripped—not ‘off,’ just from the struggle, with whoever “he” was. . . .

She told me It’s just a dream, that she drank too much last night, that she never got to do that special favor. How could I have told her the truth? That she was right: that she was dying? No. I couldn’t. I told her it was just a dream.

It was, wasn’t it? But that won’t bring her back.

That’s when I woke up. Back on my bed. That’s when I heard the sirens and looked out the windows: The crew had just put someone in the ambulance, and that’s about when the radio became active again, on its own.

After having someone die in my arms, I imagined things couldn’t get worse. But, hey, I never thought anything like this could happen to me, either. . . .

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