Chapter 1

The sky was clear and blue, with only small wisps of clouds dotting the horizon. A row of trees lined the edge of an open meadow that rolled like a swelling ocean of green. At the center of the meadow was a brass bed; a male figure, tightly wrapped in clean white sheets was lying at its center. The shape of his body could easily be seen through the thin cloth: back and shoulders rigid, arms pressed tightly against his sides, legs closed. His face was ashen and gaunt, dark patches marked his sunken eyes and cheeks. To the left of the bed was a stone marker. It stood seven feet tall, its craggy face fractured and aged. It was in the shape of a cross: long at the vertical axis, short near the horizontal crosspiece. Although the sun was out, there was enough chill in the air to see his breath. The man’s expression was knotted with anxiety; beads of perspiration glistened his lower lip and forehead.

Along the edge of the distant trees was a line of robed figures. Moving single file, they methodically approached the center of the meadow. Each of the dark shapes carried a stone. Cradling their burden with both hands, they lumbered with the same reverent gait. The man’s breathing quickened, sending puffs of steam from his mouth. His eyes shifted, like a small animal trying to escape an overpowering captor. The robed procession was close enough to make out features. Their faces were blank skins pulled over skulls, leaving shadowed pits where their eyes and nose should have been. Their mouths were nothing more than gathered flesh that looked as if it had been tied off then shoved into a slit at their lower face. They had no skin pigmentation or hair. Like unformed dolls, they blindly followed each other.

The first robed figure hobbled to the left side of the bed, ceremoniously laid his stone on the man’s shoulder then mutely moved on. The second laid a stone across his thigh. The bed creaked and sank as it took on the weight. One by one, the dead faced procession placed their stones with the reverence of a communion offering. The white sheet was now stained with dirt and small droplets of blood. The prone man could feel his organs being compressed, his lungs collapsing. He took as many shallow gasps as he could, fighting to stay conscious, as he was slowly buried alive. The steady clacking of stone on stone stopped, leaving a pile of rock vaguely shaped like a human body at the center of the bed. Only his face was left exposed. Gradually his breathing began to even and his heartbeat steadied. The pain and terror was replaced by numb complacency. Through the gap in the rocks he could still see the sky; it was a deep cobalt blue. He watched a puffy cloud move across his narrow view. A cool breeze whistled across the opening in the rock. It brushed his face making a thin strand of hair dance across his forehead.

His view of the sky was filled by the last robed figure. This one was different: he had a face. It was a young man, pale, with gray colored eyes that almost disappeared into the surrounding white. His thin face asserted his sharp cheekbones. He had a look of distress, eyes glistening with moisture. His limbs shook with the weight of the slab he cradled in his arms as blood ran between his fingers. The man under the stone watched him through the corner of his eye, mirroring the same expression. Like a remorseful executioner the young man lowered the rock over the last opening in the pile. Tears streamed the young man’s face just as the light of the blue sky was closed off like a mausoleum door slamming shut…blackness…silence.

Stephan Gray found himself facedown on the bathroom floor, a ripped shower curtain in his fist. Steam and water poured onto the bathroom floor from the running shower. Struggling to pull himself up, he grabbed the edge of the bathroom sink. He cupped his hands, filled them full of cold water and ladled it over his face. A trail of blood swirled down the bathroom drain. Wiping the steam from the center of the mirror, he studied the wounds.

“I’ve had worse,” he whispered vaguely.

His forehead was split and his lip bloodied, but no stitches necessary. It happened the same way each time: the sharp pain behind the eyes and down the back of the neck, blinding light and tunnel vision, loss of consciousness then the strange apparitions would come. He had experienced the vision in the meadow before—he knew the scenario. The strange figures always came; escape from the heavy stone was hopeless. The only release seemed to be surrender and submission. The difference this time was the last stone carrier: the young man, whose face was not a disturbing blank. He didn’t recognize the youth although his face was still vivid in his memory like the pain in his head. He fumbled open the medicine cabinet to get the pills Dr. Powell had prescribed. They didn’t relieve the pain, just made it seem far away. He threw them into the back of his throat, swallowing them with a palm full of water.

A harsh ring made his head pang. He took a deep breath and waited for it to pass. The phone rang again, like a tinny hammer on his skull. He unsteadily reached into the shower and turned off the water, threw a towel over his head, and stumbled into the front room. After the third ring, the answering machine picked up.

“Hey Steph, you better hustle your butt down here. The boss is eyeing your cube like he caught wind of a fresh kill, he-he”, Frank Russell’s voice scratched over the tinny speaker. “Hope you’re okay? Sarah would have called, but she’s swamped. You know how she worries so, he-he. See ya soon…”

He worked his way back into the bathroom, and painfully dabbed at the wounds on his lip and forehead with a washcloth, patching the worst of it with cotton gauze and two strips of sterile tape. He steadied himself until his pulse stopped pounding at his temples then threw a handful of cold water across his neck.

“No time to shave, just throw some clothes on and go, you can do this.” He spoke to reflection.

He looked older than thirty-seven. Hard lines etched his brows and forehead. Lines, as deep as scars, ran from the sides of his nose to the edges of his mouth. His jet-black hair only accentuated his pallid complexion; he felt he could see bone pushing through his alabaster skin.

“You don’t have time for this.”

He grabbed a pair of pants and a shirt off a chair, dressing himself as best he could. The floor was littered with drawings, opened books, unopened mail and piles of dirty laundry. Unwashed dishes were stacked across the counter spilling into the sink. He kicked his way through the mess into the kitchen. He took a glass container from the refrigerator and swallowed a mouthful of orange juice. His eyes wandered to the far end of the apartment to a wall covered with two large sheets, pinned at the center like a crude stage curtain. His pulse began to race and a pressure on his ears muffled his hearing. He was startled by the pop of breaking glass as the container of juice slipped out of his hand and hit the floor. Shards of glass and orange liquid spattered the kitchen.

“You don’t have time for this.”

He grabbed his coat and keys off the coffee table as he dashed for the door. An unopened legal-sized envelope caught the pocket of his jacket and slid across the hardwood floor. He knelt down to read the printed business logo: From the Law Offices of Dell and Wilcox. He grabbed it by the corner and spun it under a coffee table. He got up quickly, which made his head spin, checked his pocket for his wallet then forced his way past the front door of his apartment, welcoming the gust of cold air the bristled his warm face.

Stephan stumbled through the doors of Trainer Soft Inc, looking like a man who had been caught in a windstorm. Wet strands of hair clung to his forehead and dark specks peppered his unshaven face. His shirt collar was flipped up, poking out the top of his gray trench coat. He pressed his palm against the haphazard bandage that was about to release itself from his forehead, as he passed the rows of office cubicles. He studied the floor, working his arms out of his jacket sleeves.

“Just get to your desk and get to work,” he mumbled to himself. Thanks to the pills the unbearable pain in his head was replaced with rhythmic throb. He didn’t feel well, just different; at least he felt he could make it through the day.

“The Steph man, glad you could join us.” Frank whined affectedly as Stephan passed. He made two click sounds with his tongue, as he pointed his finger pantomiming a pistol. Stephan responded with a weak nod. As he entered his cubicle, he glanced at Sarah Heart. She was at her computer, her dark shoulder length hair flipped around her headset. Her brown eyes were full of concern as she mouthed a hello and gave him a wave.

With the motion of a well-trained automaton he lowered into his desk chair and switched on his terminal. He rested his elbows on the desk then slowly ran his fingers over his temples and through his hair, searching for a focal point through his clouded head. A hand on his shoulder startled him. He turned to find Sarah standing beside.

“I hope you feel better than you look.” She said, putting on her best smile. She was close enough for him to smell her perfume.

“I feel like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in.”

Somehow she always managed to drag him closer to the world of the living and whether it was compassion, pity, or something more, didn’t seem to matter. She was a welcome refuge, and he was more than willing to cling to her. She examined his swollen lip, and ran her thumb over the wound on his forehead, securing the tape that had pulled away.

“You’ve had worse.”

“That’s just what I said.” Smiling made his lip hurt. “So, how pissed is the boss?” Stephan asked, shifting his eyes in mock secrecy. “Is big brother watching me?”

Mr. Fleming’s office had an enormous window that looked over the office cubicles like a surveillance post: hence the label “Big Brother.” Not to mention, Mr. Fleming was grossly overweight.

“He hasn’t said much this morning,” Sarah said close to his ear, “although he did make some passes by your station, making little snort sounds and checking his watch.”

Everyone in the office was familiar with his habitual grunting and compulsive clock watching. The familiar image made Stephan chuckle painfully.

Sarah broadened her smile when he laughed. She was sitting on the edge of his desk, her slim legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across her chest. Her skin was smooth and dark, with little or no makeup to hide the natural beauty of her complexion. Their eyes meet until a moment of awkwardness pulled them apart. She cleared her throat and pulled her hair around her ear with her middle finger, as she often did when nervous or fidgety. Her smile melted, as her eyes locked onto something behind him.

“Oh-oh, better get back to work,” she said, giving his shoulder a rub before moving back to her terminal.

Tap! Tap! Tap! A sound came from behind him. Stephan took a deep breath, attempting to steady his nerves. Tap! Tap! The sound came again. He turned in his chair to see Mr. Fleming beckon with a chubby figure. Stephan checked his bandage, straightened his collar then moved with the enthusiasm of a death marcher across the room and through the office door.

Frank Russell poked his head over Sarah’s cubicle to get a better look. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his tie was loosened and pitched to the side. He planted his elbow on the edge of her cubical and stroked his red goatee as he watched through the glass window of Fleming’s office.

“This does not look good for Mr. Gray, not good at all,” he shook his head, “nope, nope, nope.”

“Shut up and mind your business, Frank.” She flashed him a vindictive roll of her eyes. “The guy’s been through enough, he doesn’t need you spying on him.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who put glass walls on Fleming’s office and just because he’s going through a divorce doesn’t mean he has to fall apart. Hell, I’ve been through two and I’ve never missed a day of work.”

“He’s not well, Frank.” She made an effort to lower her voice. “The boss can’t fire him for being sick, not even Fleming would do that.”

“Look, I have nothing against the guy. I’m just saying: something’s got to give.”

Sarah was forced to take an incoming call over her headset, giving Frank leisure to turn his attention back to the silent performance through the glass window. He balanced his chin on his thumb and flicked his lower lip.

“Nope, nope, nope, does not look good.”

“Have a seat, Stephan.” Mr. Fleming said, motioning with his open palm. He closed the door behind Stephan then worked his way around the desk that seemed to swallow every inch of the square room and finally squeezed into his padded brown desk chair. He was dressed in his usual attire: white starched shirt, thin black tie and a pair of gray polyester pants. His clothing always seemed a few sizes too small, forcing his waist and neck flab to bulge in cascading rings above his collar and over his belt. His hairline and thin black mustache gleamed with perspiration and oil.

“How long have you been with us, Stephan, three years?” he asked, not looking up from the pile of papers he was flipping.

“I think it’s been four years,” Stephan answered, speaking to the opposite wall.

“Yes, yes of course.” Mr. Fleming cleared his throat then continued. “When you first started with us you were a focused worker: always on time, willing to stay late if need be, well liked by clients as well as the staff, one of the best Systems troubleshooters we’ve ever had. Then…well, things started to change.” Mr. Fleming shifted in his seat making the office chair moan. Little trails of sweat were running down his forehead collecting on edge of his eyebrows.

Stephan almost felt sorry for him. He thought he should say something to make it easier for them both, but lacked the energy to find words. His focus was still on the wall behind the desk. There was a crookedly hung 1998 calendar. The month of November had a picture of a beautiful young girl, bundled in a white fur jacket and matching mittens. She was pointing toward a snow-capped mountain. A group of skiers could be seen snaking their way down the steep slope. The words Ski Boreal were scrawled across the top of the picture. He cocked his head to one side to match the slightly askew calendar, staring intently at the beaming white smile of the young model.

Mr. Fleming centered himself in his chair as if getting his second wind then continued:

“It started off with you coming in late, first just once or twice a month then up to two or three times a week. Then, your work began to fall behind. You didn’t seem to have any input at the meetings, you just seemed uninterested and distracted.”

“Yes, yes I—I know it’s been…difficult.”

“I know you haven’t been well and I understand you’re under a doctor’s supervision, and I was sad to hear, as we all were, about your separation and impending divorce. It’s just, well, I’m running a business here and in business all the members of the team need to be in the game. I’m sorry, Stephan, I’m just going to have to let you go. It will go on record as a layoff. I will do my best to give you a good reference explaining your physical aliments and, well, other problems. I think you’re basically a good worker. You know, this may be the best thing for you. A few seasons off to get back into shape, so to speak.”

He cleared his throat into his fist, nervously shuffled a few more papers then hoisted his weight from his chair. Stephen took a moment to respond then stood. Mr. Fleming extended his doughy hand in a regulation good-by-and-good-luck handshake. Knowing the routine, Stephan took his clammy palm.

“I really wish you the best.”

Stephan had given up searching for responses. He felt far away, as if he were in an audience watching performers on a stage. With mild interest he was loosely following the performers: man gets fired, stands, walks center stage, shakes hand, exits stage left. Driven by instinct, he found himself standing in the center of his cubicle.

“Stephan, are you ok? What happened in there?” Sarah’s voice sounded as if she were talking into a tin bucket. “My God, that bastard didn’t fire you…”

He picked up the wastebasket from under his desk and tucked it under his arm.

“Stephan?”

He slowly turned toward Sarah. She was leaning over the top of his cube; her headset slung around her neck. Her eyebrows were raised up in little arches in the middle of her forehead, as she chewed on her lower lip. It was a face she would wear when she was upset or worried. The familiar expression brought him back. He wanted to smile, to give her some reassurance, but he couldn’t get his lips to respond. Not looking at her he mumbled:

“Actually no, I’ve been laid off.”

He scanned his workspace, searching for personal possessions. It was amazing how little actually belong to him: A coffee mug a sales rep had given him as a perk, an elaborate pen that was much too expensive to actually use, and a few unopened letters. One by one he dropped the items into the trashcan. He picked up a picture lying face down in the top drawer of his desk. It was a snapshot of a man and woman. They were both in shorts and tee shirts, heavy packs strapped to their backs. They were posed in front of a picturesque desert scene. Rolling dunes distended across the foreground, and red and white striped rock formations could be seen in the distance. It was a picture of he and Alicia on a backpacking trip through the southwest from a few years back. Stephan remembered setting the camera timer and placing it on a rock. They both hurried in front of the viewfinder, just in time to beat the shutter. He studied the smiling couple as if they were strangers. Alicia was wearing an aloof smile, not quite looking into the camera. Her straight blond hair shimmered in the desert sun reflecting the light as it waved in a gust of wind. Although the picture was only a few years old, he hardly recognized the man in the picture. It was appalling how much weight he had lost and how age had hardened his features since the snapshot was taken. He dropped the framed photo into the can. The glass shattered with a pop. Heads popped up over workstations in search of the disturbance. Stephan took a deep breath.

“Stephan, are you okay?” Sarah was standing behind him at a safe distance. She had his coat draped over her arm. “Don’t worry about it, just go if you have to, I’ll call you later.”

Tension began to ease in the room, as the employees were drawn back to their work. Sarah helped him put on his jacket, not an easy task as Stephan refused to release the wastebasket, hugging it against his chest. The bandage was pulling away from his wounded head. In frustration he ripped off the gauze and threw it into the can. He stood for a moment, studying the floor. He ran his hand along Sarah’s forearm, up to her shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze. She tucked his shirt collar underneath his jacket, straightened his coat, and gave his shoulders a reassuring pat. Still watching his feet, Stephan moved out the glass doors of Trainer Soft Inc.

Sarah watched him through the glass doors as he moved into the gray November morning, past the short brown hedges that lined the sidewalks.

“I told you something had to give, it was just a matter of time.” Frank Russell moved next to her as he spoke.

Sarah didn’t respond. Arms folded tightly across her chest, she watched Stephan start his car and pull onto the water stained street before she moved back to her workstation.

Stephan sat in his car under the covered parking lot of his apartment complex. He couldn’t remember how he got there, or how long he had been driving aimlessly while the morning light slowly changed to afternoon then faded to dusk. All he knew was: he couldn’t go back to his apartment, he could not pull himself up those stairs and into the dark hole he had dug for himself. His pain and memories were piled like stone blocks, cutting off light and air. Memories of Alicia were up there; memories of pain and visions were up there, scratched out in crude drawings, and refuse. He tried to scream but it only came out as a hiss. He grabbed the wheel then slammed his forehead against the ribbed grip. The pain arrested him, pulling him back from the dark edge. He felt a warm trickle of moisture roll down the side of his neck. He rested his head on the cool steering wheel. The pain was pulling him back from a place he had been too many times. It would be so easy to embrace the peace of that dark place. It would be so easy to drive his car through the railing of some deserted road into an icy river. A bright light hit his face; sifting through his eyelids in tints of red. He squinted into the light then blindly rolled down the window.

“Mr. Gray, is that you in there, are you alright?” It was Darrell Hartman, the apartment complex’s security guard. He shut off his high-powered flashlight.

“I hope I didn’t scare you. Are you all right? You look like you got quite a cut there. You need some help?”

Stephan fumbled open the glove compartment and pulled out a handful of tissue. He dabbed the blood off his face then compressed it against his head wound. There was enough blood for it to stick.

“I’m okay, Darrell, thanks. I—I just need a little help out if you don’t mind. I’m feeling a little dizzy right now.”

Stephan leaned his weight on Darrell’s shoulder and hoisted himself up from the car seat.

“I wasn’t sure who was in there. I seen someone movin’ around, but I wasn’t sure it was you. ‘That’s Mr. Gray’s car all right’, I said to myself. ‘I just hope that’s Mr. Gray movin’ around in there, he-he’”

Darrell made it a point to know the name of every resident of the Hazel Grove apartment complex. He was in his mid fifties, slim, with gray hair and a bristly mustache, which still had a little brown from his original hair color. Stephan was fond of Darrell; everybody was. He just talked a bit too much, moving from subject to subject (often in the same sentence). Tonight it was a welcome banter in his ear.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Stephan said as he whirled back in the direction of the car, almost losing his balance. Darrell kept a grip on his middle as Stephan pulled the wastebasket from the passenger seat.

“Hold on there. I gotcha, he-he.” Darrell helped him back out onto the pavement then locked the car door behind him.

“You need some help up the stairs, Mr. Gray? Ya know how uneven those things are, they been talkin’ about fixing those things for as long as I can remember. I guess it’s like a lot of things around here. Some day they’ll get to it, same old story… Well, here we are: number 57.” After a few deep breaths and once he had the railing for support, Stephan finally answered.

“Thanks for the help, Darrell. I’ve put you out enough for one night. I can handle it from here, thank you.”

“Fine sir, fine sir. I’ll just finish up my rounds, you take care of that cut ya hear…”

Darrell adjusted his hat, flipped his flashlight off his belt then moved into the heart of the complex. His tuneless whistle, accompanied by his compulsive key jingling, melted into the darkness. One step at a time, Stephan pulled himself up the stairs to the small stoop of his apartment’s entrance. He set his wastebasket in front of the door and sat down on the metal chair beyond the overhang. It was weather-beaten and rusted, making it hard to tell its original color. He always meant to take it in during the winter months but never seemed to get around to it. He was content to sit and watch the stars be devoured by winter. The chill air seemed to clear his head, or at least numb the pain he had foolishly inflicted on himself. The consideration of sleep came over him like a lulling whisper. His eyelids felt like concrete. He shook his head; found his house keys then worked open the door lock. His answering machine was blinking anxiously. He reached behind the machine and yanked out the telephone cord, not wanting to be disturbed by ringing telephones, but still wanting to collect messages. He made his way to the bedroom, stripping off clothes as he stumbled. He collapsed dead weight into his bed, bouncing into a collection of pillows. He maneuvered under a pile of blankets then let sleep take him.