The Experiment of Dreams Page 23

  “What the—”

  “Let’s move, Ben.”

  Ben looked up. The man was gone. Vanished.

  “Who was that?”

  “It’s wasn’t anyone, Ben.”

  Emily turned and looked at him.

  Her eyes. There’s just something about her eyes.

  She touched his hand and they continued walking. He wanted to ask her more questions, but his brain throbbed with exhaustion when he tried to think clearly; it felt swollen and large, as if engorged against his skull. He wanted to know why his face was bloody, and how long he had been unconscious—and why he had been unconscious. He wanted to know who the man in the woods was, and why Emily was so quick to turn him away. He wanted to know all of these things and more, but found it impossible to form words into sentences that would convey any semblance of rational thought.

  She sensed his confusion and aggravation. “All you have to do is follow me, Bennie. You still trust me, right?”

  In a trance he muttered, “Yes … of course I trust you.”

  Miles passed underfoot, and with them went hours.

  “Emma … I’m so tired,” he told her again, as he had several times already.

  “You can sleep soon, but not now. I know how strong you are. You must keep walking.”

  The trail rose before him. Large rocks shot out from the earth in massive sedimentary slabs and piles, both jagged and slippery. Emily traversed them with ease, her sharp heels making clack-clack sounds upon the hard surfaces, hopping from one boulder to the next. Ben followed, clambering over the slick surfaces on all fours like an animal, sliding down some rocks, and rolling over others. At times, his vision was bright—very bright, feverish—and at other times, it would go dark around the periphery. His clothing was tattered, muddy, and ripped. He fell often, and when he did, he picked himself back up. His labored breath burned his lungs, and his vision throbbed with his pulse. All he wanted to do was close his eyes, succumb to whatever dark or bright void was waiting for him—to finally put his mind at ease.

  Then he reached the top of the hill.

  And below him was the cabin in the woods.

  ***

  Iain Marcus and Michael Bennet left the bar. They bought the two old men another round, and left them watching the ball game with glassy eyes. They drove past the few restaurants, bars, and a small inn, leaving the center of town behind. The streetlights became less frequent the farther they drove until they seemed to vanish altogether as the town became more rural. The sky was dark as they drove on the desolate road. In the distance, they saw a single streetlight illuminating a crossroad. They approached, barely making out the name: Crawford Pond Road. They took a sharp right. It was just as the old man at the bar had instructed.

  Ben should never have vanished like this. Iain’s team had proven itself incompetent; now he was far from home, tracking a lead that might not pan out. His grip on the situation was not tight, not tight at all, and he would have hell to answer for if the situation did not start going his way.

  Iain had shown his face in town, even showed a picture of the cabin they were looking for to several people in a crowded bar. If they found Ben at this cabin, they would have to remove him. Bury his body far, far away. There could be nothing left behind—no DNA, no traces of their encounter with him whatsoever. This had to be the cleanest job he ever carried out, but at the moment, things were a mess.

  Crawford Pond Road was in desperate need of repair. The cracks and potholes were evidence that few people traveled upon it, especially at night. Blowing a tire or cracking an axle was a definite possibility. Occasionally they passed lone mailboxes on the side of the road beside narrow and dark driveways, but they were few and far between. Iain and Michael were far from civilization, secluded even, and that was a very good thing.

  They read the numbers on the mailboxes until they arrived in front of number sixteen. They scanned the overgrown driveway for any signs of life. The house, off in the distance, was hidden in the dark woods. Iain killed the lights, turned the wheel, and the car bounced over a mound and onto the unpaved driveway. The overgrown weeds and bushes on either side of the path scraped the sides of the car.

  It occurred to Iain that if he had to turn around, he would have to put the car in reverse. A K-turn would be impossible in the dark on the narrow driveway; there was no room for error.

  Iain put the car in park and killed the engine.

  He reached behind him and turned off the interior lights, then opened the door, stepping out into the night. Michael followed.

  They stood motionless, listening. The air was still except for the constant chirpings of an untold number of crickets.

  Iain opened the trunk and removed a black duffel bag from the cavity alongside the spare tire. Inside the bag he found a pair of night-vision goggles. Foolishly, it was the only pair they’d brought.

  “I’ll go up alone to scope it out. Stay with the car.” Iain unholstered the pistol attached to his belt, checked the magazine and chamber, and screwed a silencer to the barrel.

  ***

  Only a few steps out from the car, Iain vanished in the darkness, and after a minute, the darkness began playing tricks on Michael’s mind. He heard too many noises and felt the need to check his watch way too often. But Michael didn’t move a muscle; he knew the darkness was not something to fear, but something to respect.

  Several vibrations emanated from Michael’s pocket that nearly caused him to jump out of his skin, and he recognized the feeling of his phone. He remained still and let the call go to voicemail. A moment later, it vibrated again, this time only one short buzz. He cupped his hand over the glaring screen and clicked on a text message from Dr. Wulfric. It was a long message, and he read it fast, aware that the screen was extremely bright and could draw attention. Apparently, the doctor had been calling him all night, but up in Sutton Lake, phone reception was hit or miss. He looked around for Iain, but saw no movement of any kind, and heard nothing but the crickets. He cracked open the car door and slipped inside, closing it as quietly as possible behind him, and dialed the doctor.

  ***

  Ben saw it nestled among thick evergreen trees in the clearing below.

  It was the cabin in the woods.

  He watched as smoke billowed out from the chimney to be swept away in light gusts of wind. The pleasant smell of wood smoke lingered heavy in the air, along with something that made his mouth water. Food cooking. A pot roast, perhaps, with earthy vegetables stewing in a sauce of red wine and sage. A sweet smell wafted up to where Ben stood, like various fruit pies all baking in the oven at once. His stomach churned audibly, tumbling in its vacant shell.

  Without further hesitation, he began clambering down the other side of the hill. He cut through a tangle of branches and vines, cutting his hands and face on sharp thorns, not noticing or caring, until he arrived at the clearing around the cabin.

  His breath stopped in his lungs as he took it all in.

  The cabin was before him, the stream still flowing over a shallow bed of smooth stones. The pebble driveway was meticulously raked and trailed off into the woods, leading to Crawford Pond Road. A neat pile of wood sat beside a thick stump with the gleaming steel and polished wood handle of an axe firmly planted in it. A cart beside the stump was piled high with firewood, ready to be wheeled to the hearth inside. Light shone from behind the open windows, the lace curtains moving in and out with the gentle wind. The scene overtook his senses, resonated deep within his very soul. A tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a clean streak across his dirty skin.

  His vision was clear—exceptionally crisp. Small details of the cabin, such as the gleaming steel blade of the axe, radiated with such clarity and brightness that he was nearly blinded and completely enraptured. His brain was concocting a variety of chemicals, churning them about, and producing pure bliss.

  The landscaped flowerbeds and plants circling the cabin emerged from the earth, radiating like blossoming sunrays jumping out from
the ground, the blues, yellows, and oranges of the flower petals magnificent beyond belief. The vibrancy was such that Ben had only seen such colors back when he was a teenager and briefly experimented with LSD and psychoactive mushrooms. The center of his body released sensations of pure unadulterated joy that he could not put into words or understand.

  Ben fell to his knees, tears covering his cheeks as hot as firewater. Emily stood before him, larger than life, her hand out and open, the sun at her back creating an electric aura shooting out like a halo around her body.

  “Come on, Ben. We’re finally here.”

  Ben leaned to rise, but fell back on his ankles.

  “I want to sleep, Emily. I’m so tired.” The words came out choppy and harsh, lumpy in his throat on the verge of a breakdown. “I’m so tired Emily, I can’t … I can’t …”

  “Shhh.” She put a finger to her lips. “I know, baby. You’re in pain, but it’s just a few more steps. Everything is going to be all right.”

  She reached down and held out a hand, and he looked up at her. The cabin was before him, and he was powerless to stop the magnetic pull it had on his life—his body, his mind.

  He lifted a hand and locked eyes with Emily, offering her, with his last bit of strength, his hand to take, his soul to have if she so desired.

  And she took his hand, his soul, his life.

  Her body was as bright as the sun as she pulled him up on wobbly feet. Blood rushed from his head, and for a second, everything went dark before returning impossibly bright again.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Of course we can go inside; that’s why we came all this way. This cabin is ours; it belongs to us. It always has. We’re home, Ben … we’re home.”

  All he could do was follow her. The fact that Ben was no longer questioning reality—never questioning Emily—was what made him insane.

  They passed the flowerbeds, with the sweet fragrance of jasmine. Emily reached out and opened the door, and a flood of warm air washed over his body. The inside of the cabin was just as Ben had always imagined. The front room was large, sharing the space with the kitchen, where a large fireplace roared with flames. The furniture, floor, and walls were all a light colored wood and smelled deeply of pine. A variety of knickknacks decorated the walls and surfaces: Home Sweet Home signs, and freshly cut flowers in vases. An assortment of blue glass jars lined the windowsills on either side, producing various shades of tranquil flowing blue along the floor when the sun shone through them.

  At times, his vision became fuzzy, like looking through a piece of smoky glass. Other times his vision cleared to see everything in such vivid detail that the image seemed burned in his retina, and grew brighter with his pulse. The sparkling array of dazzling colors spread to the periphery of his vision, slowly encompassing everything he saw. The colors were jagged, with patches of grey and black, and soon he wasn’t sure if he could count his fingers if he held his hand before his face.

  Just as his vision dulled, it popped back with an unbelievable crispness that was beyond anything he could comprehend.

  Then he saw the man and jumped, his back hitting the door.

  “Jesus!” he shouted.

  The man in the woods was there, in the cabin, in the corner of the living room, sitting on a wooden chair beside the cast iron stove. He sat rigidly upright with his back to Ben, his spine straight as a board and his palms resting on his knees.

  Emily’s face contorted. “Ben, I need you to—”

  “BEN,” the man’s voice boomed.

  The words seemed to emanate from the room itself, vibrating the very rafters and foundation of the cabin. The man did not move, did not budge. Dust particles in the air were stagnant around him, as if he sat in a bubble where time did not exist.

  Ben let out a groan and fell over. His back slid down the front door. His hands covered his ears. The words of the man resonated so deeply, with such an echoing force, that his eardrums throbbed on the verge of bursting, like grapes pressed between two fingers.

  “BENJAMIN.”

  “F-F-Fuck!” Ben sputtered. His eardrums rang, and he wasn’t sure if he felt blood on his palms.

  Emily didn’t move. She stared at the man through narrow eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “Ben,” she looked down at him with his head tucked between his knees. “Ben, look at me. You have to make him go away.”

  He looked up at her with huge bloodshot eyes. “I … can’t. You …” He spoke, but the ringing in his ears made his words sound muffled.

  “No, Ben, I can’t; but you can. You have to get rid of him. Now!”

  ***

  When Iain returned, Michael was standing outside the car, just as he had left him.

  “The cabin is desolate. There’s no movement whatsoever.”

  “Are there any cars? Anything?”

  “Nothing. The place looks vacant. The front door is open just a crack.”

  “Did you go inside?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the plan? Do we move in now or wait until morning?”

  Iain didn’t hesitate. “We move in now.”

  Michael grabbed the duffel bag and walked closely behind Iain. Their shoes crunched the gravel underfoot, sounding deafeningly loud in the stillness of the night. The walk was short, and soon Michael could see the outline of the cabin bathed in the moonlight. He wished they had packed a second set of night-vision goggles.

  They approached the side of the cabin and crept up to one of the windows. Michael looked in, but couldn’t see anything.

  “It’s vacant.” Iain whispered, and motioned to the next window.

  They circled the house, looking in every window. Two of the windows were shattered, the floor covered with broken glass and matted with shriveled, rotten brown leaves. They stopped a few feet from the front door.

  Iain, with his night vision goggles, whispered to Michael that the inside of the cabin was desolate of furniture or any semblance of a functioning home. It was an old and dilapidated wooden shell of a former house. Many of the walls were covered with graffiti, and thin sheets of wallpaper hung from the walls like decomposing flesh. Empty liquor bottles, food wrappers, and cigarette butts littered the corners of the rooms. Michael feared they might encounter a group of drifters.

  “Let’s go in,” Michael said. “If he’s not here—and I’m starting to think there’s no reason for him to be here—we have a long drive home, and a lot more searching to do.”

  Iain nodded, and they moved to the door. Iain tightened the leather gloves over his fingers and unholstered his silenced pistol. Michael did the same with his pistol, clicking the safety off.

  Iain nudged the door open and stepped inside. Michael followed. After only a few steps, Iain came to a halt, putting his fist in the air. Michael stopped mid-stride. Iain motioned to the corner of the room. Michael squinted, leaning forward.

  My God.

  He could just make out the shape of a male body lying among broken beer bottles and rotten leaves, facing the wall. A dirty matted blanket—tattered and weathered—lay draped over his body.

  They moved forward, one step at a time.

  The person did not stir, did not move.

  Iain leaned over the body. “It’s him,” he whispered.

  Christ, Michael thought. I’m too late.

  Was this really Benjamin Walker huddled on the floor? There was no backpack nearby, no jacket, no gear, no possessions—nothing. Just a motionless man in the corner of a cold room, seemingly part of the clutter and debris, covered with an old blanket and laying on a bed of decomposing leaves.

  Iain knelt down and took the glove off his left hand, pressing two fingers to the side of Ben’s neck. “He’s alive,” he said. “Barely.”

  Michael let out a sigh, careful not to be audible.

  “Stay here,” Iain whispered. “I’ll check the rest of the house.”

  Michael listened to the floorboards cr
eak as Iain left. The boy was so still—too still. Michael wanted to scoop him up and run.

  When Iain returned, he said, “There’s nobody here,” and fished three glow-sticks out of the duffel bag. He bent them in the middle to snap the vials of hydrogen-peroxide inside and shook them to mix with the diphenyl-oxalate and fluorescent dye. He dropped them on the ground. They illuminated the room in fluorescent green, enough light for Iain to remove the goggles. He turned back to the body on the floor. It was Benjamin Walker all right.

  “Iain, I—”

  “It would be simple,” Iain cut him off, “just to leave him here. A drug addict found dead. Simple. Easy. However, we’ve shown our faces in town, and people know we asked about this cabin. We could bury him nearby, but if someone reports him missing, and say, a security camera happened to spot him at some stage of his journey, and the police start asking around and following his trail—well, that wouldn’t be good for us.”

  “Iain, listen—”

  “We have to take him far away. But, first things first: we have to give him the injection. Michael.” He turned to face the man eye to eye. “Why don’t you get the hypodermic? I think you should be the one to do the honors.”

  “Iain, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “Doesn’t have to be this way?” Iain looked incredulous, the green light from the glow-sticks casting bizarre shadows over his face. “This is the only way it can be, Michael.” He snapped.

  “No, Iain, it isn’t. It wasn’t the only way back in Drapery Falls, and it isn’t the only way now. We’ve made so many mistakes—too many mistakes. We don’t have to kill him. He doesn’t deserve to die like this. We can save him. He’s an innocent man.”

  “Innocent? Is that really what you think? Are we talking about the same person here, or has your mind become so warped as to believe—”

  “Iain!” Michael startled even himself. “There is another way, and if you would just listen for one goddamn second!”

  Iain shut his mouth.

  Michael took a deep breath, composing himself. “There is another way. I’ve been talking to Dr. Wulfric, and—”