An Unwelcome Discovery

I pedaled hard down the edge of the street, a cool wind, sharp with the promise of the winter to come, brushed over my face. It would have been enjoyable had it not been for the knot that was tangling itself in my stomach, my mind racing. Yesterday was still fresh in my mind, but reason had prevailed. Now, though...I couldn't help but worry. Dr. Ortega was more than a friend. She had taken an interest in me three years ago and had...coached me, advising me as to my deportment around the professors.

I had been to Ana's house several times in the past, for dinner parties. She was acclaimed throughout the university for her hosting renown. Gourmet Mexican food will get you a reputation in this town, and with your colleagues. I'd taken recipes home, and given her a few of my own.

I turned my ten-speed down Woodlawn Drive, a residential street whose houses were homogenized, but expansive. Dr. Ortega's was blue when the others were white with black trim. As I pulled up, I noticed the same car in which I had ridden parked in the driveway, edged with well-tended wildflowers. Brick stepping stones led the way from the driveway to the front porch, and I didn't disturb the sanctity of the verdant lawn before stepping onto the plantation porch. I rang the doorbell, checking my appearance in the glass door. I looked more ragged than I had when I'd left home. More tired. Like a different person. I waited impatiently, before trying the bell again. Nothing.

I pulled open the glass door and rapped urgently on the door just below the black letter box. Nothing, still. My blood pressure rising, I stepped off the porch and went back to the driveway. Ana's back yard was ringed by a painted umber fence that, as I tried it, was locked. I tried again, more eagerly, to no avail. I glanced about my person, checking nine o'clock, my six, and three o'clock, before hopping the fence. My technique was flawless. I was quite practiced in fence-hopping. I had it down to a science.

As my feet hit grass, I looked over the yard, my eyes squint in suspicion. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but that meant squat right now. As I sidled around the house, the attractive deck came into view. Well-built and sturdy, with tasteful patio furniture decorating it, and clutches of potted plants bringing color to the wood. I ascended the steps, masking my view from the ambient light with my hands, trying to look inside the house. No lights were on, only natural light pouring through the windows. Everything inside was washed-out, like I was seeing through a bleaching camera filter. I jiggled the handle on the back door, which inched forward from the force. Curious.

I put my best foot forward, as it were, and pushed the door open. It moved soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. I found its lack of noise discomforting. As I stepped forward into the house, I was assaulted by the dark, cold feel of the interior.

I stepped through the house carefully. No burglar alarm had gone off at my intrusion, which pushed me further to the edge of my wits. The unmoving air smelled like...nothing. It was...absent of scent, a quality of air that I'd never encountered, and haven't since then. I came into the kitchen, reaching out with my elbow, nudging the light switch. Light streamed into the room from the hanging chandelier. I looked over the island in the Doctor's kitchen, leaning over slowly. Nothing there. Nothing out of order in the kitchen at all. I turned slowly, rolling my feet to muffle the sound, and descended down three steps into the sunken den. I repeated my action in the kitchen, lights from all sides illuminating the elegantly arranged room.

I padded through the room, the beige carpet of the steep staircase blended together as I walked up the the second floor, the optical illusion presenting itself as a beige slide, no edges to be seen. At the top, I hit the switch for the hall lights. It was darker up here than it had been upstairs, and as the darkness flashed into light, I had more-than-half-expected a bogeyman to be welcoming me.

“Doctoo-o-or...” I said, my voice echoing tunelessly off the drywall and wood doors. My eyes narrowed at the door at the end of the hall. One foot followed the other as I step forward cautiously, footfalls barely sounding on the plush carpet. I pushed on the door with my toe and it swung back from me.

I could feel hot bile rise in the back of my throat, acid threatening to burn out my esophagus. I turned away for a moment, unable to continue looking on the scene in the study. My stomach felt like it was going to lurch upwards into my digestive tract. For a moment, I couldn't look at what was inside, but I swallowed my complete disgust, turning my gaze back to the well-lit study.

Ana Ortega was sitting in what looked to be a plush chair. That was not the most distinct description of her at this point. Her head was arched back, looking at the ceiling. Her arms were resting on the arms of the chair, like some regal monarch, entombed for all time. Her face, hands, and neck were distorted. They were covered with hives the size of quail eggs, her tan flesh stretched out to look shiny and of waxen texture. I felt hot tears prick at the sides of my eyes as I read what was taped to her chest. In the same madman's scrawl as I had encountered yesterday, each letter drawn unevenly several times.

GOT YOUR ATTENTION NOW

WOLF?

I stepped into the room, which was warmer than the house had been, light streaming in front windows placed around the room. My hand, shaking, pushed forward and quickly ripped the madman's sign off of my mentor, folding it quickly and shoving it down into my pocket. My hand did not retreat. I didn't feel it was real yet, so I needed to check. Two fingers reached out, pressing down on her carotid artery. I flinched back in disgust as her skin was swollen as if from...anaphylaxis. I couldn't feel a pulse even if there was one.

My sobs were raspy and my chest heaved as I pulled out my phone, dialing 911.

Malaise

Sleep came easy that night. Dreamless sleep that left me refreshed and feeling like my mental state had been bolstered, like a levy holding back the Mississippi Delta in New Orleans. I woke up early that day, as I had a class to assist with that morning.

At about 10:30 that morning, I stepped out of the 101 lecture hall, rubbing my temples and realizing I had forgotten to order new sunglasses last night, cursing under my breath as I walked into the cold sunlight, briskly walking back to Singh Hall, to drop in on Dr. Ortega. I sidestepped people, cutting through crowds of communicating coeds, blathering on and on about why they hated school. Imbeciles. Shouldn't have even been there, crowding courses and feeding more money into the pockets Directors on the Board.

Annoyed, I stepped through a side-entrance, messenger pack strung across my body, and started stepping through the white on white halls. I hated this part of the building. It seemed unfinished, like the builders had just left off once they had they basics of a college hallway put up. I hurried up to the stairwell, jogging up one, two, three floors to the set of offices on the top, where the department's teachers kept their hours, and where Dr. Ortega would be.

Her office was one left, then the second right, 3^rd on the right. When she was in, her door was open. It was not. I balled my fist and rapped twice, quick together, to raise her. No answer. Twice more. No answer. I tried the door, the chrome handle welcoming me. Locked. Odd. I checked the nameplate by the door. Dr. Ana Ortega, Ph.D, Department of Experimental Psychology. Quite attractive in print. On Friday, her hours in the morning were from 10:15 to 12:00. And I knew Dr. Ortega. She liked office hours. Shrugging, I turned away and looked for any of the other professors in the department. I found one easily after hanging a left.

“Dr. Byron!” I called. The older gentlemen turned.

“Wolf. Good morning. How may I help you?” His voice quavered, and as it did, jowls rippled back and forth, his breath coming in heaves.

“Yes sir, have you seen Dr. Ortega this morning?” Ever the gentlemen, I am.

“Ana? Why, no, I have not. She hasn't been in, nor did she call to say she was ill. As a matter of fact, I had Sal, my research assistant, call her several times this morning, to no avail. Quite rude of her, wouldn't you agree?”

“I wouldn't, no sir. She may be very ill. Or she may been hurt.” Dr. Byron's face lifted into a smile. It was like seeing a Jell-O mold grin.

“Indeed. Perhaps we should send help.” To this, I nodded.

“I think I may go to her house. It isn't like her not to show without calling.”

“I'd agree, but I can't, on the small point that it's not like her not to show at all.” I grinned myself, but inside, angst had returned to simmer just behind my diaphragm.

“I'd better do that, then, Doctor.”

“You do that, Wolf, my good lad.”

I hurried off, with the good doctor taking his time with his heavy, lurching footfalls. I needed to head back to the 500 building, and retrieve my bicycle.

Where the Heart Is

Warm colors radiated from the walls of my den, comfort lapping over my gently as my most familiar surroundings enveloped me. My tuxedo cat, normally sedentary and explaining the pouch of fat that hung down from his belly, was rubbing against my legs, vocalizing his mournful voice. I strode to the constricted room that housed my powerful water heater, opening a can of food with a snaaap!

I started off the shower cold, to douse the heat from me, before increasing the temperature to near-sauna levels of potency. It did the trick, and I kneaded knots from my shoulders and neck. After drying, I dressed in pajamas and robe. While I could ease the tension from my body, I couldn't drown out the nagging thoughts that rattled around in my head. They needed to be drowned out. The speakers were turned on with a press of a button, my phone, charging and hooked up to the wall, was plugged into the auxiliary port. The Damned played through the speakers, “Curtain Call” blaring through the surround sound that ringed the room. I reached for the breakfast bar that separated kitchen from den, Three small bottles of different heights were set there, and I took two of them into my hand. One, the more slender of the two, contained a migraine medicine. They were expensive, and I valued them greatly. The other, taller and thicker, was replete with lovely Valium. I took one of the first and two of the second, and laid back in my brown leather Barca, kicking my feet up and lighting a cigarette.

I analyzed the days events, under the facade of cultured relaxation, I was still a mess. In the Club, with Johnson, my...hallucination...could only been a side effect of the experiment. Another flashback, perhaps. But the specific imagery of it was what daunted me. Death, all around, and Johnson as a...revenant. A ghoul, or something. My thoughts were drawn back to the otherworldly embroidery I saw, absorbing light, like some sort of negative color, like the stuff of black holes woven into the fabric. As the Scheherazade sequence in the song began to play, three knocks, like inopportune punctuation sounded on my front door. I will be honest with you: I jumped, and may have squeaked.

I answered the door, and my neighbor from the second floor stood before me. I turned the music down with my remote.

“Evening, Tom. What's up?” I smiled, or at least tried to, but it probably came out as more of a strange leer than anything.

“Oh, not a lot, Wolf, not a lot.” I stepped to the side and waved him in, but he held up his hand. “Can't stay, man. Me and the missus are trying to have a quiet, romantic evening, if you take my meaning.” I nodded.

“Yeah man, I know what you mean...sorry, just got a lot on my mind, you know.” Tom, a weatherbeaten fellow in his mid-thirties, sun-bleached hair like corn silk dusting his head, slacked his mouth in concern.

“Wanna talk for a minute?” I shook my head, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. “Well, if you need anything, we're right behind you.”

My head snapped up, my eyes intent and flashing, mouth drawn into a hard, fierce line. “What did you just say?” My voice left me like a feral growl, intense and aggressive. My neighbor took a step back.

“Jesus man, I said we're right above you. If you need to talk or anything.” I relaxed.

“Yeah, I'm just having a rough one. You and Jean have a good night, and I'll keep the tunes down, ok?” We shook hands, quick and tense, and he was gone like he had appeared, with me shutting the door.

Was I losing it?

Wanderlust

Night had fallen.

I had been walking for some time. How long, I can't say. I don't know how much time had passed until I had felt too winded to continue. I imagined I had looked bizarre, a man in a blazer running, like he was being chased. Maybe I was. The feeling of being watched hadn't abated, even when I stopped. I must have looked like a madman. My tie was askew, my shirt untucked, my blazer unbuttoned, sweat pouring down my face in rivulets, soaking my shirt.

I hadn't paid attention to my route during my flight. I looked around my surroundings, dazed, tired, hot, confused...and frightened. I couldn't shake the abominable feelings that had assaulted me during my meeting with Johnson. No amount of reason could tamp down the smoldering angst that was alight in my chest, rendering every breath a burning wind of anxiety. My stomach was doing expert gymnastics. My brain cried for oxygen. I stopped walking, leaning forward to place my hands on my knees, putting my chest in front of my body. I felt better. My head stopped spinning, my thoughts becoming clearer.

I took stock of my surroundings. Landscape, well-sculpted, well-edged, well-manicured. Stonework under my feet...old, but washed, white and gorgeous. Like stepping on a piece of Michaelangelo's marble. Very pretty. I was on campus. Had I not run that far?

I squinted about the buildings, trying to gauge my location. It was more than familiar. I was here several times a week. The Singh Memorial, and Singh Hall, home of the Department of Experimental Psychology. Was my subconscious directing me to a comforting locale? A possibility. Was I being guided by an unseen hand, directing my feet like the pieces on a chessboard? That was highly unlikely, I rationalized. I hadn't been paying attention. I had gone somewhere I felt safe. That had to be it. But where had I been in the interim?

I had not idea what the time was. My phone, usually trusty, was dead. I willed myself forward, to Singh Hall. A trickle of people was still exiting the stately building. I skirted the main entrance, taking, instead, one of the sealed side doors, which only certain people had the clout (and the ID cards) to enter. I was one of them. One of the perks of doctoral research: 24 hour access. I did not, however, need to use my access card, as Dr. Ortega was exiting. She brightened up slightly upon seeing me, but one of her eyebrows was raised in confusion.

“Why hello, Wolf,” an easy smile playing across her lips. “Fire at the Future Farmers of America?” she asked teasingly. I couldn't help but smile. Her easy, unassuming manner was one of the reasons her and I got along so well. Her tan skin was smooth for a woman her age, the lines of care outside her eyes the only clue to her “youth”, as she liked to call it. No gray could be seen in her jet black hair (not a feat I could boast about since I was 19, I might add), which was pulled back in a tight bun. Her scholastic demeanor was singular: a teacher in the original sense of the word. Her standards were exacting, and until you met them, she would dog you, never allowing rest. When you met or exceeded her standards, she relaxed...but expected you to maintain your good work autonomously.

“No...” I replied after a moment. I was surprised to hear myself speak; the ragged scratch in my throat was not what I was expecting.

“You look like shit. Are you drunk?” Perhaps relaxed was a bit of understatement.

“No. I don't think I am. I had a scotch at lunch, and then...” I trailed off. Her lips thinned in concern.

“Want a ride home?” I nodded, and joined her side, loosening my tie, allowing my neck to breath.

As we drove off campus, Dr. Ortega noticed my silence. It perturbed her, I imagine, because she engaged me.

“So, a scotch a lunch, eh? Are you sure it was just one?” I nodded.

“Yeah, I was...with Dr. Johnson, and...”

I was cut off. I hate being interrupted.

“Oh, Malcolm? He's invited me for drinks tonight, around 8.” My blood ran cold, my heart seeming to halt its beating in my chest.

“He what?” Incredulity bled into my voice, my eyes flicking to her. Her head turned slightly to meet my eyes, eyebrows furled, her mouth assuming the position of an educator about to chastise a student for a buffoonish answer, or incomplete classwork.

“He's invited me out tonight. To have drinks. You know, it's what adults do?” I shook my head in frustration.

“I got that part, Doc. What I meant was...you can't go.” I regretted the words as I said them.

“Oh, I'm sorry Wolf. I didn't realize you were scheduling my personal appointments now. Call him and tell him I need to take a rain check then.” Her voice dripped with scorn.

“No...that's not how I meant it. I just...I don't like him.”

Sometimes, I can make a complete ass of myself.

“You're doing my matchmaking for me too? How thoughtful, Emma Woodhouse.” Her knuckles went whiter as they gripped the leopard-print covered steering wheel, making the stuffiest right turn I'd seen since my mother used to yell at me when she was driving. One of her pastimes, I'll have you know.

“It's not that. I just...think he's a child molester or something.”

“A child molester?” Without saying anything to the fact, she was berating me.

“Yeah, he fits the profile. Single white male, lives alone, in his late forties to early fifties, well-educated.” I lied swiftly. Usually, when my wits are about me, I can lie well.

“And? I'm single, live alone, am well-educated, and am in my late forties. So what?”

“You're not a white male though, Doc. Listen...I get some sort of...bad vibe about him. Like he's swept something under the rug that doesn't smell quite right. Just, please...do me a favor and cancel with him.” We pulled up in my driveway. She was eyeing me up slyly. “Please, Ana...” I didn't use her forename that often, unless I was trying to drive home my point.

“Alright. I'll cancel. And make a date with Glee, how does that sound?”

“Thank you, Doc,” I replied, relief flowing through me. “I'll explain...tomorrow, ok? I need a shower. And some medicine, I think.” I rubbed my temples, giving off the air of pain. She nodded, and I opened the door of her car, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Wolf,” she said. “You said you got a... “bad vibe”? You don't get vibes.” I nodded.

“I know. I'll see you tomorrow, ok?” I shut the door and she beeped the horn once for me, and I turned to my home.

Lunch or Something Like It

I did not sleep for the remainder of the night. I had an excruciating headache. I wasn't troubled, to be fair. I often woke up from pain, my head throbbing me into lucidity. I took some of my special pain medicine. It took the sharpness, the pique, away from it, so it was dulled throbbing as opposed to knitting needles being jammed into the softer parts of my skull. More manageable, that. At about four that morning, I had breakfast. It worked. I'm a fairly dab hand at cooking. No Gordon Ramsay, but I get by, living alone.

I needed to zone out. I needed to focus on something else, something mindless. Cartoons are usually a good choice, I've found. There's nothing important in them. Dragon Ball Z. Quite mindless indeed.

I didn't have lectures to attend today. It was my free day. I wasn't employed. I didn't have to be. That's the beauty of the Montgomery G.I. Bill. I was the professional student indeed. My gaze faltered from Goku charging a Spirit Bomb to the wall clock, Roman numerals adorning it. I have always found that the platitudes about the perception of the passing of time, as in “A watched pot never boils”, to be completely untrue. When you're awake, and perfectly conscious, time has meaning. Time is one of the only things that has a consistent feel to it, like mass, like distance.

I needed to find a way to pass the time more efficiently.

I did.

I'm not going to talk about it.

It isn't important.

The Alumnus Club was an inconspicuous brick building located about a block off of campus. Opened in 1899, it was a restaurant and “hang out” for alumni of my university, mainly big-shot lawyers and other highly-paid assholes who can take two hour martini lunches. I had never eaten there, despite the fact that I was, in point of fact, an alumnus of my university. It wasn't really my speed. It had a dress code, for Christ's sake. So, another day in business wear. More khakis, brown patent leather shoes, blue blazer. I looked like someone who wasn't me. As I looked in the bathroom mirror, the dark circle on my eyes stood out like craters on the Moon. I was skilled in their detection and their temporary erasure. Ice cubes are the way to go.

I lived on the first floor of a townhouse. It was quite cozy. Small yard out back, three steps leading up to the front door. And at a reasonable price as well. I'd be traveling on foot. It was preferred mode of transit. I didn't own a car, but the walking kept me healthy. As I started down my street, an unseasonable gust of wind threatened my foot, blowing debris past me. A fragment of newspaper clung to my leg like a lost child. I detached it from myself. Curiously, I turned it over.

WE ARE BEHIND YOU, it said.

IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

It was a madman's scrawl. It made the hairs on my neck stand at attention like the hackles of a dog. I did not enjoy this feeling. I still don't. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing was behind me. I started walking again, throwing away the piece of paper in the nearest bin.

The rest of my walk was without incident. It doesn't bear description.

The door to the Alumnus Club was heavy, rich oak. The finery started before you even entered it. Upon entry, my sunglasses came off, and my eyes adjusted to the low light of the foyer. A hostess, less than my age, was standing at a podium. Her eyes lit up in recognition.

“Wolf?!” she asked incredulously, her voice rising in pitch over the course of my rather short name.

“Yeah. The one and only. What's up, Jill?” Jill Sanders had been a student in one of my TA classes. Pretty, not that bright, but with a certain sort of dim charm. I didn't wholeheartedly dislike her. But I couldn't bring myself to enjoy her company. She blathered on at warp speed about what she'd been up to since last semester, before realizing she'd been holding me up.

“Do you, like, have a reservation?”

“Oh, uh...yeah. I've got an appointment to meet with Dr. Johnson at 1:30. Is he here?” She extended a pointer finger, looking down at the lectern and scanning something with her eyes, biting her lower lip.

“He sure is! He's in the main dining room. Through the first arch on the left.”

“Alright. Good to see you,” I said. She responded something of the same sort, her eyes following me as I walked past her. The sharp pain in my head was returning slowly, throbbing with every step. I found the arch, and stepped through. The motion made many heads turn, including the head of Dr. Johnson, reflecting the sunlight off of it. He smiled, waving me over, rising to meet me.

“Wolf, my dear boy, so good to see you!” He shook my hand, smiling amicably. A thin smile blossomed on my face. He invited me to sit down across from him, my heavy shoes inadvertently stomping on the hardwood floor of the dining room. The room at a stuffy, 19^th Century air to it. I didn't like it. Perhaps it was because of present company.

Dr. Johnson was dressed in a beige suit that didn't quite match his skin tone. It was ugly. He had no sense of style, that much was certain. However, sitting across from him in a fancy restaurant, my stomach wasn't roiling like it was yesterday.

“Please, have a look at the menu. Have you been here before, Wolf?” I shook my head, opening the leather-bound menu, goldleaf on the front proclaiming that this was the Alumnus Club. I leafed through the menu as a tall, straight-laced looking waiter trundled over to us.

“Something to drink, sir?” I ordered Glenfidditch. Neat. It seemed to be the kind of thing to order at the Alumnus Club. The man nodded, his rail-thin form scooting away. I leafed through the menu some more.

“Have they got a special today?” I asked Johnson. He nodded.

“Offal,” he replied matter-of-factly. I raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds...awful.” Johnson broke out in a big grin.

“They never told me you were funny. You are. You're a funny kind of guy, Wolf.” I was bemused, smirking at this.

“Who's they, and why are they talking about me?” I asked quizzically, half-joking, half-not.

“Oh, you know. People talk, Wolf. Including us. Let's talk, shall we?”

You know the details already. I don't need to reiterate. Johnson nodded at the appropriate points, deeply interested at first, shocked at my description of the thing in the gas mask, horrified as I told him of Chicago being depopulated before my eyes. As I spoke, my headache returned in full force, like tiny salad forks piercing my gray matter. If you don't have migraines, you may not understand. If you do, we may be kindred spirits.

I highly fucking doubt it, though.

I had ordered the lamb chops. Dr. Johnson recommended them to me. They came out shortly before my story was told. I had backtracked as per Johnson's request, detailing my methods, the settings of the electrodes, observation, EEG readings. The technical bits rather than the impressionistic, non-objective parts. However, he seemed less interested in this than he was about my hallucinations, my “vision quest”, as it were.

We toasted. “To knowledge,” we both said quietly.

For several minutes, we ate in silence.

“Your experience is very interesting Wolf, I have to say. If only you hadn't jumped the gun on implementing human testing, you may have been on to something,” he announced without pomp after a particularly sumptuous forkful of beef medallion.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Wolf, after the hearing yesterday, I looked over some of the work an acquaintance of mine had done several years ago. He was a psychologist as well, but not into experimentation. Theoretical psychology. He loved Jung, in particular. The collective consciousness, archetypes, you know.” I nodded appreciatively. I was, after all, a psychology student.

“However, his interests are...darker, shall we say?” I nodded, and my headache surged to heights I hadn't experienced in a very long time. I nodded, rubbing my temples, while Johnson plodded on.

“He undertook a research project, vast in scope, comparing the folklore and mythology of many cultures the world over, cross referencing data, compiling information. It was quite the project, if I do say so, myself. Do you know what he was researching?” I shook my head wordlessly.

“Our fears as a race, Wolf. Archetypal fear doesn't vary all that much, and it has evolved with us as we have shaken off the superstitions of yesteryear and embraced the fears of tomorrow.”

Embrace...what an odd term to use. I say odd, because it caused my stomach to lurch, and not from the lamb. From him, the revulsion I previously felt had returned in force. Very strong force. Apparently, Johnson did not seem to notice my obvious discomfort, and plodded on.

“He determined that the archetypes we have revolve around the most common fears. Not necessarily somatic fears, vis-a-vis flying, spiders, et cetera. It was our emotional fears that intrigued him particularly. Our fear of the unknown, of commitment, of death. Fear, he postulated, was absolute. Eternal. Do you know why I bring this up?” Again, a shaking of the head as my subconscious screamed for me to abandon ship, to get myself out of this antique parlor of a room and never see this man ever again.

“Because, Wolf. What you described to me, what you saw during the experiment...it matched several of the archetypal fears he identified.” My mind boiled at the thought, at the prospect that I had somehow tapped into the collective unconscious, the communal emotional experience of mankind. That, and the intensifying headache, were joining together in brutal congress, and I couldn't help but bow my head and close my eyes tight for a moment, trying to straighten out my perceptions and my feelings.

When my eyes opened, everything was different. Ringed in sepia, like some old-timey photo. I was looking at my plate. It was chipped. Dirty. And full of maggots. I felt my stomach lurch in horror. My glass, previously filled with top-shelf scotch, was filled with thick, congealed brown liquid. The tablecloth was a faded yellow from age. I lifted my gaze, glancing about the room, the environment dragging slowly through my view, time having dilated for me alone. No heads were up, no respectable alumni enjoying a late lunch. They were all slumped against their tables, some heads in bowls, reddish-brown ichorous residue staining everything it touched. I looked out the window. It was as if death had descended on the suburbs. People were lying dead in the streets, cars were abandoned, rusty, disheveled. I turned to look at Johnson.

He was not slumped over. But he was not alive, either.

He was intensely emaciated, his flesh having taken a waxy texture. His lips with shriveled, exposing rotten, broken teeth. His hair was white, clinging greasily to his liver-spotted head. A symbol, like two side-by-side hourglasses, was stamped on the handkerchief folded into its breast pocket. The eyes were what shocked me the most. They were black, from some sort of virulent necrosis, caked with dried, flecked fluid. It was repulsive.

And then it reached its hand out to touch mine.

“Caught a fright, Wolf?” it rasped, its voice dry and reedy, hoarse with atrophy. The smell of death, sickly and rank with corruption, was heavy on its breath. Its words echoed through the room, because there were no other sounds to be heard. Not even my own heavy inhalation and exhalation of breath. I couldn't help but fumble with my words.

“W-what?” I breathed finally, squinting my eyes shut tight.

“I said are you alright?” a voice said, as if repeating itself, health and vigor present in it once more. I opened my eyes.

Everything was as it had been. I shook my head, standing up, chair scraping across the floor, legs bumping the table quite audibly.

“I...need to go. Not feeling well. Will do this again,” I said, my voice shaking as I extracted bills from my wallet and flung them onto the table. I turned tail, walking quickly yet unsteadily through the dining room, ignoring Jill as she told me to have a good day. The light outside hurt my eyes, but while extracting my sunglasses from my pocket, I dropped them. They landed lenses down, cracking noticeably. I didn't care. I left them where they had fallen. And, as I started walking briskly, breaking into a jog, my peripheral vision detected a tall man in a neat suit. Impossibly tall. Impossibly still.

I broke out into a run.

I did not look back.

An Odd Dream

In the beginning, nothing seemed relevant. But they say hindsight is 20/20.

It isn't. That's a damn bald-faced lie. It's better than normal. Normally, one can only piece together facts as they come to them. But now, I can see how the threads were pulling everything I knew apart, sewing them up in a different way, that was a perversion of what I knew.

I had a dream that night.

I was falling, but not the falling that manifests somatically as a myoclonic twitch. I was drifting downward, like some force other than gravity had control of me. It couldn't be gravity. Gravity is reasonable. Formulaic. Predictable.

This was none of those. I was falling at random velocity, twisting to an unknown acceleration. Everything was cream. As far as the eye could see, the same tone, like I was infinitely small, falling through a beam of light. A cream beam. What a pleasant rhyme. I had no way of knowing when anything would happen.

Something did though. Have you ever seen anything so unnaturally thin that you can't see it from the proper angle? In that dream, I did. Imagine for a moment a sheet of glass, so thin, so sharp, that it slices apart the molecules in its path. There's only one place it could exist, and that's inside the mind, for our minds can create the impossible.

I fell onto this, and felt myself being sliced apart so finely that there was no pain. There was no anything. I wasn't even afraid of it. It didn't hurt, and it wasn't real.

As I drifted past it on my laconic trip downward, I saw that it was a window, rimmed by sepia mist. Or frost. I couldn't know. I didn't touch it. What I saw confused me. It was disjointed. Not at all what I had expected. It was a bowling pin. A pinstriped pin, harlequin and somewhat menacing. As I drifted, an emaciated hand descended, no doubt connected to an unseen arm, and flicked the pin like it was nothing. It emerged from its sepia-surrounded realm, twirling perfectly end over end, on a trajectory that, from the sense of the dream, was both predetermined and random. I find that the tension between contradictory ideas leads to sublime synthesis. Thesis and antithesis coming together to...I'm losing track of things.

The pin did not hit me, as I woke up, with, of all things, a myoclonic twitch.

A furry paw stepped on me. Damn cat.

An Academic Review

The following is an audio transcript of my meeting with the academic review board of my university and specifically my doctorate program, regarding the ethics and findings of my experiment. The date is of no consequence, but know that it was in the autumn.

[Dr. McGrath]: Mr. [Wolf (Remember, I'm redacting my name. Or perhaps I'm not.)], now that you have arrived we can begin this hearing of the Academic Review board. We will begin with an interrogatory period, so that the scope and nature of your experiment will be made clear to myself, Dr. Ortega, and Dr. Johnson.

[McGrath clears his throat.]

[McGrath]: Mr. [Wolf], did you or did you not, at the beginning of this semester, propose to your advisor, Dr. Ortega, your hypothesis regarding the unlocking of the race memory of a person via exposure to pharmaceuticals and electrical stimulus?

[Wolf]: I did, sir.

[McGrath]: I see. It is to my understanding that you intended to administer a combination of lysergic acid diethylamide number 27, otherwise known as LSD, salvia divinorum, an herbal hallucinogen, and 3,4,5-trimethoxyphenethylamine, otherwise known as mescaline, to ten specimens of Rattus norvegicus, and then submit them to electrical stimulus?

[Wolf]: That is correct.

[McGrath]: And tell me, Mr. [Wolf], why did you set up this particular experiment?

[Wolf]: To observe what happened to the specimens, Dr. McGrath.

[McGrath]: What did end up happening, Mr. [Wolf]?

[Wolf]: Subject #1, the control group, was not subjected to electrical stimulus. It fell asleep six minutes after I administered the psychoactive chemicals to it. It awoke thirteen hours afterward. Subjects 2-4 were subjected to the lowest amount of stimulus, and were sent into what I can only describe as a hallucinogenic coma that lasted thirteen minutes. Upon awakening, they exhibited the signs of hallucinogenic intoxication, which wore off after about six hours. Subjects 5-7 were stimulated with a medium electrical discharge. Their hallucinogenic experience lasted only 4 minutes, but was very intense.

[Dr. Johnson]: How could you determine this, Mr. [Wolf]?

[Wolf]: Easily, Dr. Johnson. Empirical evidence and the readings from micro-electroencephalography.

[Dr. Johnson nods, satisfied, and beckons for me to continue on.]

[Wolf]: Subjects 8-10 were subjected to the highest amount of electrical stimulus. Subjects 8 and 10 immediately went into tachycardia, and expired 44 seconds later. Subject 9 seized for one minute, and then expired.

[McGrath]: Indeed. This is all in our notes. Now tell me, Mr. [Wolf], what was to happen after your initial experiment.

[Wolf]: I was to present my results to Dr. Ortega, who would grant me permission to carry out the next phase of my experiment, which was to experiment with more intelligent animals. Pigs, to be specific.

[McGrath]: What species?

[Wolf]: Sus scrofa domestica, sir.

[McGrath]: Very well. You did not, however, file results with Dr. Ortega. You instead decided that it would be prudent to conduct your own, unsanctioned experiment, outside of the university's facilities, where you administered your chemical cocktail yourself, with an unpaid assistant overlooking the experiment. Is this not correct?

[Wolf]: That is correct, sir.

[McGrath]: Mr. [Wolf], do you not realize that this is a serious breach of the Code of Ethics set forth both by the university and by the program's handbook, a handbook that you signed off as having read and understood thoroughly?

[Wolf]: No, sir.

[McGrath]: No?

[Wolf]: No, sir. Per section 18, paragraph 3 of the Experimental Psychology doctorate program, it is unethical to coerce a subject into an unsanctioned scientific experiment, with the promise of reward. No coercion was involved, Dr. McGrath. I would be unable to coerce myself. I was more than willing.

[McGrath snorts.]

[McGrath]: Then do you realize, Mr. [Wolf], that, as a scientist, you have compromised your objectivity by subjecting yourself to your own inhumane test, thereby skewing the results of the experiment in favor of your hypothesis?

[Wolf]: No, sir.

[It is at this point that McGrath got rather angry with me.]

[McGrath]: No? Are you taking this seriously, Mr. [Wolf]?

[Wolf]: I am serious, Dr. McGrath. I must ask you a question now: have I filed the results of my unsanctioned experiment with Dr. Ortega, or with a scientific journal?

[McGrath sighs.]

[McGrath]: You did not.

[Wolf]: No, I did not. Ergo, the results of my unsanctioned experiment have no bearing on the results of my study as a whole. As such, this hearing is a completely unnecessary farce.

[McGrath went red at this point. Dr. Ortega, my advisor, smiled bemusedly, admiring my bold charm of baiting the head of the Academic Review board. Dr. Johnson, a historian, was completely nonplussed, remaining neutral.]

[McGrath]: Mr. [Wolf], my colleagues and I need time to deliberate regarding your case. It is now...11:18 am, please return at noon. That will be all.

[At this point, I stopped my personal tape recorder, as the following recollection of what happened during the interim. It is short, but I feel it to be pertinent.]

I stepped outside, the bright, clear yet cold autumn light causing me to squint, drawing my silver, mirrored aviator-knock-off sunglasses from my pocket. I get frequent headaches. Tension, the doctors say. It means I need to slam back Excedrin like it's going out of style. As I walked down the concrete steps leading to the building, I ruminated internally on the rather brief hearing I'd just been through. McGrath was gunning for me, I could feel it. I don't know why, but the man was so stuffy it was like the stick up his ass had a stick up its ass. Ortega was always in my corner. I was her protégé, her rising star. Johnson though...he was a wild card. I couldn't count on him one way or the other.

As if on instinct, I pulled my smartphone out of the right pocket of my pleated khaki pants. While checking it, I was assaulted with unpleasant feelings of self-consciousness, like everyone outside was watching me. My eyes darted around, but no one was. This did not alleviate the feeling, only heightened it. I could feel my pulse rise, blood pressure increasing, a tinge of sweat forming under my close-cropped hairline. But, I couldn't pull my eyes away from my smartphone. I woke up the screen, and was assaulted by distortion on the screen, the wallpaper spasming as if in a death throe. My eyebrow raised. I had flashed a custom OS that was completely stable on to it. I would know, too. I designed it.

I turned my phone around after trying to unlock the screen, and my feeling of being watched increased. I looked up, an under an impossible old beech tree, out of the corner of my eye, was an impossibly tall, impeccably dressed man, his gaze fixed on me intently. I turned my full attention to him, but he wasn't there.

Now, I'm not paranoid in the slightest. I'm quite the rational person, if I do say so myself. I dismissed it as my tension headache triggering a flashback. That was all it could be. No one could be that tall.

Could they?

[Following is the results of my hearing, transcribed from the same tape.]

[McGrath]: Mr. [Wolf], it is the ruling of this board that...no disciplinary action is to be taken. You dodged a bullet here, [Wolf]. However, in the interest of academic integrity, your study is hereby concluded. All records of it will be sealed. This ruling is final. Have a nice day, Mr. [Wolf]. I don't want to see you in this situation again, understood?

[Wolf]: Yes, Dr. McGrath. I thank the board for its judicious ruling.

[The tape ends.]

I stepped back outside, audibly sighing in relief. Johnson had pulled through. I fished a cigarette and the Bic from my pocket, stepping down onto the square before lighting up. Nicotine flooded through my nerves, and I felt an intense sense of relief rush through me, causing my hand to shake as I pulled it and the lit cigarette to my mouth.

I didn't know what I would have done had the board not ruled favorably. I have many skills, and two degrees in science, but more than anything, I want my doctorate. I had dreamed about it since high school. And for now, my dream was intact.

My gaze flicked to the beech tree. No impossibly tall people under it.

“Wolf,” a familiar voice said behind me. Dr. Johnson. I turned, and the amicable, fiftyish year old man waved to me, a smile flickering across his face.

“Dr. Johnson,” I replied, kicking my foot up to stub out my smoke. He raised a hand to stop me, and my foot planted itself squarely on the concrete. He regarded me kindly, several paces ahead of me, watery blue eyes set close together over a stubby nose. His black hair had gone to the tonsure-pattern of baldness. As he approached, my stomach felt like the bottom had fell. I felt a...wave of revulsion pass through me.

“Wolf, I'm very interested in the results of your little...incognito experiment, shall we call it? I was wondering if we could discuss it fully, just you and I.”

I took my sunglasses off slowly, folding them against myself, squinting at the man. As my eyes were exposed to the unfiltered light of him, my aversion to the man increased. It was as if all the unused parts of my lower brain were screaming for me to get away, to flee, a self-preservation instinct taking over my awakened consciousness.

“Um, now?” I said gauchely, realizing how utterly awkward I sounded.

“No, not now,” he replied kindly. To me, the words sounded to sweet, like they were covering up some sort of unctuous ooze that lingered just beneath the surface, if you could penetrate the diamond sugar coating them. “How does tomorrow sound, for lunch? At the Alumnus Club? Say...1:30?”

“I...uh, sure, I suppose. That sounds...nice.”

He smiled toothily. Frighteningly.

“Wonderful, Wolf. I look forward to it. I'll see you then. You have a pleasant day, young man.”

“Yeah. You too, Doctor.” The prospect of having lunch with this thoroughly unpleasant man made me want to vomit everywhere, and never stop. As I replayed the exchange in my mind, the images of Johnson were distorted, like he was leering at me unnaturally, his smile a cold rictus grin, his eyes like twinkling pits of blue, frozen flame, fixed on me. I couldn't help but shudder. It helped. I stopped thinking about it.

In retrospect, I shouldn't have dismissed it so casually.