flickered in and out of reality, leaving behind fading memories. There were flowers too, but all had gone black with mould before drying and rotting away. It was the same room. The same room with a steady thud from somewhere behind the walls and, in the bed, hidden until that moment, the frail naked body of a middle-aged woman. Her skin pale, her arms as long and slender as her legs. She had been recently shaved from head to toe. Her face . . .
“Mom?” Garrison’s voice, pinched and high as a child’s, could only whisper the word.
But the woman who turned to him was not his mother. She was too young, too wide-eyed, too alive despite all appearances to the contrary.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Rex,” Garrison whispered without breath, his energy draining. He could not bear to look at her, the woman who was not his mother. It was her eyes. Her terrible amphibian eyes.
“Ma’am, have you seen the doctor around?”
“Rex.” Garrison tried harder, but still the words were barely audible. Those eyes—even compared to the other patients above, those eyes were too large, as though torn wide by bearing witness to something they could not stop seeing.
“My brother needs help. Where are the doctors? Where is everybody?”
“R—” was all Garrison mustered before his throat gave out. He could do nothing to stop the pale woman as she turned her dull face toward his brother, her wide eyes threatening to overwhelm him. Rex did not flinch, however. Instead, he stood taller.
“Where?” Rex demanded. The pale emaciated woman lifted a crooked finger as though it would be the last thing she would ever do and pointed to the giant wooden door that separated her room from the adjoining room. It was disproportionately tall, and as black and rotted as the door in the tree; behind it echoed the dull sound of slow thudding. The fact that Garrison had not noticed it before did not frighten him as much as the realization that until she pointed to it, the door had not been there—and that he was incapable of stopping Rex from trying the handle.
“It’s locked,” Rex said, jiggling the knob to be sure, but when he turned back he seemed momentarily shaken.
“What—is she okay?”
Garrison looked at the old woman who was not their mother. Crumpled on the bed, her arms and legs twisted in knots, head upside down but giant eyes wide open and staring. Fetid breath seeped from her mouth, and the final exhale could almost have been a word.
“Rex,” Garrison croaked, then threw up on himself.
“Hang on, bro. We’re going through.”
Rex took a step back and rammed his shoulder into the door, again and again with determination. Garrison heard the distant thudding turn to thrashing, but Rex would not relent, and the sound of cracking wood followed quickly. Over and over again he rammed into the door, and when he stopped, it was only to rub blood back into his shoulder and change tacks. He raised his foot and proceeded to kick the door with all his might, as though desperate for someone, anyone, to heed him.
Sitting in the chair half-conscious, looking past the dead woman at his frantic brother, Garrison nursed a bloody wound that seeped and seeped and tainted the air with the stench of rust. The sound of what was behind the door was deafening, and though he tried he could utter no warning. Each thunderous slam disoriented him further, and just as he lost track of whence the last had come, the lock of the giant rot-black door broke open, and his brother pulled the door wide and stood before the opening.
The black door blocked all sight of what lay beyond. All Garrison could hear was that pounding getting closer; all he saw was Rex’s arm extending out the back, his left hand curled around the broken doorknob with fingers drained of blood. Rex stood like that forever, facing down the sight of what caused that unholy thud, so long that Garrison worried he had finally lost consciousness. Unable to speak or move, Garrison
“Mom?” Garrison’s voice, pinched and high as a child’s, could only whisper the word.
But the woman who turned to him was not his mother. She was too young, too wide-eyed, too alive despite all appearances to the contrary.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Rex,” Garrison whispered without breath, his energy draining. He could not bear to look at her, the woman who was not his mother. It was her eyes. Her terrible amphibian eyes.
“Ma’am, have you seen the doctor around?”
“Rex.” Garrison tried harder, but still the words were barely audible. Those eyes—even compared to the other patients above, those eyes were too large, as though torn wide by bearing witness to something they could not stop seeing.
“My brother needs help. Where are the doctors? Where is everybody?”
“R—” was all Garrison mustered before his throat gave out. He could do nothing to stop the pale woman as she turned her dull face toward his brother, her wide eyes threatening to overwhelm him. Rex did not flinch, however. Instead, he stood taller.
“Where?” Rex demanded. The pale emaciated woman lifted a crooked finger as though it would be the last thing she would ever do and pointed to the giant wooden door that separated her room from the adjoining room. It was disproportionately tall, and as black and rotted as the door in the tree; behind it echoed the dull sound of slow thudding. The fact that Garrison had not noticed it before did not frighten him as much as the realization that until she pointed to it, the door had not been there—and that he was incapable of stopping Rex from trying the handle.
“It’s locked,” Rex said, jiggling the knob to be sure, but when he turned back he seemed momentarily shaken.
“What—is she okay?”
Garrison looked at the old woman who was not their mother. Crumpled on the bed, her arms and legs twisted in knots, head upside down but giant eyes wide open and staring. Fetid breath seeped from her mouth, and the final exhale could almost have been a word.
“Rex,” Garrison croaked, then threw up on himself.
“Hang on, bro. We’re going through.”
Rex took a step back and rammed his shoulder into the door, again and again with determination. Garrison heard the distant thudding turn to thrashing, but Rex would not relent, and the sound of cracking wood followed quickly. Over and over again he rammed into the door, and when he stopped, it was only to rub blood back into his shoulder and change tacks. He raised his foot and proceeded to kick the door with all his might, as though desperate for someone, anyone, to heed him.
Sitting in the chair half-conscious, looking past the dead woman at his frantic brother, Garrison nursed a bloody wound that seeped and seeped and tainted the air with the stench of rust. The sound of what was behind the door was deafening, and though he tried he could utter no warning. Each thunderous slam disoriented him further, and just as he lost track of whence the last had come, the lock of the giant rot-black door broke open, and his brother pulled the door wide and stood before the opening.
The black door blocked all sight of what lay beyond. All Garrison could hear was that pounding getting closer; all he saw was Rex’s arm extending out the back, his left hand curled around the broken doorknob with fingers drained of blood. Rex stood like that forever, facing down the sight of what caused that unholy thud, so long that Garrison worried he had finally lost consciousness. Unable to speak or move, Garrison
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