Therapy

Publication History:

Malpractice: An Anthology of Bedside Horror - Necrotic Tissue, March 2009

Strange Days, by Kevin Lucia - 2014

The last thing Brian O’hara remembered before passing out from his fifth shot of vodka was something stupid Corey Anders had done with a can of hairspray and a lighter. He'd nearly burned his damn eyebrows off. Hilarious. Brian couldn’t wait to wake up and bust his ass about it.

Problem was, he couldn’t seem to do that.

He blinked but couldn’t focus. His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. He rolled it around, but that only brought waves of pain. Worst. Hangover. Ever. When he got home he was gonna...

Cold panic hit him.

Home.

He was home. He'd thrown the party this month, and his parents were coming home today. When they found the house trashed and him drunk, after last time...

Shit!

He struggled to sit up and open his eyes, but he couldn’t. He strained against tight restraints, blinking faster, but he still couldn’t see.

GET THE FUCK UP! WAKE UP, ASSHOLE!

“He’s coming around,” a flat voice murmured beyond the mists. “I’ll administer a sedative to calm him. He’ll be disoriented.”

“Whatever you think is best, Doctor,” a soft voice worried.

“Yes,” chimed an angry voice, “he’s spent enough time on his back. His own fault. When we were kids, we were smart enough not to...”

“Shut up, Stephen,” the gentle voice snapped. “This is your son. Have some empathy.”

“I’ll have some empathy when he stops acting like a stupid little...”

Aw, shit.

Mom and Dad, fighting again...because of him.

The mists cleared, and he could finally see.

That only made things worse.

A gaunt, narrow face loomed over him. Black eyes glittered. Brian shivered under their gaze. Glossy black hair, slicked back into a widow’s peak, topped a pointed brow. Round spectacles sat upon a sharp-edged, jutting nose. A medallion on a chain slipped away from the man’s neck. It hung over Brian, swaying back and forth in the light. It was an inverted ‘Y’, encased in a circle. Terrifying memories filled his head with the medallion’s every glistening swing.

Brian’s stomach clenched.

His bladder twitched. It was Dr. Jeffers. The doctor with the cold touch, creeping hands, and shifting smile. The doctor all the junior high football players prayed wouldn’t perform their annual sports physical.

Cold hands.

Dark eyes.

Hungry grin, like the one he wore now.

Dr. Jeffers, of course, meant Clifton Heights Hospital, which, in turn, meant...

Therapy.

No. Not again!

He managed to roll his head away, slightly. Dr. Jeffers was replaced by the fuzzy ovals of his parents’ faces. Mom: blond curls falling to her shoulders, pinched eyes and expensive earrings. Dad: frowning, sharp mouth, disapproval and shame glowing in his green eyes.

He opened his mouth, but his tongue flopped uselessly. All he managed was a weak gurgle. I can’t talk! Why can’t I talk?

A dry hand that somehow still felt slimy rested on his brow. He flinched at the reptilian touch, but couldn’t jerk away. The hand gently – but firmly – pressed his head into the pillow. He realized his head was wrapped in several layers of gauze. What happened? The last time his head had been wrapped like this was after the accident on Black Creek Bridge...

No! Don’t think about that!

Mom! Dad!

He gurgled, a large, grotesque cooing infant.

“Why can’t he talk?” his mother whispered.

“I’m afraid it’s very possible Brian suffered a subdural hematoma falling down the stairs in your home last night. That is where you found him this morning, yes?”

His parents murmured in agreement. Dr. Jeffers continued; thumb rubbing Brian’s forehead, voice crinkling of dry snakeskin. “The intracranial pressure is causing some speech impairment. Confusion, also.”

He’s lying! Mom, Dad...he’s lying!

Even his father’s stern face softened. “Damn kids,” he muttered with no heat, “no one knows when to quit these days...”

“Stop. It.”

Though his mother’s words were soft, they halted his father cold. Tears welled in her eyes, but she sniffed, blinked, and asked, “Will you have to operate?”

The slimy yet dry, scaly hand caressed his forehead. Brian shuddered with each languid pass. “We’ll have to see,” Dr. Jeffers said in a low voice that must’ve been meant to soothe, but it sent worms squirming under Brian’s skin. “It’s an option, but something we’ll endeavor to avoid.”

Brian saw his parents relaxing. No! Mom, Dad...please! I won’t drink again...I promise!

Neither parent gave any indication they saw the terror in his eyes. His father jerked his head, his mother nodded and murmured, “Whatever you think is best, doctor.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Brian’s heart leapt. Did Dad suspect something? His father’s next words, however, destroyed what little hope remained.

“You assured us after his last therapy session he’d never drink again. This wasn’t supposed to be a problem anymore.”

Brian heard rather than saw Dr. Jeffers’ chilling smile. “As I’m sure you know, Brian has a strong will. We’ve made some adjustments, however. Modified our procedures. No more therapy should be necessary after this.”

Flashes strobed across his brain, forgotten and repressed images from his first therapy session. Blood. Flesh. Torn bodies, crushed skulls, liquefied organs. Dismembered torsos, crawling abominations...

“Will Sheriff Baker need to know that he’s violated his probation?”

“No, no...of course not. We’ll keep this to ourselves. Doctor-Patient confidentiality and all. What our beloved town sheriff doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

A pause.

“Besides...we wouldn’t want to taint Brian’s sterling reputation, would we?”

“All right then,” his father huffed. A fuzzy peach object materialized above him – his father’s hand. “Do everything you can to heal our boy, Doc.”

The room dimmed as Brian saw another hazy peach thing grasp his father’s hand. They shook on it, over his body.

“I’ll do all I can. You have my word.”

Blackness closed in.

Brian teetered over the edge and fell down, screaming the whole way.

MOMMMM!

DADDD!

*

Darkness engulfed him. Alive, cloying, thick...oozing. He pushed against it, but it pushed back, holding him fast, filling him with things vile and decayed.

He heard something grunting in the dark.

Something leathery slapped against wet flesh. It grunted, huffed, squealed.

Scrambled closer.

He thrashed but it was too late. He couldn’t break free.

Fear filled him with ice. The grunting – hungry, demanding – thrust into him. Everything burned as something plunged into him over and over again, tearing him to pieces.

The black filled and choked him. He couldn’t even scream.

*

Brian’s neck hurt. As awareness bloomed, he realized he was seated. His head hung low, chin almost touching his chest. He eased his head up, and though pain flashed down his neck into his back, he rotated his head, working stiff muscles.

His mind felt clearer, though a hazy looseness still trembled through him. But as he licked his lips, working his jaw, his tongue felt lighter.

He tried to move his arms and legs and found them still restrained. He gasped, but couldn’t expand his chest very far. A leather strap hugged his torso tight.

He couldn’t put it off any longer. His eyes snapped open, and his worst fears were confirmed: he was being prepped for therapy. The walls and floor of the small room where stark white. On the walls hung black, inactive video screens. Brian felt lost amongst this panoramic vista of nothing.

He jerked at his restraints. Leather bit his flesh, pinning him against cool metal.

“Please, Brian. I’d rather you conserve your strength. You know what an ordeal therapy can be.”

Brian froze, biting his tongue as Dr. Jeffers slipped into view. Screaming would only anger the good doctor...as he’d discovered the first time.

Dr. Jeffers stood before him, checking figures on a clipboard. Thin, bloodless lips pressed together in mild agitation. His mad black eyes glittered. When he spoke with parents and relatives, he looked fuller in the face, more human somehow. When he wasn’t performing for an audience, however...like when he had young boys alone for annual sports physicals...he became thinner, leech-like, always hungry and never satisfied.

Still absorbed with the clipboard, Dr. Jeffers approached him. Brian shivered uncontrollably. He knew what awaited him: Madness. Insanity. Chaos.

Dr. Jeffers stopped at his side, still considering the clipboard. “Not to worry,” he murmured, “you don’t have a subdural hematoma, Brian. You can rest easy on that account. Your continued, flagrant disregard for the values of this community, however, must be dealt with.” He paused, frowning as he read something. “Nurse, I believe we’re going to need an increased dosage of Thorazine, Mescaline, and Pecatonin this time. That should suffice.”

Appearing from behind Dr. Jeffers, a rotund, humorless-looking nurse rolled a metal cart lined with tiny bottles and syringes. She nodded and began prepping the needles.

Brian’s flesh rippled. His anus clenched and his balls drew up tight in fear. Flicking his eyes between the tray and Dr. Jeffers, Brian rasped, “P-please. I w-won’t drink anymore, I p-promise...”

Dr. Jeffers sighed. He folded the clipboard under his arm, tapped his chin with his right index finger, almost looking sorry. “I wish I could believe you, Brian. Sincerely. However, considering the last few times you’ve said that,” he grinned wickedly, “we simply can’t take the chance.”

Something hot pricked his arm.

Fire raced along his veins as the nurse pushed the drugs into him, but instead of crying out, he grit between his teeth, “There’s just s-so much p-pressure. Dad an coach have been ridin me. There’s this new English t-teacher – Mr. P-Patchett – threatenin to flunk me. Everyone’s always tellin me what to do an’ where to go...”

He was blubbering, but he couldn’t help it. All his rage, pain, loathing for his parents and himself mingled with his terror. He trailed off into incoherent sobs.

Dr. Jeffers moved, uncoiling like a snake. Brian didn’t have time to flinch before the parasitic man slapped him, open-palm. His head slammed into the chair’s metal headrest and pain blazed on his cheek. Brian wanted to scream; but all he could do was wail like a small, lost child.

“Look at me.”

He didn’t want to, but the words were iron ligaments that tugged his joints. He turned and fearfully regarded Dr. Jeffers – trusted family physician and attending surgeon at Clifton Heights Memorial Hospital. Dr. Jeffers’ face was rigid. Black fires burned in onyx eyes as he spoke sharp words that cut Brian where it hurt most.

“When you claimed the quarterback slot last spring, you knew what was expected of you. Self-control. Which you apparently do not possess. This must be remedied.”

He nodded to the nurse. Another pinprick of pain against Brian’s arm, at which he couldn’t contain a gasp this time. Ice flowed down his veins, as the nurse pumped him full of something different.

“I’m your doctor, Brian,” Dr. Jeffers said in gentler tones. “It’s my duty to do everything in my power to treat you. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Numbness crept through Brian’s body, but as he slumped, his thoughts remained lucid. Inside he screamed. Outside, however, he sagged into the chair. When the nurse gave him one last shot, he felt a vague pressure against his arm, nothing more.

Dr. Jeffers waved the nurse away, who pushed the cart past him and toward the room's only door. Dr. Jeffers reached out and eased Brian’s head – which hung on a limp neck - back against the chair’s headrest. He held it there, while he wound a leather strip around his forehead and cinched it tight.

Dr. Jeffers looked down upon him, pursing his lips. After several seconds, he murmured, “We shall begin anew.” He turned on one heel and followed the nurse out of the room.

*

Silence fell after the door closed seamlessly behind them, giving the illusion that Brian was encased in a windowless space. For a moment, nothing happened. Drowsiness crept over his mind, matching the numbness that had swept his body away. He wondered in wistful despair if he’d pass out this time. Such hope vanished when his chair began to spin – slowly at first – on an axle hidden beneath the floor.

The lights flickered.

Everything fell into darkness.

No, not this! Not again!

The television screens flickered on. Luminous fingers danced on the walls and floors and ceiling. The screens hissed static as the chair spun faster. Speakers hidden somewhere in the ceiling blared. A droning hum filled the room.

Images flashed across the screens. Brian’s entire being melted into a screech of despair. He spun faster. The images flowed, speakers thundered and grunted.

The voice began low, as always. An indecipherable murmur building to a mind shuddering crescendo. It rose, fell, rose again. Thundering the same mantra, over and over.

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

The words burned his brain.

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

The room flickered, flashed, flickered. Images on the screens leapt and danced, morphing into each other, swelling and crawling off the screens, onto the floors, walls and ceiling. Brian spun. His ears rang with words that spoke of dead things.

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

“The subject shows an acute disregard for the needs and the standards of the community,” a voice boomed beneath the alien mantra. “The subject needs to accept the community’s values as his own. He must learn to live within the community and serve it, as the rest do.”

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

Images spun. Blood. Metal. Twisted flesh. Fire. Puckering wounds. Desire. Leathery, glistening hide, slipping and sliding, coiled worms squirming. Mangled corpses. Crushed skulls.

And still, Brian spun faster.

“The subject refuses to alter undesirable behavioral patterns. Why? Stubborn adherence to the façade of free will,” thundered the voice, sounding female, now. “This is weakness. The subject must encounter the consequences of its actions, if it is to conform properly to the values of the community.”

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

Blood. Sex. More blood. Thrusting, grunting, and twisting. Thirst. Hot metal piercing flesh and organs. The images spun faster, shifting. Behind the flickering images, something prowled. Wet, leathery hide squelched against tile. Tentacles whipped, hungry. Something stared at him with greedy eyes.

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

Something built inside Brian. All emotions collided: love, fear, death, lust, love, loathing,

desire, disgust, fear.

Tires squealed on asphalt.

A nonexistent steering wheel slipped through Brian’s drunken ghost fingers. He was strapped into the driver’s seat of his father’s old Granada. It shuddered and slid across an ice-slicked road, careening toward Black Creek Bridge.

Pink flashed.

A girl stepped in the way, turned her head and looked at him. In a flash, she disappeared under the car. Something crunched beneath its tires. He jerked against his restraints, screaming as he slammed brakes that weren’t there.

The scene dissolved into a blood and gore splattered snow field. A hand reached from the snow, and a body dug itself free and crawled across the winter landscape, off the screen and into the room with him.

It was the little girl.

Pink snowsuit splattered in crimson, head crushed like a melon. Bits of brain and skull clung to hair matted with blood. Half a death head’s smile leered as the dead thing droned from ruined lips, “The subject has already faced this consequence, with little alteration of undesirable behavioral patterns. Escalation of negative stimuli is required.”

With a jerk, the non-existent steering wheel slipped through his fingers again. His father’s old Granada – long since towed to the Greene’s Metal Salvage – plowed through the little girl. Bits of meat and blood splashed the windshield.

Brian screamed and spun.

The speakers pounded into his brain, “Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

Something leapt in the flickering ghosts thrown by the screens. Long-limbed, naked, glistening, it flitted in and out of his sight in stop-motion jerks. A low grunting filled the air as it flashed and danced from the corner of his eyes. The darkness swelled and pushed into him, thrusting, grunting.

The naked glistening thing crept closer. Brian caught glimpses and then it flashed away, always moving and creeping. In snatches, he saw dozens of eyes. Tentacles coiled and snapped where the mouth should be. Wriggling fingers curled at the ends of leathery hands.

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

It pounced from the shadows and mounted him. Before he could scream, it plunged something deep into his chest, grabbed his guts and pulled. Brian gurgled on blood...

*

...and stumbled. The spinning slowed and stopped. Lights still flashed outside the windows of the house, and the voice thundered...

“Y’AI’NG’NGAH, SUMMANUS! H’E – L’GETB, FAI TRHDOG, UAHH, SUMMANUS!”

...but he stood upright. Walking, not strapped to a metal chair in the chamber. It was dark, but he thought he was in someone’s house, somewhere in town. He squinted, tried to see...

Familiar objects leapt from the shadows.

Dad’s recliner.

Mom’s china cabinet.

His sister’s French horn at the foot of the stairs. This was his house. He stood in the den, which led to the living room. Lights flickered outside. A voice whispered in the background...

y’ai’ng’ngah, summanus. h’e – l’getb, faithrdog, uahh...summanus

“H-hello?” The whispers swallowed his voice whole.

He staggered forward. Chairs lay askew. Beer cans littered the floor, along with big red plastic cups. His foot caught something heavy and he almost tripped. Looking down, he bit his tongue. Corey Anders, passed out on the floor.

An animal grunting filled the room.

The air became cold. Something thudded and thumped and slapped wetly, hide against flesh. He stepped around the corner, peering from the den into the living room. The place was wrecked. Couples lay in piles, limbs entwined, heads resting in laps and on chests. Football players, cheerleaders, others. The coffee table had been upended. A lamp lay smashed on the floor. Beer cans and bottles rolled. The room reeked of beer and cigarettes and weed and...

...sex.

Oily, spoiled, rotten.

A cold draft blew from the window. Gooseflesh pimpled his thighs. He looked down, surprised to see himself still in his hospital gown. He pulled the unsubstantial fabric around him as he crept forward, but it did nothing to keep the chill out.

Lights flickered outside, throwing glistening shadows on the walls. Far away, something hissed and crackled, like static from dozens of television screens. Stepping into the den, Brian gingerly avoided a prone Billy Tompkins, who snored in surreal fashion. Worse yet, he felt himself harden, aroused yet disgusted by the loud grunting that assaulted his ears.

He turned the corner.

Saw what pounded and lurched on the couch in the living room. An ass rose and fell, thrusting. Pants and boxers crumpled at ankles, belt buckle jingling with each thrust.

Crumpled along with the jeans was a Clifton Heights varsity letter jacket, the embroidered name Matt Cavanaugh barely visible amongst the folds of clothes. With each thrust and quiver of that ass, grunts echoed, alternating in grotesque harmony with something that slapped wetly.

His mouth opened.

He squeaked. With a great heave, Brian bent double, fell to his knees and vomited. The grunting and thrusting stopped.

Brian looked up, drool leaking from his mouth. “No,” he whimpered. “N-no! I never wanted this to...no!”

The thing on the couch stood, turned and faced him. Brian’s mind quivered at the sight, because it wasn’t Matt Cavanaugh. Wasn’t human at all. It stood, naked hide glistening. Dozens of blinking eyes squirmed on its forehead. Where its mouth should be wriggled long, fleshy tentacles. Its fingers squirmed. At the ends of them puckered hungry little mouths.

It hissed, sounding pleased and hungry. Brian tried to stand, slipped and fell in his own puke. As he scrambled backward, hands slipping in slime, he couldn’t help but glance at the thing’s crotch. Coated in blood and gore, something horrible and serpentine twitched there.

Brian’s eyes flicked back, saw the figure slumped on the couch, saw the ravaged, bloody remains of her. Glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, blood-drenched mouth hanging open, slack-jawed.

Carolyn.

“NO!” he screamed, flailed and fell. “No! I never...GOD, NO!”

The thing crouched, coiled and tensed. The awful thing between its legs whipped and hissed at him. Brian’s mind fell apart, and he screamed again.

It leapt and landed on his chest, slamming him to the floor. With a violent, gurgling coo, it mounted him with a downward thrust, that thing tearing into his gut. Brian closed his eyes and howled. Searing pain, loathing and disgust filling him with every thrust and grunt and squeal.

He squeezed his eyes shut...

*

...and then opened them looking up from the couch, now. Matt Cavanaugh’s leering, drunk face grimaced with every thrust, grunting and drooling. Brian – Carolyn? - screamed, tried to push the football player’s corded, muscled chest away, but he/she was too weak.

Carolyn/Brian screamed again, but no one heard, not even Brian - the older brother, her protector and defender. He was passed out in his father’s recliner, next to Matt as he brutally violated Carolyn/him, over and over...even as the blood flowed, rank and thick.

Brian/Carolyn reared back and screamed. Matt pounded away, unrelenting, as everything faded into a blank, empty whiteness...

*

Much Later

Dr. Jeffers stood at the observation window. He clucked his tongue in disappointment at the figure bound tight in the white strait-jacket, rocking back and forth on the hospital gurney below.

He shook his head. “Such a waste,” he murmured. From here he could see the blind psychosis in Brian O’hara’s manic eyes. He never imagined the boy would fragment so easily. He’d thought him made of sterner stuff; thought the procedure’s necessary adjustments had been finer tuned than that.

It was conceivable that he’d made a mistake, however. Mixing experimental drugs, mental conditioning, and arcane occult knowledge wasn’t a paint-by-numbers exercise. He reached to his neck, brushed the pewter medallion on its chain. “We’ll just have to try again, and be a bit more careful next time, won’t we, Summanus?”

He considered the twisting form on the gurney as it mumbled and drooled. He’d plenty of time to sort it out. The O’hara’s would be crushed, though. After what happened to their daughter Carolyn several months ago, Brian’s fate would be quite a blow.

He’d do all he could to help them. He was a doctor, after all. It was his duty.

The intercom buzzed.

“Dr. Jeffers?” a lifeless, dry voice intoned. “A Craig Hartley is here to see his brother in ICU.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be just a moment.”

He tucked his clipboard under his arm, vowing to study O’hara’s case further. Until then, he’d receive the best care possible. This was, of course, Clifton Heights Memorial Hospital. That’s what they were about.

Dr. Jeffers turned and walked away.

Brian O’hara’s anguished whimpers of, “Oh god oh god oh god I’m sorry so sorry,” bounced off the cold Plexiglas of the observation window, unheard.