passes over Smiling Man’s face. “Your Keepsake Box, you mean?”
I nod, though I’m not really sure if we’re talking about the same thing.
“ I’m afraid we only provide those for people who are improving. Whatever they put in those boxes, they get to take with them when they leave. Some people—like Mr. Carson—will fill it with drawings. Others will fill it with carvings. Some will fill it with fingernail clippings. I’m afraid you have no hobby and you are not well enough to cut your own nails, so what use would it be to you?”
My eyes search the walls for an answer and find nothing but scabrous paint and patches of wall where darkness has been painted over. Tears swell in my throat as I come to realize I will not get what Carson has because I am not well enough. I am sick. And that makes me afraid. Stars dance in the corners of my eyes. Smiling Man folds his arms and stands aside as the Needle Man enters the room.
“ Besides,” he says. “You won’t be leaving.”
My arm is bitten and sleep fills my veins, dragging the thought of a scream down with it.
The shape sitting on Hank’s old bed rocks back and forth within its own swimming darkness, tendrils snatching at the air around it with strangulated gasps. Hank toys with fear but instead stands his ground and waits. Waits. Surely it must do something. Twin orbs of liquid blue fire sputter in the ragged black orb of the creature’s face. It gurgles.
“Go away,” Hank says and his voice cracks, startling him enough to back up until he collides with the wall. Flecks of paint fall to the floor. “Please, go away,” he begs and the shape jumps from the bed, shrieks into his face and smiles a smile of translucent dripping teeth before spinning itself into shadow. The silence that follows descends with the dust. A gentle throb starts in Hank’s temple.
He sits heavily down on the bed, ignores the stab of broken springs against his thighs and the smell of urine from the crumpled green sheets. Tears are running freely down his cheeks. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. The throb becomes a thump in his head and he winces at the pain.
There is not much time.
“ Did you hear what happened to Carson? Someone smothered him in his sleep.”
He drops to his knees and the pain finds weight in his descent, ignites in molten hammer-strikes against his brain. Hissing air through his teeth, he reaches underneath the bed, ignoring the repulsion that threatens to overcome him at the feel of the unspeakable things his hand mistakes for a prize.
“ You know what’s funny? His Keepsake box was missing.”
At last he finds what he has come here for and with both hands, he slides the narrow wooden box out from beneath the bed.
“ How did you get out Hank? Who helped you? Was it Polson?”
Unlike him, the box has not changed.
“ Hank, wait a minute now… What are you doing?”
There is no latch on Carson’s box. It opens easily. Hank smiles and with fingers trembling with barely restrained excitement, he removes the crumpled up pictures of faceless people with needle fingers and sets them down by his side.
“ Security to The Quiet Ward. Room Nine.”
He removes the comb first and opens it. Runs it through his thinning hair. “Remember my name,” he whispers, then replaces it in the box and takes out a gold tooth, the root sharp against the roof of his mouth as he rolls it around on his tongue, clicks it against his own teeth. “We’ll put a stop to the rattling in that poor spoiled head of yours,” he says and laughs aloud, stopping when the echo unsettles him.
It is almost time to leave.
He returns the items to the box, covers them with Carson’s pictures. From his jacket pocket he produces a new item. It is the reason he has come back.
With loving care, he places his wife’s wedding ring atop the wrinkled
I nod, though I’m not really sure if we’re talking about the same thing.
“ I’m afraid we only provide those for people who are improving. Whatever they put in those boxes, they get to take with them when they leave. Some people—like Mr. Carson—will fill it with drawings. Others will fill it with carvings. Some will fill it with fingernail clippings. I’m afraid you have no hobby and you are not well enough to cut your own nails, so what use would it be to you?”
My eyes search the walls for an answer and find nothing but scabrous paint and patches of wall where darkness has been painted over. Tears swell in my throat as I come to realize I will not get what Carson has because I am not well enough. I am sick. And that makes me afraid. Stars dance in the corners of my eyes. Smiling Man folds his arms and stands aside as the Needle Man enters the room.
“ Besides,” he says. “You won’t be leaving.”
My arm is bitten and sleep fills my veins, dragging the thought of a scream down with it.
The shape sitting on Hank’s old bed rocks back and forth within its own swimming darkness, tendrils snatching at the air around it with strangulated gasps. Hank toys with fear but instead stands his ground and waits. Waits. Surely it must do something. Twin orbs of liquid blue fire sputter in the ragged black orb of the creature’s face. It gurgles.
“Go away,” Hank says and his voice cracks, startling him enough to back up until he collides with the wall. Flecks of paint fall to the floor. “Please, go away,” he begs and the shape jumps from the bed, shrieks into his face and smiles a smile of translucent dripping teeth before spinning itself into shadow. The silence that follows descends with the dust. A gentle throb starts in Hank’s temple.
He sits heavily down on the bed, ignores the stab of broken springs against his thighs and the smell of urine from the crumpled green sheets. Tears are running freely down his cheeks. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. The throb becomes a thump in his head and he winces at the pain.
There is not much time.
“ Did you hear what happened to Carson? Someone smothered him in his sleep.”
He drops to his knees and the pain finds weight in his descent, ignites in molten hammer-strikes against his brain. Hissing air through his teeth, he reaches underneath the bed, ignoring the repulsion that threatens to overcome him at the feel of the unspeakable things his hand mistakes for a prize.
“ You know what’s funny? His Keepsake box was missing.”
At last he finds what he has come here for and with both hands, he slides the narrow wooden box out from beneath the bed.
“ How did you get out Hank? Who helped you? Was it Polson?”
Unlike him, the box has not changed.
“ Hank, wait a minute now… What are you doing?”
There is no latch on Carson’s box. It opens easily. Hank smiles and with fingers trembling with barely restrained excitement, he removes the crumpled up pictures of faceless people with needle fingers and sets them down by his side.
“ Security to The Quiet Ward. Room Nine.”
He removes the comb first and opens it. Runs it through his thinning hair. “Remember my name,” he whispers, then replaces it in the box and takes out a gold tooth, the root sharp against the roof of his mouth as he rolls it around on his tongue, clicks it against his own teeth. “We’ll put a stop to the rattling in that poor spoiled head of yours,” he says and laughs aloud, stopping when the echo unsettles him.
It is almost time to leave.
He returns the items to the box, covers them with Carson’s pictures. From his jacket pocket he produces a new item. It is the reason he has come back.
With loving care, he places his wife’s wedding ring atop the wrinkled
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