by Jessica Tong

 

"Andrew, welcome!" Dr. Burl's smile reminded Mr. Werth of Prozac. "Come on in and take a seat! There's the couch, the armchair… heck, you can sit at my desk if you want. Whatever you're comfortable with." 

"Thank you." Wondering vaguely if the psychiatrist was giving him some sort of strange psychological test, Mr. Werth stepped hesitantly over to the couch, a squashy brown piece of furniture in the center of the room. It sighed softly as he sat down and immediately began to swallow him.

"So, Andrew," Dr. Burl asked earnestly, "what's troubling you?"

He began hesitantly. He wished that she wouldn't call him by his first name. "Well, I'm not sure exactly. Lately, I've been sleeping a lot more, and I've started sleepwalking."

"Hm…" Dr. Burl nodded and scribbled something in an eye smarting shade of violet on her notepad. She leaned forward intently and said, "This is a new thing for you, right? Can you describe these changes a bit more?"

Mr. Werth cleared his throat uncomfortably and tired futilely to sit up. He'd sunk so far that his knees were nearing his chest, his black shoes nearly blocking his view of the psychiatrist. "I'm not really sure about when it started," he admitted. "I usually sleep ten to eleven hours a night. Sometimes I'll wake up on the couch and once there was a bunch of dishes in the sink when it'd been empty the night before."

"I see." The psychiatrist was writing furiously now. "She stopped for a moment and regarded him skeptically. "Do you live alone, Andrew?"

"Y-yes," he stammered. "Why?"

"We—ll, I was thinking that a family member might have seen you walking around at night." She held up one manicured hand. "That's okay, though. No harm done." It sounded suspiciously as if she was consoling him on his lack of a family. "Now, your condition seems pretty straightforward," Dr. Burl continued, "except for how long you're sleeping, so I'm going to prescribe-"

"It won't work," Mr. Werth broke in gloomily. "Whatever it is. I've tried all sorts of medicine. I've tried acupuncture, and those Chinese herbs, and I talked to a Medicine Doctor… I even got hypnotized. Nothing's worked."

"Wow, that's impressive," she acknowledged, then frowned. "Sleeping more than eight hours isn't normal at your age. In fact, it's unhealthy. Even all these other things didn't work—what about just trying to sleep less?"

Mr. Werth struggled to escape the expanding dent in the couch. "I have. But no matter what I do, I always sleep for ten hours or more."

There was a pause while Dr. Burl thought. "Well," she chuckled eventually, "I have to admit that I'm stumped! Listen, I'll talk to some colleagues and do some research, and when I have some idea of what's going on, I'll give you a call, okay?" She shook her head and laughed again. "Even psychiatrists are human, Andrew!"

What else would they be? Mr. Werth wondered, struck by the strange comment. He crawled out of the couch's grasp and staggered upright, thoroughly regretting not choosing the armchair. "Thank you." He shook Dr. Burl's hand briskly and left the office.

§

He stands above the corpse, the sound of traffic blocked out by the frantic pounding of blood in his ears. The knife slips between his numb fingers and clatters to the dirty cement near his bloodstained shoes. The sticky liquid gleams on the dark leather.

He tries to laugh. The sound comes out nervous and uneasy. How had things gone so wrong? Sure, he'd never gotten along with Jack—in fact, they absolutely loathed each other—but he never meant to kill the guy, or anything. The knife was just for defense. You never know who's gonna come after you in a dark, narrow alley at three in the morning.

            "Shit." He swings around and kicks the stinking dumpster violently. If only Jack hadn't come after him… What sort of idiot springs out of nowhere in an alley to pick a fight, anyway? He should've known who he was messing with. "Shit!" He kicks the dumpster again, takes a deep breath and picks up the knife with trembling hands.

 He knows what he has to do.

§

Mr. Werth's secretary, Angela, winced as her employer tripped up the stairs and staggered into the office on Monday two hours late, his face gray and haggard despite the eleven hours he'd slept during the night. He shambled past her and into his office. Closing the door behind him, he collapsed in his chair and put his face in his hands, his unfocused eyes staring out the narrow window at a man leaning against the wall of Andronico's Market. He was smoking a cigarette beneath the awning, languidly watching people walk by. Mr. Werth wished that he could be so carefree, and once again his mind went over the situation:

Mr. Werth had woken up later than usual, ate two pieces of whole grain toast, took a hurried shower, and drank half a cup of decaf coffee. He got dressed, frowning over the disappearance of one of his favorite blue shirts, collected his briefcase, and stopped at the door. His shoes were missing—he was going to be late to work.

"How-?!" Mr. Werth spluttered, scouring the entryway for some sign of the missing footwear. He knew that he hadn't misplaced them. He wore his shoes to work and kept them on until he got back home, at which point he put them neatly by the door, side by side with the laces tucked inside. He had no reason to change that routine. He scoured the entryway. Although it eventually produced a pair of sandals, white running shoes, and bedroom slippers, the black leather shoes he wore to work were nowhere to be found.

A vague suspicion grew in the back of his mind. Abruptly, Mr. Werth set down his briefcase and tore through the house. An hour and a half later, he had composed a list of everything that was missing—his shoes, two shirts, a pair of slacks, a kitchen knife, three pairs of socks, a bath towel, and $260. The niggling doubt in his mind grew into cold, clear fact—someone had been in his house. 

 

Mr. Werth went over the facts again and again in his mind, and couldn't come up with any alternative. Sleepwalking just didn't account for it. He stared at the running shoes he'd worn to work instead—they looked ridiculous against the somber fabric of his suit.

Angela timidly peeked through the doorway. "Mr. Werth? You have a call…"

            Wearily, he turned away from the window and grasped the phone from his desk in one clammy hand. "Andrew! How are you?" As usual, the psychiatrist sounded perky.           Mr. Werth yelped and almost dropped the phone.

            "Whoops! Didn't mean to surprise you! I tried calling you at home, but I guess you didn't get any of my messages."        

He had. He'd gotten all twelve of them. And deleted them, too. "Ah, yes. I've been very busy lately. Sorry about that." How had Dr. Burl gotten his work phone number?

            "Well, I'm calling about your condition," she continued. "And I'm sorry to say that no one I talked to knew about it."

            "Yeah, I didn't think so," Mr. Werth mumbled. He was in no mood to talk to Dr. Burl. "Well, thanks-"

            "Oh, it sounds like you have a theory!" The psychiatrist sounded delighted. "What is it? I'd love to hear it."

            Mr. Werth recklessly began to talk. "I'm not sleepwalking. Someone is- is drugging my food or something and going through my house and stealing stuff." He stopped and waited for Dr. Burl's reaction. As the silence stretched, Mr. Werth wondered if maybe the line had gone dead.

            Finally, Dr. Burl cleared her throat. "I-I see. Why do you think that?"

            "This morning, my shoes were missing. Gone. I checked the rest of my house. Someone stole almost $300! It was gone! And there were things where I swear I didn't put them…. Maybe a stalker, I don't know."

            "Did you check everywhere? Maybe you just misplaced-"

            "Of course I did!" Mr. Werth snapped. "Someone took my stuff! Someone was in my house!"

            "Well, maybe you were pick-pocketed on the street," Dr. Burl suggested.

            "No way! Do you think I just carry $300 with me wherever I go? It was gone. I always keep some money hidden at home, and it wasn't there! I think that these guys must've been drugging me every night and looking for valuables." With a sinking feeling, Mr. Werth realized that the psychiatrist didn't believe a word of it. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but it makes sense! Believe me, I'd really prefer to be sleepwalking, but that's simply impossible!"

            The psychiatrist didn't respond for a moment. "Andrew, are you free this afternoon?" Something heavy welled up in the pit of his stomach.

            "No, I'm not crazy," he replied. "I know that all the crazy people say that, but I'm not crazy. Someone else has been in my house!"

            "Come see me at four this afternoon," Dr. Burl said finally. "We can talk then." She hung up.

            "Stupid quack," Mr. Werth swore vehemently to the dial tone.

                                                §

Having disdainfully ignored Dr. Burl's invitation, Mr. Werth left the office at five and walked slowly down the street. He didn't know where to go. He walked slowly past the big bright windows of the neighboring bookstore, paused and sniffed at the pizza parlor—too crowded for his tastes—and finally stopped at an empty Chinese restaurant for dinner where a middle-aged, apathetic waitress served him hot greasy food. Mr. Werth savored every bite.

It didn't take him long to finish his meal—he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He sat back and waited for the check. The stark, white interior failing to capture his interest, Mr. Werth's gaze turned to the street and absently noted that the chain smoker waiting at the bus stop looked familiar. A week ago, he would've shrugged it off, but today, with his mind full of shadowy suspicions, Mr. Werth made note of this fact.

He left the restaurant and decided to spend the night at a hotel—the last place he wanted to sleep was at home, where strangers were probably sneaking about.

The chain smoker casually stood up and followed him up the street, a cigarette burning brightly between two fingers.

            §

He wakes up suddenly and casts about frantically in the dark for a light switch. A battered digital alarm clock next to the bed reads 10:43 pm. As he finds the switch, a dim, yellow light flickers on and he stares at his surroundings, dumbfounded. He doesn't know where he is. The narrow, empty room with its worn gray carpeting is unfamiliar. He doesn't recognize the cheap TV or the tall wooden dresser. Bewildered and disturbed, he stumbles out of bed and puts on his rumpled clothes as quietly as he can, his heart racing. He scans the room one last time, as if searching for some sign of familiarity, then turns off the light, opens the door slowly, and leaves.

He gets out of the hotel without a problem and discovers that he's conveniently close to the place where he hid the bloodstained shoes the night before. He recovers them with ease. Maybe, he thinks, he's overreacting. Sure, he woke up in a weird place, but it's not like that's never happened before. He didn't really know why it happened, but it had never bugged him before. Now he just needed to be careful. He'd go back to the bar, pretend nothing happened. Act natural. Even if someone found the body—which was unlikely—no one could prove that he had anything to do with it. There was no evidence. Well, soon there wouldn't be. He smiles at the plastic bag swinging from one hand.

He feels someone tap him on the shoulder and flinches. "Yeah?" he asks, turning around. The first thing he notices is the orange glow of a cigarette butt, a single light smoldering in the dark street.

The man takes the cigarette away from his mouth. "I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

Suspicious, he shrugs and keeps walking. "Sorry, maybe some other time. I'm busy."

"Yeah, I know. You've still gotta bury those shoes, right?" the smoker calls out casually.

He shudders convulsively and barely manages to keep from running away. If he runs, he's pretty much proven guilty. "W-what? Shoes?" He manages to suppress the tremor in his voice. "Sorry, I think you've got the wrong guy." His grip on the plastic bag tightens.

"Hm, I'm not so sure about that. But if you're positive, why don't we argue it over at the police station? I got a car real close by, and there's some nice guys hanging around who could join us." In other words, he was surrounded.

He can feel his façade crumbling into dust. "W-wait a second. I have no idea what you're talking about! Why're you talking about a police station?" His voice rises suddenly, inexplicably in volume.

"Give up," the smoker says coldly, flicking ash onto the ground. "We found the knife and the bath towel. We know that last night you burned two shirts and a pair of pants in someone's barbeque. We also know that no one saw your buddy Jack after he followed you from the bar. Sounds like you guys had a pretty bad argument, huh?" The smoker inhales. "The damning evidence, however, is the shoes-"

"Shit." He leaps to the side and tears through numerous side alleys, shadows and loud voices biting his heels as he runs. He doesn't know where he's going as he turns through narrow side streets and scrambles over fences. A group of raccoons howl as he runs through them; a homeless man watches impassively as he sprints past. He stumbles over curbs and garbage bins. Gradually, the voices and pounding footsteps fade away. All he can hear is his racing pulse and ragged breathing as he staggers on. Finally exhausted, he stops and leans against a tree to catch his breath. He's lost, he realizes, looking around.

Tall dark trees tower silently above him and twigs crackle beneath his feet as he staggers on. He trips over a rock and into a thicket. Wincing, he drags himself deeper in. It's a perfect hiding place. As the sound of his pounding heart recedes and his breathing slows, he looks up at the sheltering foliage above him and notices that it's getting lighter. Dawn will be approaching soon. He feels exhaustion creeping on the edges of his consciousness as the adrenaline ebbs away.

Hoping that when he wakes up again, he'll be far away and safe, he surrenders himself to sleep.

§

Mr. Werth wakes up, cold and shivering, to birdsong. His shirt is drenched in dew and stiff with old sweat, and he feels stiff and sore. Groaning, he opens his eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight filtering through the foliage surrounding him. Something is terribly, horribly wrong.

He can feel everything crumbling around him, dreamlike, as sits up and brushes an ant off his wrist. "Oh, god…" His head is pounding insistently, like frantic, desperate hammering on a closed door. He is beyond words, sprawled out deep within a bush, and there is something digging into his side.

Shocked beyond belief, his weary mind reduced to blank surprise, Mr. Werth pulls a bulky black plastic bag out of his jacket and flips it upside down on the ground.

"So that's where they were…" He chuckles helplessly as his work shoes, scuffed and stinking with a dark, sticky, substance tumble onto the forest floor.