Burn, Baby, Burn by Michael Seale (Chapter 9)

 

Chapter 9

Connections

Two weeks had gone by since the incident on Highway 7. I was still skittish every time the phone rang, but I have had no headaches or hallucinations. The doctor cleared me also, no drugs like I had told Bill, well except my daily joint and the coke that we all took once in a while and definitely no epilepsy. So I am back to the beginning, having absolutely no idea what was going on inside my head. 

The only person I told about all the crazy shit that had been happening was Tom, but all he asked me is, if I had taken any of his ‘shrooms. I wish I were tripping on something, I had told him. I wish I could just forget it all, but those hallucinations were so real. Like I was there, or like I was the one doing it. 

I speculated that I possessed some kind of connection with the killer, that the phone calls were the trigger which connected us somehow. I don’t think I was seeing it in actual time or more I was watching his memory of it. 

The only thing was there were no murders, which I could find. Naomi had had a car accident; I looked it up at the library. She had been drunk driving and crashed her car going over eighty miles per hour.  Callie just hadn’t shown back up at the Black Cat. But that isn’t unusual, apparently. And seeing as I didn’t have her number and no one at the bar would give it to me or even her last name, there was no way for me to contact her. There had been nothing in the news about her. 

I wrote them off as crazy hallucinations, but they were driving me insane. I couldn’t get it out of my head, that I had some sort of connection to the old man. What was he? He was in every hallucination, always on the rim, never active. As if he was one showing me. I had the feeling that I knew him. It was so becoming harder to tell though. The memories of dreams were fading it was as if the light was going out. Or I was waking up and the dream fades with time, becoming harder and harder to hold on to. I hoped I would forget them all together.

Kimber and I had connected, now that Trish and Bill were going strong; both of us kind of getting dumped by Trish. I suppose Trish was that kind of girlfriend that forgot everyone else in her life as soon as a man was around. Thus, Kimber became a regular in my life, or maybe I was a regular in hers. We hadn’t hooked up yet, but I got the feeling that that day was coming. I suppose that is my six sense, my sexdar. Maybe I just needed to give it time, I mean she was Trish’s friend, and she knew all about the two of us. I need to play the long game.  

It was mid-July; the prime season was in full swing. During the summer months the Boston Symphony Orchestra comes to Tanglewood and the tourists come with them. They would play open-air concerts and everyone would sit in the park to listen.  

I got a pair of tickets and the night off, a rarity for me. Kimber jumped at the chance to come. We packed a picnic and a couple of bottles of wine and off we went. Arlo Guthrie and the Pops at Symphony Hall were playing. We spread our picnic blanket out on the grass. The stage was quite a way away, but we were content. Masses of tourists and locals surrounded us, edging always closer to our staked area. The evening air was perfect, warm, with a light breeze blowing, pushing cigarette smoke. A smell of grilled meat wafted through the park. I could feel the pain of Trish fading away, Kimber was working her way into my heart. 

Kimber had blonde hair and brown eyes that always smiled. She was radiant, as if the sun was always shining and the birds were always singing. Kimber was effortless. Her long flowered sleeveless dress flowed as she danced; she was barefoot, with a little silver chain around her ankle that tinkled every once in a while. She looked like a hippie, the most absolute gorgeous hippie that you had ever seen. 

Arlo was a local; everyone came out for his shows. The music started and everyone danced and sang along. His protest songs rang out. His love for his fellow man, Alice’s Restaurant, were all great. This living legend brought the best out of all of us. 

Arlo protested on, and an old man walked through the crowd just to the side of my vision. He seemed watching us or me; he weaved through the crowd; no one seemed to notice him. The crowd moved, and I lost sight of him. My head pounded, I rubbed at my temples. Am I really seeing this, I asked myself. Kimber’s hand reached out for me, to pull me back to her swaying body. For a moment I couldn’t focus. There was no way it was him, I thought, I’m just imagining it. The wine, the smoke, the crowd, it must be getting to me. Then he reappeared closer than before. This time I was sure he was watching me. And then he disappeared in the wave of the crowd again. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. I know it was him, the man from my dreams, I know it. His clothes tattered, and he looked dirty, just like before. I felt like I could smell him even though there was so much space between us, the smell of rot and of death. Why does no one else see him?

“Are you here?” Kimber asked.

“What? Ah, yeah. Sorry. I thought I saw someone.” I lied.

She turned back to the stage without a word, swaying to the music, lost in the song, lost in the evening's atmosphere. She took my hand in hers. Goosebumps appeared on my arms. I smiled at her, trying to forget the old man, hoping it was just the wine going to my head. She smiled back. Maybe this could be something.  

He appeared again not fifty feet from us, staring at me. His eyes red and puffy, his lips curled up showing off black rotted teeth. This apparition was closer than before. His stare was dark and bore through me. It sent chills down my spine. 

“Do you see that old guy?” I pointed to where he was standing. 

“There are a lot of old guys here; be more specific.” She laughed.

“Right there, the homeless looking one.” I pointed again to where he was standing, staring at us.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t see anyone.” She stared at me with concern. 

“Right there,” I pointed again. 

She shook her head and took her hand out of mine. I feel like I am going crazy; I thought.

“I’m sorry; I don’t see anyone like that,” she said.

I shook my head and looked again. He disappeared. I got the feeling the jackhammer of a headache was coming. Not now, I thought. I pushed the palms of my hands against my eyes. Bright spots swirled in my vision.

“Mike, are you ok?”

“I don’t know.” I heard a phone ring, like the one we had on our wall, when I was a kid. The music was loud, but I’m sure I could hear the phone, I was sure of it. I looked nervously around, pacing back and forth over our blanket, kicking the wine over, Kimber was staring at me now. 

“Mike?”

“Do you hear it? Please tell me you hear it,” I pleaded.

“Hear, what? You’re scaring me.”

It sounded as if the ringing was surrounding me, one phone after the other, sometimes with distinct rings or different pitches, but they were all there. I pushed my palms into my ears. It was louder than ever before. My head pounded, no jack hammered again. It felt as if my head might explode. The spots circled my vision again. I had to get out. My hands were sweaty and my mouth dry. Darkness was creeping in the corners of my eyes; I had to get out before I blacked out. I ran thru the crowd pushing past a group of older people. Rushing over picnic blankets and knocking people over. 

“Mike! Mike!” Kimber called. She chased me thru the crowd, leaving our picnic and spilled wine behind. 

The phone clanged louder and louder; it clogged my brain, blocking out every other noise. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t see. I stumbled over a couple that had lain together on the grass, holding hands. I tried to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come. I looked over to them as I tried to get back to my feet. 

Their bodies were burnt, blackened, charred and still holding hands in a final attempt to find love before the fire had engulfed their bodies. I fell backwards onto another corpse. It still smoked. I crawled away thru the burnt grass over charred blankets. I tried to get away from the bodies. There were so many. Smiling, laughing, dead bodies strewn across the lawn as far as the eye could see. Smoke billowing around them.  

I scrambled to my feet. The music still played, but they were playing to a dead audience. Smoked lifted into the air, clogging my lungs, and then I saw her, standing among the corpses. Her back was to me, but I knew the hippie dress that clung to her body. I ran to her. It seemed impossible. The bodies reached for me, their crisp fingers pulling, tearing at my clothes. The more I pushed myself, the farther away she seemed. I tried and tried to reach for her, call her, but I feared I knew what I would see when I found her. 

The fire started under her. She danced over it, not noticing the burns. It engulfed her barefooted feet, melting the thin silver chain that graced her ankle. The fire spread to her dress, it immediately lit and still she swayed. The thin cotton dress burnt in a flash. Her skin crackled, blackened. The fire grew as if it had a life of its own. It overwhelmed her. She slowly turned to me. Her mouth opened to scream, but only a ringing came out. It grew in my ears. It found its place and set. I can never forget that look of pain, betrayal and grief. I fell at her feet and reached out for her. 

The old man stood in the distance. He watched her burn. He shook his head. I turned to face him and yelled. 

“Make it stop! What is this?” 

I forced myself up, stumbling to my feet, and pushed myself towards him. He stood there watching and waiting for me. I tripped over burnt bodies and fell over twisted blankets. He never moved from his spot, I kept expecting him to disappear. All the while it looked as if he were crying. I screamed at him to make it stop. To make it all go away.

“You are the only one that can stop it,” he said.

I reached for him; his clothes still in tatters, his hands were dirty and scarred. His beard hid most of his face, and he wore an old Red Sox hat that had seen better days. He smelled like BO and whiskey, like animal and rot, like death killed itself and rolled in shit. I grabbed him ,”slapped him. 

“Make it stop.” I shouted. I shook him and hit him again. The hat fell to the floor. I could see his eyes; I screamed in revolt and let him drop.

I fell to my knees and held my head in my hands. 

“No, no, no.” I repeated.

A hand grabbed me from behind and pulled me back to reality. The charred corpses gone back were the masses from the concert. I crouched on my knees over an older gentleman. His cheek was red and nose was bleeding. Another man had me in a bear hug, trying to pin my arms back. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, buddy?” the stranger yelled.

An elderly woman, probably the wife of the old dude, was crying and yelling at me. The old man just lay on the ground, scared for his life. He was just attacked for no reason by a complete stranger. 

The other man pulled me to my feet. I tried to pull away, but he had a good hold on me. 

“I’m ok, I’m ok,” I repeated.

I struggled with him for a minute. Kimber had found me through the commotion. 

“I’m sorry,” I yelled to the man, as the stranger bear hugged me from behind. Kimber watched on, deathly afraid. I kept trying to tell the man that I was fine now, he wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t let go. The old couple watched me with fear in their eyes and wiped the blood away from his nose. Kimber shook. 

I gathered my strength and pushed myself backwards, knocking the stranger into the group of people that had gathered.  He lost his grip for a second as he fell backwards. I elbowed him in the gut as hard as I could and took off running. I wanted desperately to get away, to get out of Tanglewood, away from Arlo Guthrie and his protest songs, away from Alice’s Restaurant Massacre, away from the old couple who thought I was crazy, away from the crowd. 

A few moments later, I stood outside the concert grounds hoping to get a glimpse of Kimber as she came out. People were milling about; I knew it wouldn’t be long before the police showed up. I had to leave; I had to leave without Kimber. I knew she wouldn’t understand what happened. I didn’t understand it. Had I really hit an old man? I was sure I was hitting the man from the dream. Had I really seen him? How could it have been? The eyes, the truth are always in the eyes. 

The old man that looked like death three times over was me.