Six

Nancy Serves Her Mind to Crowe

     Nancy Bishop looked out the window into the night. A fog was drifting in across Casco Bay; it looked very cold out on the water. She was often chilly, even in summer. the seashore, with its constant clammy coldness and ever-present spray of chill sea mist, was not a place for her.
     And yet here she was. The errand she'd come to Portland on hadn't been pressing; anyone from the office could have done it. It didn't have to be her. Usually she hated leaving the quiet sanctuary of Portsmouth for any reason whatsoever. But she had jumped at the chance.
     It had something to do with Horowitz. She was sure of it. That little demon was up to something. Screwing with her karma. Putting the hoodoo on her. Something. She was not a great believer in coincidence, and to suddenly run into him on the streets of Boston like that, well, that was really stretching things.
     And then to run into Frank a few days later...
     She heard the water streaming in the shower and wished she was in there too, not to be with Frank - brother! Were those days ever gone! - but to feel the hot, steamy, languorous water beating down on her frozen skin, waking it, warming it.
     It had been good to see Frank, even in the state he was in. Hell, it'd even been good to see ol' Alex Horowitz, God knows why, some Auld Lang Syne vibe ticking along in her heart, unknown by her mind.
     Horowitz had been glad to see her, too, there could be no mistaking the delight in his eyes as he walked up to her. "Well, Nancy Bishop! What's it been, ten, twenty years?"
     "You know full well it's been thirty," she had replied, cautiously.
     "That long? Have we even been alive that long? Can it be true?" He laughed. "We should get together some time, talk about the old days."
     She thought about giving some phony affirmative answer, but then Doctor Crowe's voice spoke up in the back of her mind. "Be honest. Only by being honest with others can you be honest with yourself." Doctor Crowe was her psychiatrist.
     "No, Alex," she had said, somewhat sadly, can you believe it! "I don't think we'll be doing that."
     Alex hadn't been hurt. Sticking a testicle in an open flame couldn't hurt that nerveless wonder. "Oh, we'll see about that, Nancy. You never know what the world'll deal you."
     She hadn't liked the smug "I-know-something-you-don't-know" smirk Alex had worn as he said it; but that was his usual expression, or had been when she'd known him, so she had no idea if he was being furtive or just making conversation. If Alex Horowitz ever looked like he didn't have some big secret (probably having to do with you, and probably for sale), then that was the time to get worried.
     Still, he hadn't even asked for her number as he drifted off into the shadows of Boston...
     Not that she would have given it to him.
     He probably already had it. He was an informational pack-rat when she'd known him; no reason to believe that'd lessened any. The eternal Grad student. Probably still in school, dreaming of the day he'd finally get to walk in Firth's professorial shoes, empty for so long...
     She shuddered. Why had she thought of Firth?
     She hadn't mentioned it to Frank, or anyone else, even Dr. Crowe, but Firth had been hanging around a lot lately. She would see him out of the corner of her eye, watching her from a darkened corner of the room; gone when she whirled, of course. She would sometimes glimpse his narrow face peering out of restaurant windows, out of crowd scenes on in movies (she saw him in the bar on Tattooine, for God's sake!), out of patterns in wood... even out of her mirror...
     It was Horowitz. He'd stirred something up. She wanted to go track him down and wring his smug little neck.
     And then there had been the dreams, the whispering grabbing shadow things that lunged at her from behind sleep's dim curtain, the walls formed of coils that moved and intertwined, the horrible pit, the shambling thing that is heard and not seen, the gaunt professor watching all the while. There were the omens, the portents that taunted her at every stop sign and winked out through every random TV commercial. The overturned car with the Miskatonic U. decal, its dead driver staring at her through tangled blood-matted hair; the birds that dove into the grill of her car the next Saturday, one after the other after the other, 'til she pulled the car over and leapt out, hyperventilating; the odd syllable that she would catch from overheard conversation - "blood", "dead", "Arkham", "acid", "Firth" - the way sentences would form when she clicked the remote for the TV - "The (click) newly buried (click) will rise (click)and eat(click)Fresh Pasta!"
     She had told Dr. Crowe about the portents, and he had scowled thoughtfully. "The human mind makes patterns. The brain, your consciousness, are things which organize. They will group disparate items and associate them. And a lot can be told about the individual by the way he or she organizes these random things. It's the basis of psychiatry; Freud and dreams and all that.
     "For example, the schizophrenic mind, which we call 'dissociative' will organize stimuli in atypical manners; "dog" is grouped with, say, "banana" rather that with "animal" or "cat", for the reason that the schizophrenic saw a dog chew on a banana once. It makes sense to the schizophrenic's mind, though the rest of the world is unable to understand it.
     "Have you ever seen a Rorschach Test?"
     Dr. Crowe pulled open a drawer in his large mahogany desk and brought out a small stack of eight-by-ten cards. The ink-blots, thought Nancy.
     "Yes, I've heard of the Rorschach test," Nancy replied, "Though I can't say I've actually taken one. It seems kind of 'fifties' doesn't it? I mean, 'Spellbound', Alfred Hitchcock, Salvador Dali; well, that's what it conjures up for me; I suppose that tells you more about me than the test will." She was always uncomfortable around Dr. Crowe. Not that he made her uneasy, just the whole idea of someone listening to you talk and 'diagnosing' what was wrong with your brain, putting you in a little category; 'that answer means she's a paranoid schizophrenic! Tell her what she's won, Don Pardo!'
     'Nancy Bishop has qualified for an indefinite vacation at the Arkham Hill Rest Home, where she'll be entertained by the wacky ravings of John Symonds and his new friends. She'll be stepping out in this loverly figure-flattering designer jacket from Bellevue of Manhattan. It ties in the back - the arms, that is...'
     "Nancy? You're drifting."
     "Sorry. Thinking about, uh, movies I'd seen ink-blot tests in."
     "Do you find your attention wandering more often lately? It could be your prescriptions, you know. I can cut them back, play with the doses a little if you like."
     "Oh no!" Whoops. Too emphatic. "I've finally gotten to where I can sleep nights" - some of the time -"and I don't want to mess around with a good thing." And I'm quite addicted, she added, to herself. But he was no doubt aware of that as well; there were worse things than minor addictions. The Night Horrors, for one thing.
     "I've been thinking we might want to try switching to one of the newer medications," meaning more expensive, but insurance pays for it, so what the hell, "But we can discuss that later, if you like."
     He held up the first card. The blot had been formed by placing a dab of ink and then folding the paper over on top of it; the pressure forced the ink into strange random patterns. Nancy had made similar blot-works in Art Class back in grade school.
     "Now look at the ink pattern, Nancy, and tell me what it reminds you of."
     The first one was simple. "A butterfly." The resemblance was obvious, right down to the twin-lobed wings and the antennae. Anyone who looked at that pattern and saw something other than a butterfly would have to be crazy.
     The second blot reminded her of a split apple, and she said as much. As she continued to study the patterns of ink, she noticed that there appeared to be small creature-like images dancing on the apple's periphery. They looked somehow familiar, like some of the more bizarre inhabitants of Hieronymus Bosch's "The Garden of Earthly Delights. It made sense, in a way... apple, garden, eden, serpent. She mentioned this; Doctor Crowe made an "mm-hmmm" sort of noise and scribbled in the notepad on his lap.
     "Next Figure?"
     She recoiled slightly. It was the imprint left by a human body, a body which had recently been removed from the spot, after its owner's soul had been separated from it in a particularly gruesome manner. She could see the imprints where the blood had trickled... and where it had splattered.
     "Nancy?"
     She hesitated, then spoke. "I'm not sure what this says about me, but it appears to be... spilled blood. Someone has been killed, butchered even, and his body removed... you can see a spot here where his dragging feet left a trail. It's really disturbing. Can we move on?" She was starting to perspire, coldly.
     "In a second. It's interesting that you said 'he' in reference to the body. Why do you assume it was male?"
     "I don't know. It could be female, I guess. Does it matter?"
     "Perhaps not. If it's any comfort, many subjects have similar reactions to this card."
     "Bully for them. Let's move on."
     "As you wish." He turned the next card. Nothing in this blot jumped out at her... she had to stare at it for a moment before the 'shape-recognition' neurons in her brain were able to make any sort of arrangement of the ink pattern. But gradually she began to make out features in the oval shape. it seemed to be a face.
     As she looked closer, she could make out the hint of a nose, thin lips, spectacles, even some hair. It wore an expression of bemused contempt, as if it was looking out of the card at her, and mocking her presence, laughing silently at her collapsing mind. "Well, look who's gone to see a psychiatrist. Nancy Bishop. What's happened to you, Nancy? You used to be sooo together. Focused, snap-minded. Steady, sharp as smashed glass. Now you're l spilled, like a bowl of marbles."
     She wanted to tell the card to shut up, but that wouldn't be a good thing to do in front of a shrink, now, would it? A quick ticket to a quiet place, it would be. No fun at all.
     She bit her tongue and stared at the now-silent card. The face looked familiar.
     "I'm beginning to make out a face..." she told Dr. Crowe.
     A second more of scrutiny, and she gasped with recognition.
     It was the face of Firth.
     But she wasn't about to tell Dr. Crowe that. She had carefully, scrupulously avoided any mention of... those days... in all of her sessions. What she needed from Dr. Crowe was not therapy, nor any delving into her tangled psyche to uproot the traumas therein; she needed the mood drugs, pure and simple. She needed to get herself to the point where the screaming night horrors became "Oh look. There are faces coming out of the wall. Isn't that interesting."
     She wasn't there yet, but not for want of trying.
     "It's a college professor. He looks very dignified" - lie - "He's wearing a tie" - a pointless lie - "He's smiling secretly." - true. probably shouldn't have said that.
     "Does he look at all familiar?"
     (Careful.)"Nooo," she said, as if she were carefully mulling it over. "He seems like a character played by Sting in a movie or something." (Funny.)
     "What is he a professor of?"
     "Philosophy," she answered (too quickly). "Or maybe physics." (better)."
     "What makes you say that?"
     "He just seems like a physics teacher might."
     "Did you study philosophy in college?"
     "A bit. I was a lit major. Took a few courses, though. A bit of Plato here, some Spinoza there..."
     "And this blot reminds you of a professor of yours?"
     "No!" (Whoops.) "I mean, yes, well, a bit, but not particularly." (Starting to blush. Stop it!)
     "Where did you attend college, if I may ask?"
     (He can check this - be honest) "Miskatonic."
     He arched an eyebrow. "Really?"
     "Yes, really."
     "It's a nice school."
     "Yes, I thought so." (Come on, change the subject).
     "Degree?"
     She shook her head. "No. I left in my second year."
     "Reasons?"
     "Personal."
     "That may work on a personnel director, but I, Nancy, am your psychiatrist. Please. Open up to me. I can help you. Help me to help you."
     (Oh brother). "I don't like to talk about it."
     "What has it been, Nancy? Two decades? Nearly three? There a moat of time between then and now. No inner demon can jump across that moat to ravage you now. You're safe, Nancy. Time has made you safe."
     (Ahh, but what is time to a demon, Dr. Crowe? Inner or otherwise? Two decades may just be a twitch and a sneeze). "Look, someone was killed. Someone close to me." (I saw it happen). "I saw his body."
    
     She saw Dr. Crowe's eyes light up and regretted saying it at once. He was about to run headlong down a blind alley, pulling her with him. The fact that she had built the alley herself through misdirection wasn't going to make the journey any less annoying. Just give me the damn prescription, let me go, she thought at him, fiercely.
     "An accident?"
     (Tempting to say yes, not entirely untrue, but the closer to the truth I stay the better). "Murder."
     "Did they catch the killer?"
     "No. Not to this day."
     Dr. Crowe knotted his hands, making a steeple out of his two index fingers. "Do you know who the murderer was?"
     (I don't even know what the murderer was). "There was a suspect. He disappeared."
     "Did you know this person?" He was hiding a smile. Thought he knew the answer. Better give him what he wants.
     "Yes, Dr. Crowe. You've probably guessed the answer. It was my philosophy professor. Professor Firth."
     Dr. Crowe looked fairly well proud of himself. "Could it be that these two inkblots have stirred up some troubled waters in your psyche; perhaps this has to do with your panic attacks."
     Everything. It has everything to do with the panic attacks. "I've thought of that, Doctor, but it's just too simple a solution. Like something out of a movie. You know, Cary Grant sees the ski tracks, 'Okay, that's it, I'm cured now. See ya.'"
     Dr. Crowe reddened, ever so slightly. "Yes, that would be 'Spellbound'. Gregory Peck."
     "What?"
     "It was Gregory Peck. Not Cary Grant."
     Nancy rubbed her hands against her eyes, almost involuntarily. Sometimes this happened. Someone makes a blank statement referring to something she doesn't immediately grasp, usually some simple phrase, like the words "Gregory Peck", and it's like she has suddenly lost the ability to understand the English language, like she has suddenly slipped sideways into a dyslexic world where things don't make sense. A moment of existential terror, a sudden groundslip, a reeling.
     She knew that Dr. Crowe was looking at her. "Of course it was. Gregory Peck. Captain Ahab." Huge shapes rise from the depths. Thar she blows! She shook her head, to clear her thoughts. "Sorry. Got a little dizzy there."
     "Do you often have dizzy spells?"
     "Often enough. My MD thought they might be petit mal seizures... I had the full range of tests, though. Wires to the temples, head in the tunnel; I won't go through that again. They didn't find anything."
     "Seizures can also be symptomatic of various mental disorders. We'll explore that. But first I wanted to continue on with this inkblot."
     "If you insist."
     "Who was this Professor Firth?"
     "He was the wild, hip young Professor that everybody dug; you know, groovy, 'let's have the lecture outside'; it was the 60's, y'know? He was always hanging out where the action was; knew all of the hot bands, smoked pot... and played with everybody's heads. Always. Some sort of Socrates trip, if you know what I'm saying."
     "I'm not sure I do."
     "He could come in here as a patient and within twenty minutes you'd think he was the only sane person in the world, and that he should be treating you. It was a gift, a twisted sort of gift. He could be exhilarating, frustrating, magical, and annoying. You had to be there. It was a wild time."
     "Why did he kill your friend?"
     (We won't be getting into that. We'll never be getting into that.) "Who knows? It was a wild time."
     Dr. Crowe tapped his fingers against his notepad. He looked at her expectantly, wondering if he should try to draw her out some more. Well, there would be other sessions. "Let's have a look at the next inkblot, Nancy."
    

Frank shut the door to the shower, and the sharp sound broke Nancy out of her reverie. She had come lost in the past again, if only for a moment, and the return to the present was as jarring and painful as birth. He head reeled for a moment; she could hear the movement of the towel across Frank's bare body. She was amazed at how acute her senses could be sometimes; she could hear the water spiraling into the drain, and Frank's bare feet stepping across the floor. Christ, she could hear the water dripping off of Frank's body!
     It was an episode. She was having an episode. Where were those damn pills?
     What was it Roderick Usher called this disorder? "A morbid attenuation of the senses". She could hear the blood pumping in her chest, the humming of the electronics in the wall. The traffic outside was an oceanic roar.
     Her breathing was becoming fast and fitful. The sound of the papers rustling in her purse was volcanic; the pills crashed together in their vials like freight trains. Her temples screamed; the light in the room was cripplingly intense. She fell to her knees as she struggled to overcome the child-proof cap, damn damn DAMN these things! She shook two of the white pills into her hand then dry-swallowed them. They pulled on the flesh of her throat, but they went down.
     She threw herself across the bed, heart hammering. Just hold on a few minutes, she told herself. It'll pass. It will. It will pass. It will!
     The ceiling began to shimmer.
     She closed her eyes. She wouldn't see it, she WOULD NOT see anything. But her eyelids had their own magic lantern show behind them, a true-life-adventure where Dr. Crowe flipped the next ink blot card, and its face exploded in a writhing squirming tentacled mass, moving out from the center of the card, then off the card and across Dr. Crowe's desk toward her, and she fell backward to the floor screaming, and Dr. Crowe jumped out of his chair, startled and panicked by her reaction, but she barely saw him because the tentacles were still crawling across the floor toward her as she scrambled into a corner...
     She forced her eyes back open, and the ceiling had become a pool of water, a deep, black cauldron in which something huge was rising, slowly, inexorably toward the surface...
     Frank stepped out of the bathroom, still dripping. He looked around for a moment, but Nancy was nowhere to be seen. A mystery. He looked under the bed, out in the hall, even back in the bathroom. She wasn't there, nor in the drawers of the dresser, nor behind the curtain. She was, however, in the closet, shaking, a coat wrapped around her head, her hands clamped against her ears.
     He shut the door and turned on the TV.