Pyrophobia Page 11

  He paused a moment, gathering his courage. Not that he felt brave. Quite the opposite. He was here reluctantly, against his will. He could think of many other places he’d rather be. Very different places.

  Mark? he said, or thought.

  There was no answer. Silence permeated his mind.

  Mark!

  Still nothing.

  His connection with the real world was Mark, and that connection seemed to have been severed. He now had no lifeline to that real world.

  He glanced at his right hand.

  All I have to do is snap my fingers and I’ll be back. Piece of cake, I can do that.

  He decided not to go back yet, because all he saw was darkness, as if he were in an underground basement with no lights on. Jason felt his way forward like a blind man and wondered when the pyre would appear. Just as the thought entered his mind, the fire suddenly burst to life.

  He realized that he could will the fire from his nightmare into existence. Was that strange? No, he thought, because he was only taking a trip through his own brain. This night was a crevice inside his mind, just like Noam Morain had caverns inside his soul, forever haunted by a horseman dressed in black.

  He wasn’t really in the Santa Monica Mountains; he had gone nowhere. All he had done was fashion a path inside himself. He was more fully aware of this reality today than he was the last time.

  All right. If I haven’t traveled outside my own mind, and I can think things, just think them, I might as well let the rest in, and see what happens.

  The flames lashed out at him as if they were truly alive and could sense him and even see him. It was at once both astonishing and agonizing. Still, he struggled to suppress a surge of terror. The fire undulated toward him and made a circle around him. Horrified, he watched the circle form as the heat slashed at his face like a hot steel blade of a knife.

  He could escape by snapping his fingers – or he hoped he could. Mark had promised him that, and Mark was his trusted friend. But what if nothing happened when he did that? What if he found himself still here, trapped within an inferno?

  But this isn’t real. It’s all in my mind. I don’t need to be afraid – this is an illusion.

  The clarity of his thoughts surprised him. There was no panic, not yet.

  Then he realized that, once again, he was not alone. There was something inside the fire. He didn’t know it, hear it, or see it – he could just feel it. If he had the courage to stay he would see it; if he could just not snap his fingers and not believe he would be burned alive. He just needed to wait.

  Despite himself, he felt a scream gathering force deep within him. His fear was trying to possess him, and it was fast gaining the upper hand.

  The flames crawled closer and nearly touched his feet. The imaginary knife of heat felt as though it would slice his face to ribbons. He couldn’t hold out much longer; no one could withstand this torture. He held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together. One snap, just one, and it would be over.

  Show yourself. Damn you, show me who you are. You’re here, I know it. Show yourself, I want to see you!

  Slowly the fire changed shape. He watched with morbid fascination as a figure seemed to materialize from inside the inferno. Was it just an illusion? Squinting, he peered at a flaming area that seemed to be moving. Then, to his horror, it stepped out from the flames and came toward him. The creature had a head, arms and legs, and it was burning like a torch. Flames enveloped its body from head to toe. It had no face, or at least no face Jason could discern. Flames covered it entirely. He stared at it, aghast. Was it a spirit? A fire spirit? He did nothing, powerless to act, even when the apparition stretched out a burning arm toward him. Fiery fingers came ever closer to him.

  The scream tore past his vocal chords and out his throat. He toppled backwards. His thumb found his index finger and he snapped them together.

  SIXTEEN

  Mawkee

  He could still see the creature from the flames as the blurred contours and shapes inside Mark’s office came slowly into focus. He was trembling in the transition from one realm to the other, but at least he no longer felt the pain of the scorching fire.

  Kayla’s hands were wrapped around his right wrist, her eyes wide and fearful as she crouched down beside him. Mark stood behind her. He was saying something, but Jason couldn’t hear him. It was as though he had gone stone deaf.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, sound began filtering back into his world. The phone rang, but Mark didn’t answer it.

  Hey, answer the phone, he wanted to say, but he could not. His lips seemed frozen in place. Nor could he get up. He felt as though a truckload of bricks was piled on top of him. Then, finally, Mark’s voice reverberated through the haze. ‘… that you’re OK, Jason. Speak to me. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m back,’ Jason said in a shaky voice.

  He told them what had happened. When he explained how the fire had taken shape and turned into a figure, a walking firebrand, his breath caught in his throat. He described in detail what he had seen. Expressing how he had felt during the course of events proved more challenging, however. He could convey the pure terror he had felt only in diluted form. If their positions had been reversed, if Kayla had been surrounded by imaginary spiders, he would not have been able to fully comprehend her horror either. Empathy only reached so far.

  His words sounded hollow even to him. For the life of him he couldn’t come close to expressing the panic that had gripped him during the hypnosis.

  ‘So there really was something in the fire,’ Jason concluded, his voice soft yet resolute. ‘Or the fire turned into something. I don’t know which.’

  ‘That’s scary,’ Kayla said in a small voice.

  Jason looked at his friend. ‘What do you make of this, Mark?’

  Mark rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘This is just the start of our analysis, Jason,’ he said. ‘It does appear to be some kind of repressed experience, or a series of experiences. The images you describe are symbolic of something. Of that I am certain. We’ll have to wait and see. But you’ve made excellent progress in this session. In fact, I think you’ve made a breakthrough. You managed to keep in control of yourself. You never forgot where you were, and how to break the trance.’

  ‘Thanks. But where do we go from here?’

  ‘I always like to compare these sessions to peeling an onion,’ Mark said. ‘The first layer has come off, but you have yet to reach the core. You need to go back a few more times. Peel off one layer after another. It won’t be pleasant, but I’ll help you, if you want.’

  ‘If I continue with this, I’d only do it with you,’ Jason answered.

  ‘I agree,’ Kayla said.

  Jason reflected for a moment. So far, what he had done had inspired more questions than answers. What was that fire in his vision? What in God’s name was that burning creature? And what, if anything, did all of this have to do with the three photographs and messages?

  Mark was right. This process might very well resemble the peeling of an onion. But Jason believed Mark was wrong about one thing. With every layer that came off, more questions arose, adding additional layers to the onion.

  The session had exhausted him, and he would have given a lot to take an aspirin and get some sleep. Assuming he was free of dreams about the fiery creature.

  ‘Could we call it a day?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Good idea,’ Mark agreed. ‘And I think it’s best if we wait a few days before picking up where we left off. Trying to force these things often backfires. How about we meet again next week, same day, same time?’

  ‘OK,’ Jason said. ‘Let’s do that.’

  After they said goodbye to Mark, Kayla drove them home. Along the way, she kept glancing askance at him.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he assured her, more than once.

  ‘Yes, you’ll be all right. Everything is going to be fine.’

  Neither of their voices held much conviction.

  Back at home,
Kayla turned quiet and contemplative. Jason, in turn, couldn’t dismiss the creature and the fire from his mind, try as he might. As if by rote, he retrieved a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge. The label offered no clues about its quality, but he remembered its price: $4.99.

  ‘You get what you pay for, right?’ he murmured, opening the bottle and filling two glasses.

  ‘Come, let’s enjoy the fresh air for a while,’ he told Kayla. She agreed and together they walked outside to Canyon View’s back porch.

  Kayla sat beside him on the old sofa, and he put his arm around her shoulders. For a while they both just sat there, enjoying the peace and panorama.

  ‘Jason?’ she said finally. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  He managed a smile. ‘Sure. Shoot. What do you make of all this?’

  ‘I think …’ she started, and then shook her head. ‘I just don’t know.’

  ‘Same here.’

  He pulled her close. He needed his wife now more than ever. She smelled of lilac flowers, a sweet scent that carried with it blissful memories.

  He had met her more than four years ago during a business dinner. Brian Anderson had asked him to come along for another one of his outings with clients: Joe Daniels and Alvin Smith from Weinstein Productions, one of the larger television producers in the glamorous City of Angels. It had been a pleasant and commercially successful evening at The Duchess, a classy restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. But that evening Jason’s attention was diverted toward the waitress who served their table. When she took their orders, he had complimented her on the artful way she had done up her hair, even though he had never been in the habit of complimenting waitresses. But he sensed immediately that she was different from other waitresses and from other women he had known. Different in every sense of the word. When she asked him later what had drawn her to him, he told her it was her sexy, husky voice.

  While eating their entrées he had received a phone call and excused himself from the table. He stood in a corner of the restaurant with his cell phone pressed to his ear, with her looking at him from a distance. He had to suppress an urge to walk up to her and say, ‘Where have you been my whole life?’ Corny, yes, but that’s how he felt.

  But he was just not that bold, and the magic would have ended there had he not forgotten his credit card. As they were walking back to their cars after dinner, Jason patted his shirt pocket and discovered he had handed over the company’s Visa card and signed the bill, but had neglected to retrieve the card. He bid the others goodnight and hastened back to the restaurant. At first Kayla seemed surprised to see him again, but then had helped him find his card. She appeared flustered, claiming it was her fault. He had wanted to tell her it was alright, it didn’t matter. But what he did, instead, was place his hand over hers.

  Their eyes met. Then she had placed her other hand on top of his. Her eyes shone, and without having to exchange a word, they had become inexorably connected to each other in mind, body and spirit.

  The next evening he returned to The Duchess for dinner. By himself. After that, one thing led quickly to another.

  As it turned out, she had studied at Heald College, an institute that trained executive secretaries. After backpacking through Europe for six months, she was now trying to find a job. But finding the right job hadn’t been easy, which explained why she was waitressing.

  There’d been Ralph too, of course. The first time they had gone out for a drink, she hadn’t mentioned him. On their second date, she broached the subject. Over the years Jason had learned more about Kayla’s erstwhile fiancé, but never the whole story. After Ralph died, she had traveled to Europe, her trip paid for partly by her parents and partly with the money she had earned working in diners and bars.

  It wasn’t long before he started spending more nights at her place than his own house, which was under construction. Twenty months after the business dinner at The Duchess they became man and wife. They were very much in love and saw no point in waiting longer. That sunny, springlike day in February had been unforgettable. And in the meantime, as icing on the cake, she had landed her current job at Demas Electrical; a job she loved.

  By now they had been married for almost two and a half years. During all that time they had never experienced any serious problems. Except on that day in April when she lost her maternal grandmother and then, just four months later her maternal grandfather.

  Losing these loved ones had broken her heart. In November of that same year, Rose Salladay, a long-time friend with whom she had often enjoyed a game of squash, was killed in a traffic accident. That tragedy depressed Kayla for months.

  A more recent setback had been Uncle Chris’s passing. Naturally, how he had died had been the major shock. In the first few days after his death, Kayla had cried constantly, unable to be consoled by Jason or anyone else. At the funeral she hid her puffy, red-streaked eyes behind a pair of large sunglasses. Jason had imagined it would be quite some time before she could come to terms with her grief, so he was pleasantly surprised when, soon after the interment, she had managed to move on with her life. He had not dared ask her why she seemed to be handling it so well this time, fearing that his simple question would open up sore wounds. Maybe, he thought, a death in her immediate family or group of friends was more traumatic for her than the death of a relative stranger.

  Whatever it was, death upset her, and that was putting it mildly.

  He had his fear of fire, and she had that.

  He woke up to a diabolical crackling. His bed was on fire. Tall, furious tongues of fire shot up around him and Kayla, who remained asleep. A searing heat wafted into his face. At the foot of the bed a figure burned brightly: the fire spirit. In utter panic he could think to do one thing: snap his fingers. When he did, nothing happened. The flames remained, and so did the creature. This was no nightmare, and it was no hypnosis; this was real.

  A tormented sound erupted from the fiery creature, like the roar of raging flames. Or was it a wailing, growling whisper?

  Mawkee …

  That hissing sound seemed to emanate from the sweltering fire.

  The thing lumbered closer, it was on the bed now, crawling toward Kayla and him. The heat was terrible. Still the raging flames hid the creature’s face.

  It was very close now, lifting a burning hand, about to put those flaming fingers on his face, or in his eyes, about to—

  A piercing scream erupted from Jason’s throat.

  And he woke up. Again.

  And he saw no creature, no fire – nothing, anywhere.

  Beside him Kayla sat up, stiff as a board, staring at him.

  ‘Another nightmare,’ he said with a shiver, before she could speak. ‘One hell of a vivid one, this time.’

  Mark did not close my mind off properly, was his first thought.

  His second thought was: Mawkee?

  However the word was spelled, it contained the word ‘key’.

  The key to what?

  He dropped back on to the pillow and wiped his sweaty brow with this hand. Again, the fire had only been inside his mind. He had suffered through many nightmares, but this was the worst one ever.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saddle Peak

  The next morning Jason needed two aspirin to help quell a throbbing headache. He knew not what to do about the nightmare, or what to make of it. He had been so sure that he was awake at the time, but obviously he was mistaken. It seemed that he was growing increasingly less able to distinguish delusion from reality. In that case, he had all the more reason to worry. Be that as it may, he had to move on. He had work to do and a wife to protect. He called Lou Briggs.

  ‘It’s not going so well, Jason,’ Lou reported. ‘I still haven’t found the pyramid. I’m starting to sense that the tomb is the creation of some graphic artist and was superimposed into the image, as was the letter M.’

  ‘Just keep trying to find that graveyard, Lou, please,’ Jason urged him before hanging up.

  Minutes later, as he stood i
n the shower with hot water running off him, his thoughts drifted back to the thickets on the trail ending at Saddle Peak. Why had the gate into his nightmare been in that precise spot? He had thought he had nothing but happy memories of the place.

  A sudden urge to go there welled up inside him – not to see it from a prone position on Mark’s couch, but with his own eyes. He needed to see the actual foliage there for himself.

  He shared his thinking with Kayla.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  He briefly considered calling Mark, but decided against it. After all, it was Mark’s weekend off. Better to just go out there and have a look around.

  After a quick breakfast they walked out the front door of their home into a California summer dawn. Even at this early hour, Fernhill was basking in the heat of a July sun. Although Jason had been living in the town for just a few years, he felt at home here. The village nestled between the mountains was a refuge of peace and tranquility compared to Los Angeles, just twenty-five miles away.

  They drove off in Kayla’s Chrysler, crossing Fernhill’s very own ‘Beverly Hills’, a neighborhood that owed its nickname to the large number of artisans, artists and writers who had taken up residence there. Most of these people were from Los Angeles, and they had flocked here in the hope of finding creative inspiration. Jason glanced at the mansion of sculptor David Mayne, who had made a name for himself in art circles; next to it was the impressive home of Richard Hawthorne, the suspense novelist. These two men sported the only famous names in Fernhill; the majority of the other artisans were Hawthorne wannabes – although, according to Jason, these sycophants and artistic hangers-on were ‘canneverbees’. He remembered something and chuckled softly, despite the tension and misery of the moment.

  ‘Private joke?’ Kayla asked.

  ‘I was recalling the garden party at Hawthorne’s last year.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She didn’t find the memory amusing. ‘How could I forget? It was so embarrassing.’