Pyrophobia Page 9

  Noam kept staring at the wall, unruffled.

  ‘OK,’ Jason sighed. ‘If you don’t want to talk any more, I guess I’ll be going. My apologies again, Noam.’

  He walked to the door, opened it, and turned to look back at the broken man sitting in the chair. ‘I’ll be back, Noam, and this time I won’t wait fifteen years.’

  Jason walked out of the room, and was about to close the door behind him when he heard a noise. It sounded like fingernails violently scraping along a blackboard. He froze. He heard the sound again, and it sent shivers down his spine.

  He had a chilling thought: the black horseman, a ghost walking through walls.

  But Noam was behind him, sitting quietly in his chair. He was not the one making the scratching noise.

  He had another thought, an even darker one.

  The plague is death. My death.

  Slowly, very slowly, he turned around.

  He was staring straight into Noam’s face, which had turned toward him.

  Suddenly Noam appeared normal, not at all confused. The difference was in his eyes; they were clear now, strong. In those few moments Jason could see the Noam he knew from before the man’s battles with schizophrenia.

  Calmly and lucidly Noam said to him, ‘What was it that came in the fire?’

  Jason was stunned. ‘The fire?’

  Noam nodded and turned his head to stare mutely at the wall again.

  ‘What fire, Noam? I don’t understand …’

  But Noam appeared lost in the quagmire of his private thoughts.

  ‘Noam?’

  He sat there like a statue, seeming enthralled with the wall.

  Jason took another stab at getting through to him, to no avail. Noam did not move or say anything. The scratching noise had ceased. In the deathly quiet Jason left the room and closed the door gently behind him.

  He walked outside to his borrowed Aveo and sat behind the wheel. His head was spinning from the effects of that bizarre conversation.

  You’re not here. You’re playing hide-and-seek. What was it that came in the fire?

  He didn’t have a clue what it all meant – or if it meant anything at all. Perhaps it was just the ranting of a madman.

  ‘What was he talking about?’ Jason heard himself ask, nonetheless.

  A thought entered his mind.

  Ask Mark Hall.

  Now that was a thought. As a psychotherapist, Mark was the perfect candidate to delve into Jason’s mind and find …

  Whatever was in there not firing on all cylinders.

  Over the years Mark had repeatedly offered to help Jason with therapy, to tackle this pyrophobia problem together. But Jason had always declined, kindly but firmly.

  Could the time be right, now? Maybe lying down on his couch would finally offer some new insights into his recurring nightmare and the flames that kept threatening to engulf him in his dreams.

  Jason drove off, but a few miles down the road he stopped. He grabbed his cell phone and consulted the contact list until he found Mark Hall’s number. Without allowing further thought to intrude on his resolve, he pushed the buttons. Mark’s wife Laura answered. She and Kayla had become good friends, and the two women often went out together. Jason was in no mood for a lengthy chat with her, so he just asked her whether Mark was home. Luckily he was. He heard her calling for him, and several moments later he heard the familiar voice.

  ‘Jason!’

  ‘Mark, I’m glad you’re home.’

  ‘Happy to hear that. What’s troubling you?’

  That was typical of Mark. Always cutting right to the chase.

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘As a friend or a therapist?’

  ‘Both.’

  Moments of silence ensued.

  ‘You know about my nightmares,’ Jason continued.

  ‘Yes,’ Mark acknowledged.

  Of course Mark knew. With his professional background, he was an expert in diagnosing and analyzing Jason’s nightmares. He knew even more about them than Kayla, and was eager to help Jason overcome his terror. Jason had always refused his offers of therapy. For a long time he remained in denial, and in truth, he was not keen on the idea of being one of his friend’s patients.

  Jason recounted his story about the Polaroid photographs and their messages. He told Mark about the detective work he had done so far to unearth the identity of the photographer – including his recent meeting with Noam Morain.

  ‘Ever since the accident, I’m having the nightmare again,’ he said, adding, ‘after many years of sleeping like a baby.’

  Mark hadn’t interrupted him while he spoke. When he had finished relating the facts as he understood them, silence clung on the other end of the line.

  ‘Jesus,’ Mark said finally.

  ‘You can say that again. I just wish Noam could help me. Listen, Mark, what I want to know … what this is about … is his question to me.’

  ‘Go on,’ his friend said.

  ‘I have no idea what he means by “what came in the fire”. Maybe it has something to do with my nightmare. The way I experience it, I’m surrounded by fire, and I’m alone. I don’t know if this is a lead, but it couldn’t hurt to analyze the dream a bit more.’

  ‘OK, I understand what you’re saying,’ Mark affirmed. ‘But are you sure you want to do this with me? We’ve discussed this subject before, and you’ve always kept your distance.’

  ‘I’m sure, Mark. The last thing I want is to see some therapist I’ve never met. I want your help, and no one else’s,’ Jason stated with a resolve he did not feel.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my best for you,’ Mark said. ‘Let’s compare schedules. When would suit you?’

  ‘You’re the one who’s probably booked solid. When could you find some time?’

  ‘I’ll make time for you. My last patient of the day usually leaves at five, which gives me an hour or two for paperwork before I go home. So I’m available to see you any day after five. Just tell me when you’d like to stop by.’

  Jason suddenly realized how tired he was. The long day, this emotional roller coaster, was starting to take a toll. He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s a deal. I’ll see you tomorrow at five.’

  He was home by ten thirty, convinced that this day had lasted three days. Jason filled Kayla in while he tackled his reheated dinner at the kitchen table. She frowned when he told her that he had gone to see Noam, but said nothing about it. She was pleased to hear that he had talked to Mark.

  ‘Mark is an expert, he is down-to-earth, and he knows everything about your anxieties,’ she said. ‘You two have talked about them often enough. I’m glad you’re going to see him.’

  She bowed her head. When she raised her eyes back to his, he saw the glint of unshed tears in them. ‘You gave me such a scare last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I’m really afraid,’ she said. ‘The only thing I’m holding on to is that the last photograph arrived three days ago, and there’s been nothing since. I pray that’s a good sign.’

  ‘I’m scared, too,’ he confessed. ‘And of course I realize all this stirs up some terrible memories for you.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, it does.’

  He hesitated, but then decided to finish what he had started.

  ‘Kayla … I would like to talk about that.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she countered at once as she got up from her chair.

  ‘What happened inside that tent?’ Jason asked her.

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t go there.’

  ‘He said he knew he was going to die, right? What—’

  ‘No!’ she cried out. ‘I want nothing more to do with that occult stuff. Not now, not ever!

  Occult? That was a word he had seldom heard her utter before.

  ‘Kayla, we’re married,’ he tried. ‘For better or for worse, remember? Why is this subject taboo?’

  �
�You’re doing the same thing.’

  Jason did not respond. She had a point.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she said, ending the discussion.

  He sensed this was one of those rare times when she wasn’t being totally honest with him.

  ‘My mother also died many years before her time,’ he plowed on. ‘She was older than Ralph, but forty-seven is still too young. I can talk about that.’

  ‘Please, just leave it alone,’ she said testily. ‘Do you hear me?’

  He nodded slowly. There was more to Ralph’s death than met the eye. He was aware of the official medical explanation, but he also knew that it wasn’t the whole story. Whatever had happened that day, it had rendered Kayla incapable of addressing death and the grieving process. Jason wished he knew what secrets she was keeping from him. But tonight was not the night to unravel those secrets.

  Jason let go of his thoughts about Ralph. It was enough, for tonight, that Kayla agreed with his decision to solicit Mark’s help and that she would be joining him for the first session.

  FOURTEEN

  In the Fire

  Jason arrived outside Mark’s office at five o’clock sharp. Kayla got stuck in traffic, so it was another fifteen minutes before they went inside together. Mark greeted them warmly. While he offered them a seat and poured out three cups of coffee, Jason looked around the office, noting several more awards hanging on the wall since the last time he was here. Certificates and diplomas adorned the olive green wall behind the mahogany desk. Business was good for Mark; he ran his practice with dedication; and he seemed fulfilled professionally. He complained about his receding hairline from time to time, feigning jealousy of Jason’s full head of hair that was untouched by gray or white. But that was about all he ever groused about.

  Mark put the coffee down and sat down across from them.

  ‘All right then, let’s talk,’ he said.

  The silence stretched to many moments as each side waited for the other to serve the ball. Then Jason leaned forward and said, ‘Mark, I told you everything on the phone. And as I indicated to you then, I think it would be best if you’re the therapist in this session, not my friend.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be the therapist,’ Mark said, tapping his right knee with two fingers. ‘But I was hoping I could be both.’

  Jason nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘Let me see those photographs,’ Mark said. ‘You did bring them, didn’t you?’

  Jason took the three photos from his briefcase and handed them to Mark, who studied them attentively.

  ‘You’ve tried to find this cemetery, have you?’

  ‘I have. And I have also tried to separate the layers in the doctored picture. But so far I have come up empty on both counts.’

  ‘You could go to the police,’ Mark suggested, echoing Kayla’s and Lou’s advice.

  ‘There’s still time to do that, and most likely I will at some point,’ Jason said. ‘But keep in mind that this photographer has done nothing illegal – yet. He has sent me photographs with messages written on them. Insane messages, to be sure, but hardly illegal messages. He doesn’t threaten to kill me. According to him, I’m already dead, and I have been since August eighteenth. And since there is no evidence that he is responsible for our car accident, I really have nothing on him that would interest the police. Oh, by the way, the police inspector, Guillermo, called today. He’s taken a good look at my Buick, which as I told you is in the shop for repairs. He found nothing suspicious. At this point he can only assume it was a hit-and-run accident. So it looks as though the police can’t help me. I’d rather continue my own investigation.’

  Mark nodded and rested his chin on his hands.

  ‘What I’m here for …’ Jason started.

  ‘Is your recurring dream,’ Mark finished for him. ‘Because of Noam Morain’s remark.’

  ‘It all comes back to his pyrophobia,’ Kayla added. ‘By the way, Mark, is this a rare affliction?’

  ‘Not really,’ Mark assured her. ‘There are many types of phobias, and fear of fire is one of them. It’s not as common as a fear of spiders, for example, or mice, or heights, or enclosed spaces. But I wouldn’t call it rare.’

  ‘Where do these anxieties come from?’ she asked.

  ‘From as many places as you can imagine. For instance, what are you afraid of?’

  ‘Spiders.’ She almost spat out the word. ‘Merely thinking of a tarantula gives me the shivers.’

  ‘I see. And why are you scared of them?’

  ‘I’m afraid one of those hideous creatures will bite me!’

  ‘Precisely,’ Mark said. ‘The same goes for all people with exaggerated fears. They worry that what they fear will harm them.’

  ‘What about claustrophobia?’ Jason said. ‘Why does someone panic in a small space? What’s so dangerous about that?’

  ‘They don’t necessarily have to be small spaces,’ Mark explained. ‘A person may experience claustrophobia in a movie theater. Claustrophobia can often be traced back to an unpleasant experience in childhood. Agoraphobia is similar in a way; patients fear that they won’t be able to escape from wherever they find themselves. And the list goes on and on. There’s always a reason why someone suffers from anxiety attacks.’

  ‘And pyrophobiacs?’ Kayla pressed.

  Mark stood and pursed his lips. He gazed pensively at Jason. ‘It’s no different. My suspicion is that you experienced something dreadful in your youth that involved a fire. Or smoke or extreme heat.’

  ‘My nightmare …’ Jason said.

  ‘I’d wager these certificates you see on the wall that your nightmares are induced by some experience you’ve had,’ Mark reiterated.

  Jason shrugged. ‘As far as I know, I’ve never had a traumatic experience with fire. You know that, Mark. And Kayla, so do you and so does my father. It’s not like we haven’t discussed this topic before. I’ve thought about it often enough, and believe me, nothing in my life, to my knowledge, could be causing my phobia.’

  ‘Hang on, not so fast,’ Mark said. ‘First you’ll need to convince me that your past is as unblemished as you seem to think it is.’

  ‘Alright,’ Jason sighed. ‘If that must be done, so be it. How does this work?’

  ‘There are several methods,’ Mark said. ‘But you know … I’m not entirely convinced that what you have is a phobia. At least, not in the normal meaning of the word. Phobic people have a hard time functioning in society. Jason, you mentioned claustrophobia earlier. I had a patient once who suffered from it so severely, he was afraid to step into an elevator. He couldn’t drive a car, he never closed the door when he used the bathroom, and he got out of bed four times a night to make sure he could still open his bedroom door. At the same time, he had to go to work each day. And he couldn’t tell his boss, because that could have ended his career.’

  ‘How awful,’ Kayla said quietly.

  ‘This patient was constantly keeping up appearances that nothing was wrong. He had excuses for everything. He claimed he would rather use the stairs instead of the elevator because climbing the stairs was a healthier option. He used the same excuse for riding his bike to work rather than driving a car. But his anxieties kept getting worse, and he ended up here, in my office. Keeping up this charade for so many years had exhausted him.’

  ‘And then what?’ Kayla asked. ‘How did his therapy go?’

  ‘At my suggestion, we did hypnotherapy, which as you know is a keen interest of mine. I don’t believe in medicating patients and I have my doubts about neurolinguistic programming. With hypnotherapy the patient is induced into a trance-like state – or relaxation, if you prefer. It helps the patient to see things that lie beneath the surface of his consciousness. During his sessions we discovered that the man’s father had abused him and that his mother used to lock him up in a tiny closet. He gradually retrieved these memories that he had repressed for a long time. You can imagine how shocking an experience it was for him. When those me
mories returned from some recess deep inside his brain, he burst into tears. First he became very emotional, and then he became angry. But at least he now understood his anxieties. After that, he did better.’

  Jason said nothing. Kayla gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘As I said, I’m not sure that what you have is a phobia, Jason,’ Mark mused. ‘In general, people with phobias find their anxieties becoming increasingly disruptive. This is not the case with you, right? Ever since you’ve been with Kayla, you’ve hardly mentioned them.’

  Jason nodded. ‘I’ve taught myself a few … let’s call them “game rules”. Every night I check to see if the stove has been turned off, and if the appliances have been disconnected. I’m extra careful when the weatherman predicts thunderstorms. That kind of thing. But it’s not always on my mind. You’re right, it used to be much worse. I’ve been doing better the last couple of years, because of Kayla.’

  He put his hand on his wife’s knee.

  ‘Everything was fine until I got those photographs,’ he said softly. ‘But you think I must have repressed or forgotten some incident?’

  ‘Possibly. That’s what we’re here to find out,’ Mark said. ‘I’m going to help you reach a trance-like state and lead you into your dream. We’ll start slowly and see what we discover along the way. Don’t expect success right away. You may experience blockages, and it may take several sessions to break through them, assuming we can break through them at all. Neither of us can control a process like this, once it’s under way.’

  ‘OK,’ Jason said. ‘When do we start?’

  ‘Whenever you want. We can do this some other time, or we can start right now.’

  Jason looked askance at Kayla. ‘I see no point in waiting.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Jason nodded.

  ‘OK, then I suggest you lie down on the couch,’ Mark said.

  ‘On the couch?’ Jason said hesitantly.

  ‘That doesn’t mean you’re a patient. Not like my other patients. But you’ll find it easier to relax lying down – and relaxation is key in this sort of therapy.’

  Jason shook his head. ‘I never expected to see the day I’d be lying on a therapist’s couch.’