Jon Merz - Vicarious

Serious.

Steve.

She sighed again as more rain beat against the window and roof. Lauren clutched the covers to her chin and opened her eyes. She could almost convince herself that Curran was standing at the foot of her bed, naked from the waist up.

She could imagine the etched details of his strong chest, the tightness of his abdominals, the rounding of his shoulders and biceps, and the tough sinews that lined his forearms.

She could imagine him bending over her, pressing his lips against hers. Feeling his warm breath tickling her neck as he nuzzled her. And then the moistness of his tongue as he traced his way all over her body.

Everywhere.

Oh my…

Sweat broke out along her hairline as the images danced faster.

Lauren sighed again and rolled over on her stomach, squeezing her legs together, hoping to ward off the fuzzy sensations sweeping through her lower body.

Steve.

She swung her legs out of bed and sat up, wiping her hand across her forehead. It came away damp. She stared at the line of moisture on the back of her hand and watched it dry there.

She shivered — unprotected in the darkness.

This is what she got for trying to figure out her problems when she should have been sleeping. She frowned. I should just get a glass of water, drink it down, and go back to bed.

But would that help her?

She got out of bed and paced her room. She looked at the wall, at the crucifix hanging there. She walked toward it, running her hands over the cool wood.

She knelt and bowed her head.

Dear God, help me find the strength to carry on. Help me do what is right. Help me decide what I can do to help, what I can do to stop this evil. Keep me safe. And keep Steve safe, too. Please…

Please help me.

Across town, Curran lay in bed.

Wide-awake.

Tonight had been close. If we hadn’t gotten there just then…his thoughts trailed off and images filled his head of another crime scene. This one with a chalk outline that looked like the shape of Lauren.

If we’d been any later, he would have gotten her.

The Soul Eater.

The hundred year-old oak tree in his backyard groaned under the forces of the wind and Curran heard it creak. One of these days, it was going to crash down and probably split his roof in half. But Curran had never been able to bring himself to have it cut down. Something about its strength and resilience after all these years impressed him.

Hell, it inspired him.

Was that how he saw himself, he wondered. Like an old oak standing in the wind?

He didn’t feel very resilient just then. After all, the notions of the supernatural still made him wince. He was a facts and figures guy, not someone who got turned on by the latest new age mumbo-jumbo hype.

But Kwon had been right. When science couldn’t explain what was happening, where else could you turn? And at what point did the supernatural stop being so far-fetched?

Now seemed as good a time as any.

And there’d been very real danger tonight.

To Lauren.

He sighed.

She was beautiful. And Curran really wanted her.

He thought about how she looked in the white blouses she seemed to wear everywhere. The way they buttoned up so high and yet still managed to show off the roundness of her bosom.

He sighed again. His groin swelled vaguely.

He looked down.

Maybe just -

No.

Lauren wasn’t like other women, he decided. In the past when he needed a release, a quick jerk-off usually sufficed. But some how he knew it wouldn’t for Lauren. And the visualization would disappoint him. It would cheapen her, in his mind only perhaps.

But Curran didn’t want to do that.

Tempting as it was.

He lay in bed with his hands behind his head, feeling the press of his palms against the back of his skull. So what could he do to win her over? What could he do to make peace with his own doubts?

Maybe I should just believe everything, he thought. Maybe I should just have some faith.

Maybe Kwon’s right.

Curran hopped out of bed and felt the thin carpeting greet the undersides of his socks as he padded down the hall to the bathroom. A cold breeze danced along the hallway with him.

He paused.

Cold breezes seemed to be all around him lately.

And damned if he knew why.

He walked into the bathroom.

The breeze came with him.

He pulled down his boxer shorts and tried to urinate.

The breeze cloyed at him.

He frowned. Hadn’t he heard something, sometime way back in his past about the cold being the herald of the dead?

In the darkness, he squinted. Was that a shadow moving outside in the hallway?

He sighed and tried to press his bladder. A thin trickle came out of the tip of his penis, dribbling into the bowl. The air grew even colder.

Curran grew more frustrated.

He cleared his throat.

— caught himself.

What the hell are you gonna say, sport? He thought. You gonna talk to the dead here in the cold confines of your bathroom? That’s a great way to start, ain’t it?

He sighed, plopped his member back on the inside of his shorts and padded back to the bedroom.

The cold followed him.

He shivered under the covers.

“What do you want?” he whispered. “What?”

It got colder.

“Jesus,” he said without thinking.

His curtains shifted. Almost fluttering in the darkness.

But the window’s closed, he thought. How the hell is that happening if the window’s closed?

Images floated into his mind. He saw Lauren. He saw himself. Curran tried to direct the flow of images to include a passionate love scene.

But it wouldn’t work.

Something else seemed to be in control. Curran saw images of Lauren scared. He saw himself scared as well. And then he saw the shadow looming over them both. Darkness and cold seeped everywhere in his consciousness.

Under the covers, Curran shivered violently.

And kept his eyes shut.

The images changed, split almost in two as if he were seeing double. He could see Lauren lying on the floor, in some kind of carved sarcophagus. Beside her, he could see Lauren smiling at him. But it was an evil wicked smile, full of hatred for him — but not just for him. For all humans.

The images changed again and Curran saw a big jar with strange writing on it. It was filled with some kind of bubbling frothy liquid. And in his mind, Curran could smell it now, the fermenting vile substance that it contained.

In his mind, he moved closer to the jar. He could see his hands reach out toward it. He came closer. He leaned toward the gunk inside. He peered closer. Was it boiling? A bubble rose to the surface and popped, coating Curran’s face.

A little dribbled toward his lips and Curran’s tongue flicked instinctively.

And tasted it.

He sat bolt upright, eyes flying open.

A dream.

His stomach rolled and churned.

Not a dream-

My God!

Curran threw off the sheets.

Ran down the hallway — hadn’t he just been here?

In the bathroom he clawed for the sink. Felt his insides buck and vault skyward the contents of his stomach. It came out of him in a rush of seething acid — chunks of undigested dinner mixed with the orange juice he’d had before bed. His throat burned.

He turned the spigot and cold water rushed out into the sink, swirling the bloated mixture around before washing it down the drain. Curran scooped some into his mouth, washing it around and spitting it back into the porcelain sink. He sucked down some more, tilted his head back and gargled it, trying to quell the burning.

He scooped more onto his suddenly hot face. It ran over his eyes and cheeks. He felt so hot, like the water would almost boil off his skin and evaporate into the night.