Rob Blackwell: A Soul To Steal

Wed., Oct. 4, 2006

Quinn stood in the living room, a large kitchen knife clutched in his hand. It had been the first thing he thought of when he woke up, bolting from bed and heading straight for the only weapon he had in the apartment.

Just what good a knife, or any weapon, would do him was not clear. It did not even make him feel better. He just stood at the door, waiting for something to come through it.

It was a dream, of course. Just another in a long string of nightmares. But it didn’t matter. He could not shake the feeling-no, the certainty-that something was coming for him. It could arrive at any minute. Worse, it may already be here.

Quinn’s hands were sweating. The sound of his breath was so loud he held it briefly just to ensure there was no one else there. How many nights had he stood here, waiting for a demon that wouldn’t show? How much sleep had he even had?

He glanced at the clock on his wall, saw the hands creep past 5:42 a.m. He mentally calculated that he had four hours sleep even while he anxiously watched the door.

It would pass, he knew. He could not even remember how long he had been standing here. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? His heart was still racing. If he was lucky, he hadn’t screamed this time. If he had, he was certain to hear about it from Gertrude upstairs, who seemed to believe he was shouting in the middle of the night as a result of Satanism or some bizarre sexual practice. Somehow the real reason-a bad nightmare-just didn’t cut it with her.

He wondered if he could at least bring himself to sit down. That was usually the first step toward calming down. Never taking his eyes off the door, he retreated to his armchair on the back wall.

Janus had often joked that Quinn was the only guy he knew whose recliner was angled away from the television. Quinn never told him the reason why.

After another fifteen minutes, the feeling of something watching him, waiting for him, began to subside. By the time 6:15 a.m. rolled around, he could at least look away from the door for 30 seconds at a time.

By 6:40 a.m., he felt good enough to get himself a drink, pulling a Coke from the fridge, popping its top and gulping it down in giant sips.

He lay down on the sofa and thought briefly of picking up the remote. But he worried. What if he turned on the TV and his dream was on it? It had happened before.

He should be used to this, he thought. His nightmares began when he was a kid-but back then there was at least some feeling of relief when he woke up.

Lately, Quinn had not felt that way. Instead, his dreams had taken on a tangible feel. The sound of a horse chasing him, the smell of the pine forest as he ran through it, even the feel of his feet slipping in the clay as he ran down a hill. In contrast, waking life felt vague and indistinct, as if it were the dream and not the other way around.

Quinn heard a thump at the door.

He was out of his chair in an instant, the knife back in his hand. The Coke in his lap had spilled to the ground, now seeping out its remaining brownish liquid onto the white carpet.

He waited for the thing to come through the door. After what felt like an eternity he realized the noise had not been caused by any monster. It had just been the delivery kid dropping off newspapers near his front door. Quinn’s body sagged in relief.

He sighed and went back to the kitchen, putting the knife on the counter and picking up some paper towels to soak up the spilled soda.

He waited another ten minutes before going to the front door, opening it quickly and pulling the two papers inside. The first was the Washington Post, a must for anybody living in the suburbs of the District of Columbia. He dropped it on the ground as he sat back down.

Instead, he turned his attention to the Loudoun Chronicle. The lead story had a headline, “Loudoun Board rejects new subdivision.” Another talked about a push to protect the site of a Civil War skirmish off Route 15. There was a giant photo of a football player catching a ball underneath a headline that read “PotomacFalls claims victory over Broad Run.”

At the bottom of the page was a smaller headline that said “Phillips Farm Debate Started.”

“Jesus, that will get their attention,” Quinn said sarcastically to the wall. The wall had never answered him, but Quinn had begun to worry in his present state it might. Then he knew he’d be in real trouble.

He sighed. The tiny by-line-By Quinn O’Brion-would undoubtedly go unnoticed by most who bothered to read the story. But it hurt just a little to know he had worked two days on a story only to see the headline turn into a bright neon sign warning people not to read any further.

“Phillips Farm Debate Started,” he said. “Why don’t they just say: ‘Boring White People Fight More,’ or ‘Trouble Sleeping? Read Further for Cure.’”

Quinn didn’t read any further.

It was hard not to be frustrated working for a paper that seemed to publish the same stuff every week, pouring over the most minute details of life in Loudoun County, Virginia. Year to year, you talked to the same people, wrote many of the same stories. And even when you had a good story-and the Phillips Farm debate mattered, he believed-it probably wouldn’t register.

He dropped the Chronicle on the ground and picked up the Post. He leafed through it to find the “Loudoun Extra”-a 15-page insert that attempted to replicate a local paper. The Post had been on a kick lately. Seeing increasing numbers of readers turn to the Internet for news-which was free-the paper had begun local inserts in several regions.

The end result was that fewer residents felt the need to subscribe to papers like the Chronicle. It did not matter that the Chronicle ’s staff had worked here longer or knew people better. People didn’t want to subscribe to two papers anymore.

He glanced at the Extra’s headlines and groaned. “Gibson set to unveil new Phillips plan.”