Andrew Klavan - Nightmare City

Well, his memory, that’s where.

Being in a coma and all, being trapped inside his own imagination, there were obviously things he couldn’t remember. So to find those things, somehow he had to get from here, from his imagination, to his memory. But where was that?

Go to the monastery, Tom. That’s where the answers are .

He almost heard Marie’s gentle voice speak the words. Marie had told him to go to the monastery. That must be the way, and yet…

And yet, it didn’t make sense to him. The way to his memory should be through the things he remembered. But he didn’t remember being in the monastery. He didn’t remember that at all.

There was something else, too. The man in the computer. The Lying Man who had told him that the monsters were gone and it was safe to go out into the hall. The Lying Man had told him to go to the monastery, too. The Lying Man had also told him that’s where the answers were. Now, okay, maybe the Lying Man had told him the truth about the monastery just to trick him into leaving his bedroom. But Tom had a feeling that the Lying Man never told the truth, not really. Tom had the feeling that everything the Lying Man said was either an outright lie or some other kind of deception.

As he thought about that, an image came into his mind. It was the image of Marie, sitting right here, right in the kitchen, at this very table. He remembered the way she reacted when he wanted to answer his phone. The way she tried to stop him when he wanted to go downstairs to see his brother on TV. Why would she do that? Why would she try to stop him from seeing Burt? Why didn’t she want him to answer the phone?

It’s not that he didn’t trust Marie, he told himself. That would be crazy. Why wouldn’t he trust her? It was just that… well, he didn’t want to do anything the Lying Man told him to do, that’s all. That’s all.

So where did that leave him?

The seconds passed. He went on sitting there, gripping the necklace, shaking his fist as he thought it through. And a fresh idea came to him. He wanted to get from here to his memory, right? So where was the borderline between the two territories? The border of his memory must be marked by the things he almost remembered but couldn’t remember completely. If he could find his way to something he almost remembered but couldn’t quite bring back, then he knew he could find his way from there to the rest of it, the things he had forgotten completely or had blocked out.

What do I almost remember? he asked himself.

The answer came to him at once. The woman in the white blouse. The woman who had called him on the phone and tried to talk to him through the static. She was the one who had called him back from the brink of death, trying to reach him, trying to tell him something. He knew who she was—sort of—but he could not quite place her, could not quite call her identity to mind.

But he knew where to find her, didn’t he? He knew where to start at least. She had told him herself.

The office of the Sentinel in the basement of the school. He had written her address down on a piece of paper there. That was where the memory trail began. If he could find that address, he could find the woman in the white blouse. If he could find her, he knew somehow that he could find his way back to the rest of it, to everything.

Tom let out a long, unsteady sigh and opened his fist. His hand was empty. Lisa’s necklace was gone. He didn’t mind. He knew Lisa herself was still there, still nearby, sitting by his bed, praying for him, waiting for him.

You’re not alone, Tommy .

He looked up. Looked out the window. The fog was now rolling in across the far edges of the backyard. Already, the hedges that marked the Laughlins’ property had vanished beneath a pillowy whiteness. Already, Tom could see hulking, limping shadows moving in that whiteness. The malevolents. Coming back for him.

He stood up, the chair scraping the floor beneath him. He had to go. He had to find his memory, find the truth. He had to get to the school, to the Sentinel ’s office.

And that meant he had to leave the house and go out into the fog.

He felt the fear flare inside him as he moved down the hall to the stairs. But he felt something else, too: the old pulse of curiosity, the old fever for the answers. As he passed the front door, he glanced out the sidelight. He glimpsed the thickening sheets of mist covering the front lawn. Pretty frightening—but there was no point in dwelling on it. He turned away and dashed up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Into his bedroom. The baseball bat—the Louisville Slugger Warrior—was back in his closet, as if he’d never removed it. He reached in and felt the cool of the aluminum against his hand. It made him feel a little better to grip the bat and bring it out. He was going to need a weapon out there. The Warrior wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

He went to the computer table. Collected his phone and his keys. He started back to the bedroom door—and as he did, there was a soft sound behind him. A brief electronic sizzle, almost like a whisper. Tom stopped in his tracks. He knew where the sound was coming from. The computer. He glanced over his shoulder at it. The little whisper of sound came again, and at the same time there was the faintest hint of light in the depths of the monitor, the faintest appearance of a shape, a silhouetted figure.

Something was in there. Someone. Trying to get out. Trying to talk to him.

The Lying Man.

Tom stood where he was a moment. He was tempted to wait, tempted to listen. It was just that this place—his house, his empty house—was so lonely now. And he was afraid, afraid of going outside. The musical, soothing sound of the Lying Man’s voice would be some sort of company, some sort of comfort, even if it told him lies.

It cost Tom a measure of will to turn away, but he did turn away. Lies were of no use to him now. Before the computer could make another noise, he hurried out the door, carrying his baseball bat with him.

Back down the hall. Back down the stairs. Back to the front door. He pulled it open.

A heaviness came into his belly; a darkness came into his heart. The forward wall of the marine layer had now crept up over the edge of the driveway and was tumbling steadily toward him. He couldn’t see the malevolents in the depths of the whiteness yet, but he knew they were there. Close. Getting closer.

Here we go , he thought.

He stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him.

His heart beat hard, and the fear coursed through him like blood as he headed up the driveway to the garage door. His mind was crowded with a thousand doubts and reconsiderations. What if Lisa was wrong? What if he should have stayed in the house and toughed it out? What if Marie was right and he needed to get to the monastery as quickly as he could? He wished Burt was around to help him figure out whom to trust, whom to believe.

He reached the garage door. Took a nervous glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the creatures were sneaking up on him. The main body of the fogbank was still down toward the end of the drive, though the mist up on the lawn was denser than it had been even a few minutes ago.

Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the scene. He stooped down and grabbed the garage door handle and rolled the door upward.

Burt’s old yellow Mustang sat inside in the shadows. Tom moved to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and slipped in behind the wheel.

He moved fast, trying to outrun his doubts. He shut the door. Stowed the baseball bat on the passenger side, wedging it half upright between the seat and the door so he could grab it fast if he had to. He snapped on his seat belt. Worked the key into the ignition and switched the engine on. With a deep breath, he shifted to look out through the rear window. He backed out of the garage slowly, backed down the driveway slowly, rolling toward the wall of mist.