No Safe Place

By Greg Raleigh

Every night as we sleep, an insidious force stalks us. Its sole purpose is to kill us and make it hurt. It preys upon our petty weaknesses and self serving paranoia. On a cross country trip home from a family funeral, Frank Collins enters a treacherous snare when his car breaks down in a small, remote North Carolina town. The hazard he faces pulls his wife into an even more terrifying trap in the small, remote places of her own mind. Most people say, if given a choice, they would prefer dying in their sleep. They couldn't be more wrong. Awake or in our sleep, there is No Safe Place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Raleigh
• Release date: Aug 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692709238

Book preview

Lose weight or die. That’s what the doctor said, and he believed him, took it seriously for a week or so. There was a suggested diet he was supposed to follow, and he did, for a week or so. He went for walks, mostly around his neighborhood, because it was embarrassing to walk the mall. Too many people. He remembered what he used to think when he saw them, the Mall Walkers. It wasn’t all that long ago he was young, and stifled the laugh, made the jokes, crafted the judgments. When you’re young, you’re just so sure it will never happen to you, even though you have no plan, and couldn’t give a good explanation for why. It just wouldn’t.

Even though it had already happened. When Paul was a senior in high school, he’d allowed for the possibility Frank was getting more attention from girls than him because his body was better. Frank was his best friend so he went to him for help.

Insult me. Call me anything you can think of. Hell, man, be mean to me. I have to do something about this.

Frank was doubtful. He looked up from the steps in front of Paul’s back door in time to see Steve Walker hop onto his ten-speed and pedal it up the street. It was how he dried his hair.

I can’t do that. You’re my best friend.

Am I? Paul asked.

Yeah, sure. I’d do anything. But not that, man, that’s too much.

You gotta.

There was a moment’s silence, while Frank pondered the insanity.

Why?

It felt like a joke. He cursed himself for bleating it out.

Because I need somebody I trust to remind me how fat I am. Anybody else I’d beat in their face.

Another silence while Frank considered being an outcast and having a way out but needing help. It hit close to home. He remembered how Paul had helped him. How he’d gotten Frank a part time job, helped him find better clothes, and given him suggestions about how to act around girls.

Okay. It was only one word, but it was big. It had changed their friendship.

The insults were tame at first. Fatso uttered hesitantly at the end of sentences. Lard-ass during basketball games when Frank wanted the ball passed to him. But he got better at it. And he always did it at the right time. Never in front of the wrong people.

Paul had always felt like Frank’s big brother, his protector, but now Frank was coming through like a champion. When they ate at restaurants, he always pointed the salad bar out to Paul and said something mean, just to keep him on track.

There you go hog-head, there’s the trough.

Anyone overhearing this would have thought Frank was such a prick. Skinny little bastard, they’d’ve thought. Where does he get the right?

But it was working. Paul dropped sixty pounds by the time senior year was over. He was constantly buying new clothes and was surprised to find his knees, ankles, and back were less stiff when he climbed out of bed in the morning. And he could run, by God. He became a load on the football field.

Junior year, Paul had weighed nearly twice as much as Frank, 278 to 140, but four years later, on an amazing day in the spring of 1982, Paul, through hard work, finally weighed less than Frank.

They were at the gym and had just finished their morning workout before heading to college classes. The ritual was to weigh in and head for the showers and whirlpool.

One seventy-five! Frank reported proudly. He was Gilligan no more but he didn’t know it, in fact he never would. The braces were gone and his ears looked like anyone else’s now that his face and body had filled out to adult proportions.

Paul wished he could look like Frank and was amazed at how little Frank noticed the girls who were always flirting with him, or watching him from hidden places. The guy had absolutely no confidence but had every reason to. It was almost laughable.

As Frank moved aside, Paul stepped apprehensively to the scale. He’d had a little setback the night before and had eaten pie before going to bed. He was sure he would tip the scales at least ten pounds heavier than yesterday.

One hundred… Frank said playfully as he slid the weights along the bars. They both knew what it meant. Paul didn’t need the second hundred notch anymore. He didn’t weigh two hundred anything.

Seventy… said Frank, his tone rising toward the end as if in surprise.

Three?

There it was. Now he was surprised.

One seventy-three. One hundred seventy-three pounds.

Frank and Paul looked at each other in astonishment. It was amazing. Frank was heavier than Paul. Gilligan outweighed the Skipper.

There had never been a better moment in the history of the world as far as Frank and Paul were concerned. There had never been better friends either.

A moment passed and, being American males, it was time to put aside the emotion and get back to the business of being macho.

Well, you little bastard, said Frank impatiently, are you gonna get offa there, or do I hafta kick your ass?

Paul took a step backward. He had been a little stunned and then so overjoyed he didn’t want the moment to end just yet.

After a second or two, he regained his composure.

Hey Frank?

Yeah? Frank answered. Here it comes, the big, awkward, clumsy, we’re both going to regret it later thank-you-for-being-a-friend-I-love-you moment. He prepared himself for the surreal.

Paul fixed him with a look. It went just a bit too long. Whatever he was about to say, whatever he felt like he should say, the courage wasn’t in the bank just yet.

What? Frank cawed impatiently. This shook Paul loose. He finally had the guts.

Fat-ass!

And then Paul performed a childish dance and was grinning from ear-to-ear.

Fat-ass, fat-ass, fat-ass! he was singing to a cha-cha-cha rhythm and pointing with both hands at Frank.

Fat-ass, fat-ass, fat-ass!

Frank took two quick steps in Paul’s direction as if to give chase and Paul took two mock steps in retreat, but they stopped there and laughed. Life was as good at that moment as it ever gets.

Chapter 2

Paul found himself thinking of his old friend. How long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen?

Too long, whatever it was.

In the interim, he’d gotten married and launched a successful career. He was a happy man, but he’d gained all his weight back. It turned out it didn’t really matter after all. He’d never really needed to lose weight to find a wife, to be happy. But it had been nice to do it anyway, just to prove he could.

And now, it looked like he might have to do it again.

He went to bed that night thinking of Frank and wishing his little buddy could be around to help, wishing he could be called hog-head again.

Chapter 3

It was 1982, Paul and Frank were at the gym again, and they were just starting their warm up exercises. Paul had discovered his workouts were more effective if he spent five minutes on the stationary bike before he started pushing iron, the little bit of cardio work preparing his muscles and respiratory system for the discomfort the weight work would bring upon his body.

As he pedaled and planned his workout session, the door to the women’s locker room opened and two blonde goddesses sauntered out, nearly perfect in every way, and, to his shock, naked.

The women’s locker room door was at the farthest point in the gym from him and he squinted to verify his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. As he gawked, they waved a genial hello, an action he could not immediately respond to. Was it possible they didn’t know they were naked?

No, you moron, of course not, surely they can see each other.

They’re doing it on purpose then. They walked out here naked on purpose just so Frank and I can see them.

Ohmigod!

Now they were walking toward Paul as he pedaled briskly upon his stationary bike, and they were ignoring Frank as he worked the pec deck. He wondered if Frank was aware of what was happening but dismissed the thought immediately. There were mirrors everywhere for Pete’s sake.

The bike pedals were more and more resistant to his efforts the closer the girl’s enchanting movements brought them. He suspected nothing unusual in this, decided he was just losing focus, and couldn't help noting the irony in hearing Eye of the Tiger, Survivor’s hot hit now playing loudly over the gym sound system. He saw himself smiling after glancing in the mirror to make sure he looked his best.

Despite the early hour and the fact that he’d just climbed out of bed, hopped into his car and driven straight to the gym, he was pleased to see he’d never looked better.

On his shirt was a small thick sheet of paper like Olympic track stars wore on their jerseys.

His said 173.

As if to reinforce it to all doubters, his mirror image also contained a large digital readout floating conspicuously above his head. It proclaimed 173, but occasionally flickered to 172, as if to imply he was mere moments from being even better than he was right now.

He shifted his gaze toward Frank and found Frank also had large digital numbers floating above his head.

176.

Ah, he thought. No wonder the girls were ignoring Frank and walking toward him. He was surprised by how good it felt knowing he was now the prime choice of any women he and Frank would meet.

He looked at the girls. As they got closer, he could see them better and was pleased to discover they were better looking the closer they got. The girl on the right had blue eyes and raised her arms above her head as if trying to get Paul’s attention all to herself.

The girl on the left had brown eyes and to Paul’s amazement, her hair was gradually shifting to a strawberry blonde tint as she approached. The effect was bewitching and despite the other girl’s best efforts, Paul found he couldn’t take his eyes from the strawberry deliciousness of her rival.

Paul quit pedaling entirely. It was just too much effort. He sat upright on the seat of the bicycle and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. They had become mysteriously heavy anyway. It was similar to the time he’d been given Percocet to combat the pain of dental surgery. His body felt numb and heavy and pointless and he couldn’t help but grin.

The blonde girl, sensing defeat, veered to his right and exited his sight, but he didn’t follow her path. He was content to watch the red haired girl with the haunting black eyes continue her effortless drift. Yes, they were black now, and she seemed to pass right through exercise equipment, her feet not moving as she cruised ever closer, a wry smile appearing on her erotic face.

Despite the fact she was no longer actually taking steps, her breasts swayed slightly and her nipples had become alarmingly erect. Paul had never seen nipples like these in his whole life. Not in magazines, not in movies, not on the Internet. Never. Paul felt hypnotized as he studied them, swaying only slightly left and right, but taking his strength away nonetheless.

As she got closer, he felt an overwhelming urge to see her face again, that, as bewitching as her nipples were, he wanted to see the look on her face, enjoy the idea such a beautiful woman would give herself to him, and he was distressed to discover he couldn’t.

He was frozen.

The thought seeped into his consciousness and stirred up a sense of alarm, a sense of trouble. He focused all his energy on lifting his head, moving his eyes, opening his mouth, but found he was unable to.

Panic set in. He struggled to shift his body in any way, move a finger, wiggle a toe, flex a muscle, and discovered himself unable to do anything but breathe. Breathe and make horrified grunting sounds in his throat.

He thought of Frank and attempted to scream, hoping Frank would be able to help, would come over and break this paralysis.

BRBRBRBRBRBR, he screamed, his lips vibrating as the smothered scream escaped his closed mouth. The sound was small and unimportant even in his own ears. It was overblown by the music playing on the overhead speakers.

Wait, he thought, the Internet? There’s no Internet yet. He found his mind focusing on this one little senseless tidbit of thought.

What was I thinking about there? This is the early eighties. Most people don’t even have a PC yet. Wonder how long it would take to download a picture now? Could you even do that? Could a person download a picture via modem in the early eighties?

Oddly, despite his panic, Paul had lost his train of thought and was thinking about computers as the nipples of the red haired beauty gradually drifted toward each other and shifted downward. Before Paul’s distracted eyes, they became fangs suspended threateningly from the mouth of an overlarge cobra. As the snake formed, Paul gradually regained a grasp of the impending disaster unfolding before his eyes.

The snake was now mere inches from his chest, swaying back and forth, left to right, as if a charmer were there, hypnotizing it, holding it at bay.

With dimming hope, Paul clung to the idea it was he who was hypnotizing the beast, keeping it away, but down deep inside, he knew he wasn’t. He knew it was the Red Headed Man who restricted the cobra, kept it from striking until the time was right.

BRBRBRBRBRBR he screamed weakly. He hoped Frank could hear him but he knew he couldn’t. He knew Frank had fled long ago, deserting him to his own fate. And rightly so, too. When the Red Headed Man comes for someone, no one can intervene.

Paul reached the grim awareness his time had come to an end. His body would no longer respond to the commands his brain was sending and he found himself wondering if he weren’t already dead.

He took a quick inventory.

I’m still breathing, he noted, and I can still feel my weight on the seat of this bicycle. If I can feel the weight of my body, I’m not dead yet. He focused his energy on snapping out of the paralysis gripping his body. The effort brought forth beads of sweat along his forehead, but no movement. His eyes weren’t even his own as the Red Headed Man forced him to follow the movements of the cobra swaying like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, ticking away the remaining precious moments of his life.

This day has arrived sooner than it should have, Paul Schofield, sooner than planned. Your race is becoming weaker, easier to hunt, a trifle boring. The Red Headed Man spoke with command and with an evil detached wisdom. It was clear to Paul he couldn’t plead with this creature for it had no feelings, existed for the express purpose of doing precisely what it was doing this instant.

It was a collector of human lives.

Paul wondered what The Man had meant when he said the day had arrived sooner than planned. Had it meant he was a failure? Had he done something or, conversely, failed to do something and become easy prey, a slow moving target, an easy mark?

He felt his face flush with humiliation and regretted it as he realized it was exactly what The Red Headed Man had wanted to see.

The fangs of the cobra were now brushing faintly against the card attached to the front of his shirt. He was allowed to look down and saw the number had changed and his body had actually gotten larger. The snake hadn’t closed in as he had originally thought; he had expanded to meet it. Not only had the number on the card changed, it had inverted so only he could see it, looking down as he was.

294.

It seemed to mock him, to taunt him as if it were a living being.

He could hear The Red Headed Man singing to a cha-cha-cha rhythm, and was aware The Man was performing some kind of childish dance.

Two ninety-four hey, two ninety four hey, two ninety four hey!

Once again, Paul’s face became red with humiliation and he wondered why The Red Headed Man didn’t just get it over with, end this show of supremacy and allow him to pass on into the void.

Don’t you have someone else to kill? he asked. It surprised him to note he could actually talk.

Nope, not at the moment. The Man replied. I have no other function right now but to take away your life.

Then do it, or go away and let me ride this bike. I don’t need this crap.

The Man smiled. It wasn’t a smile evidencing a personality, but a smile in keeping with some type of programming, some type of procedure. It was as if The Man couldn’t proceed without the smile.

Paul thought of gymnasts as they smiled at the judges preceding their vault or floor routine. They weren’t necessarily pleased to see the judges; they were doing it because they were supposed to, because all the other gymnasts would be smiling prior to their performances.

As you wish, replied The Man, and the cobra closed on Paul, getting closer to his chest, his heart, with each repetitive sweep.

Paul could hear his heart beating in his chest, gaining in frequency and volume, and he thought of two connected things. He thought of two works by Edgar Allan Poe: The Pit and the Pendulum, and The Tell-tale Heart.

He wrestled with the two opposing options they seemed to present.

Will something completely unexpected occur and rescue me at the last possible moment? Should I shout and hope to bring General Lasalle and his armies to my side, to my redemption? Or will my shout, as in The Tell Tale Heart, be the final piece in the puzzle, the implement of my condemnation?

He remained silent.

Chapter 4

In the next room, Whitney heard him speaking and looked up from her book. She couldn’t help but be amused. Even in his sleep he barks orders and tells people what to do, she thought. She didn’t catch it all, but she was sure he’d told someone to go away and let me ride this bike. It was classic Paul.

She’d loved that about him from the start. It wasn’t that he was a control freak or something; no it wasn’t that at all. It was just an inherent trait of his to always think things were his responsibility. His job.

And so, whenever there was a lack of leadership, Paul took over.

To Paul, it was very important that things were fair and right. Important that everyone was happy. Being married to Paul meant never having to worry about anything, never being afraid. She made a mental note to kiss Paul’s forehead later when she finally finished this book and went to bed herself.

Smiling, she looked down and continued reading the last chapter.

Chapter 5

The cobra struck without warning.

As it was swaying left and right it just lunged and hooked its fangs into Paul’s chest.

Despite the suspense of the cobra swaying inches from his chest, Paul found himself somewhat shocked when the cobra finally struck. It had taken so long for it to do its thing Paul had actually begun to think it wouldn’t attack, would just sway threateningly in front of him for hours or days and then just go away. It had been worth hoping for anyway.

But it hadn’t happened, and now Paul knew it had been toying with him, allowing his fear to build to its maximum level, to a level that had plateaued and even declined, had given Paul reason for a small glimmer of hope.

It had waited for him to hope.

In the movies, when a villain is shot, he falls to the ground instantly killed. He barely has time to register he’s dying before everything goes blank and he’s gone. In the movies, unless the director wants to add suspense to the end of the film, the villainous and rightly extinguished culprit dies so quickly he is literally dead on his feet. The death occurs and then the corpse tumbles to the ground neither knowing nor caring where he will land.

In life however, nothing could be further from the truth. Gunshot victims sometimes live hours before succumbing to their injuries and they are often conscious up until the final minutes.

It is conjecture of course, but morbid souls have even hypothesized that unfortunate victims of the guillotine often maintain consciousness long enough to blink their eyes during the fall toward the waiting basket, as if anticipating the impact.

And now, Paul thought, I’m going to learn how long it takes to die at the hands of The Red Headed Man.

At first impact, Paul couldn’t feel the fangs as they violated his chest, could only note a slight pushing sensation and the visual reconciliation as the fangs disappeared into his shirt and chest.

He could see it, but he couldn’t feel it. In fact, numbness seemed to be spreading from the point of impact as if the fangs were a ferocious looking syringe and the toxins he could see being pumped into the spreading chasm of his chest some type of analgesic chemical like perhaps Novocain.

So that’s how it is, Paul thought, you just start getting numb all over and then you’re gone. No wonder people would rather die in their sleep. Totally painless.

Paul relaxed. This won’t be so bad, I guess. If everybody has to die anyway, there are certainly more miserable ways. In fact, this is actually kind of nice.

As he watched, his chest split apart until the cavity was large enough to shove a softball into. The sight was alarming, but Paul gave himself up to the sensation of numbness pervading his body and tried not to think of the gap, tried to consider it