The Dream Stalker

By T.L. Clees

The Dream Stalker tells the story of a hospice chaplain who receives a gift from a dying patient. He quickly learns that gifts can be curses and that sometimes gifts are given out of necessity rather than appreciation. As he unravels the gift it begins to unravel him and his life spirals out of control. Can he be saved from madness or will he take those around him down the dark hole with him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543979848

Book preview

Dream Stalker

T.L. Clees

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54397-983-1

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54397-984-8

© 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

Eleven

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

ONE

Paul remembered going to bed. He remembered how tired he had been and how the few tokes on his pipe had left him feeling peaceful and dreamy. He remembered pulling back the clean top sheet--he loved clean sheets--and sliding between the freshly laundered cotton blend that smelled like lavender. He remembered how soft the pillow felt as it encased the back of his head. He remembered how mellow he was feeling as his already squinted lids slowly began to close. He remembered thinking how easy sleep was coming and how much he wanted that and needed that. He did not remember being kidnapped and duct taped to a chair in an empty garage. Yet that was exactly where he found himself.

Paul knew he must be dreaming, but at the same time he was sure he was not. He threw his head backwards violently hoping that the jarring would wake him up and he would feel his head slam into his pillow like that falling feeling when you wake up from a dream. Instead he hurt his neck. Fifty-five year olds shouldn’t throw their heads back in such a fashion even if they were stretched out—but certainly not stone cold from just waking up. The pain raced from his collarbone up his neck disappearing behind his ear before exploding into the back of his head. It repeated this racing pattern over and over until the sound of a drill redirected Paul’s attention.

Who is that? he yelled into the darkness. The drill made a hungry sound as the rpm’s increased and the gears meshed into a steel symphony. What do you want with me? Paul yelled and felt the pain in his neck again for a moment before the outline of a bulky shadowy figure grabbed his full attention. He strained to see hoping he would not. He didn’t want to see a figure. He didn’t want to see an empty garage. He wanted to see his ceiling, his room, the familiar paintings on his wall. But he did see a figure, a shadowy mass. The figure inched closer and the drill’s rpm’s increased. Paul started jerking his body back and forth hoping to break free from the bonds that held him to the chair. He didn’t care anymore about the pain in his neck. He strained with every ounce of strength he had and for a fleeting moment he wished he had gone to the gym once in his life so he would be strong enough to break free. Instead he just thrashed about in complete panic mode. The sound of the drill was all consuming and seemed to originate not from the figure approaching but from inside his own head. It was maddening in that instant and seemed to affect every fiber of his being.

That’s it, he yelled and thought I have to be sleeping if the sound is coming from inside my head. He muttered wake up over and over hoping beyond hope that any minute he would feel the clean sheets nestled against his rapidly increasing sweat soaked body. He thrashed some more and for a hope filled moment thought he broke free. But instead he simply managed to tip the chair over. It felt like he was in free fall for several minutes before his shoulder contacted the cold gray concrete floor. Slow motion doesn’t happen in real life he comforted himself. Paul felt the strain in his neck again and it felt like several more minutes passed before the side of his head smacked the same cold, hard floor with enough force to make the room spin and disappear. I’m waking up he thought.

Paul, wake up! It was his mom waking him up for school. All of this, including his whole miserable adulthood had just been a nightmare. He didn’t marry his high school sweetheart and take a bullshit job. He didn’t look away after she had affair after affair. He didn’t have to pretend she loved him for their children’s sake. He didn’t walk in on her being London bridged by two guys half her age on their marital bed. He didn’t go through a horrible and grueling divorce. It, all of it, was just a horrible nightmare and he joyously opened his eyes in anticipation to a new beginning only to realize he was wrong.

Inches from his face was another face. Well it was a head and a face without features. It reminded Paul of the mask Michael Meyers wore in the Halloween movies that he used to take his ex-wife to see when they were young and in love. This mask had even less features than the Michael Meyer’s mask. Although, it was not a mask, it was this person’s face, whoever this person was. The middle of the face seemed to move and words came out even though there was no discernable mouth or lips. It was much more frightening than a mask and stirred a fear deep inside of him. He couldn’t place it but the formless face scared him more than the sound of the drill.

Paul, you’ve made me very angry. The voice was deep, frightening and no nonsense. It had a menacing quality that shook Paul to the bone and made him feel even more uneasy than this crazy situation had made him feel. The voice alone caused great despair and Paul thought whoever it belonged to could make a killing doing the opening narrative to horror movies.

I’m sorry. I have no idea what you think I did, but I didn’t do it. Paul said sounding every bit like a scared schoolgirl. He realized that the chair was upright again and wondered when and how that had happened. He didn’t recall anyone lifting him and the chair back up. It convinced him this was just a series of bad dreams. He was waking up and falling asleep picking up the dream again near where he had left off. He had dreamed in a story line fashion before. Paul hissed, You can’t hurt me this is just a dream. If you do anything I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone!

I’m your huckleberry, the voice boomed and then laughed an insidious laughter that echoed throughout the garage and caused Paul’s heart to seize with fear.

Paul felt the person or thing’s knee on his thigh. Its full weight seemed to be pushing into his leg muscle and that alone made him cry out in agony. The knee was boney and sharp and seemed to divide the narrow muscles in Paul’s thigh. Then a thick leather glove went across his face with a thumb on one side of his face near his eye and fingers on the other side near his other eye while the palm crushed his nose. The glove pushed his head backwards. The leather encased hand smelled of 3-in-1 oil and for a moment Paul thought of his childhood and how his father had used the product on nearly everything in the house. It was a happy time. The happy time faded as the glove pushed and held his head so far back that Paul was painfully reminded of his earlier neck strain. But that was a different dream. I shouldn’t still have it he thought and his fear that maybe it wasn’t just a dream was growing.

The sound of the drill sent a jolt of adrenalin through his body giving him enough strength to move his head slightly forward for a moment before it was roughly pushed back into place, maybe even further back than before. His neck hurt all over again. The gloved hand kept pushing his head back to the point where he thought it might just disengage from his body. Whoever it was attacking him was freakishly strong—the kind of strength only exhibited in dreams and nightmares. The smell of the oil that had briefly put him in a happy place had become overwhelming and was making him gag. When the pushing stopped Paul’s head was so far back that he couldn’t close his mouth. He couldn’t do much of anything. Paul felt completely restrained.

It is a small company of men that have experienced fright so severe that the pontine micturition center of the brainstem orders the evacuation of bowel and bladder. Paul joined that company as he heard the drill coming close to his open mouth. Oddly enough before he felt the pain he thought my fucking sheets are ruined. Then the pain did not allow him to think of anything else for some time.

Paul wasn’t sure exactly where the drill bit was going in. It felt like right at the gum line of his front teeth. He tasted the coppery tint of blood before he smelled the familiar dentist odor of a tooth being drilled into. He fought against the gloved hand holding his head back and the pain became exponentially worse. The faceless form hissed at him, Hold still. You’re causing the drill bit to skip across your gum line and fuck up all your teeth. I just want to make one hole. Got it?

Paul got it all right. There was piss all over the front of him and shit in his pants and some psycho path was drilling into his teeth. The pain was unreal—indescribable, but the fear was what was killing him. Wake up, he muttered over and over again and the drill started again with an evil whine. And Paul tried to hold still, he really did, but the pain was too much. What size fucking hole was this maniac drilling into him he wondered? It felt like a gigantic drill bit as it bit in and skipped around tearing at gums and teeth alike. He felt the hand push back harder and hoped his neck would break and end this. It didn’t. He started crying and thought it odd that pissing himself and shitting himself would precede crying in the order of absolute terror producing responses.

The drill bit finally caught and stayed in one spot as it drilled deep into a tooth sending shockwaves of new pain through Paul’s entire body. He was exhausted from the full body convulsions in response to the pain as well as from the adrenalin dump. He so badly just wanted to be dead and have this be over. He never imagined he could want to be dead so badly. He heard a pop and knew that the drill bit had exited out the back of one of his front teeth. It stopped and roared to life once more as the faceless creature backed the drill bit out. The pressure, it wasn’t even worthy of being called pain anymore, came off his thigh as the monster, what else could you call it, stood up.

That wasn’t so bad was it Paul? it said with more demonic laughter and for a second Paul thought he saw a mouth in the formless face. He wanted to offer some smart-ass reply but was simply too exhausted to even tilt his head forward. The pain was well beyond anything he could have even fathomed. He made a grunting noise and felt a strand of thick liquid run out of the corner of his mouth. He realized for the first time that his nose was also bleeding and the blood was running down the back of his throat.

I know you’re wondering why some narcissistic son of a bitch is drilling into your mouth. Oh wait, that’s the wrong word. Not narcissistic, you don’t even know what that means. Let’s try sadistic instead. I know you’re wondering why some narcissistic--son of a bitch I did it again. Damn, I just can’t stop saying narcissistic. Anyways, you’re probably wondering why I’m drilling into your face. The truth of the matter is I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. I fucking hate you, rich boy.

Paul tried to grunt who are you but only a few groans came out. He had lost the ability to physically talk and was sure he was losing the mental capacity to do so as well. A mind can only take so much before it shuts down for sanity’s sake.

What was that? You’re going to have to learn to talk with a lisp that is if you will even be able to talk when I get done with you. My goal is to cause you so much pain that when I’m done the only place for you will be on the 13th floor of some mental hospital. Now don’t go anywhere. I’m going to go get a wire brush drill bit and see how many of those raw nerve endings that I just exposed can be stimulated with little hard copper wires. Be right back, my friend. And the figure patted Paul’s thigh and even though it didn’t have a mouth he was sure it smiled at him.

Paul watched the shadowy figure walk away out of the corner of his eye. It really had no shape or form. Just a faceless figure all in black. Paul couldn’t shake its heavy presence even though he had seen it move away. It was like it was still on him—still drilling. Who could it be, his mind allowed before exploding back into flashes of searing white hot lights of pain. Who does he think I am? More pain that was so bad it almost made him pass out but also so bad that every time it flashed it made him alert. He gagged on the blood running down through his nasal passages and coughed—it caused even more pain. Wave after wave, flash after flash and then the figure was back all too soon.

Let’s see how this feels going in and out of the hole I made. But then again you’re pretty good at going in and out of holes I make aren’t you mother fucker? And expecting no reply the figure was on him again in a second with a new drill bit, a new tool of torture. He held the drill bit up close to Paul’s eye. Paul could see the tiny copper bristles. The monster pressed it against his cheek and each tiny copper wire poked his face painfully. Now, imagine what they’re going to do to those raw nerve endings.

Paul was sure there was a threshold of pain that man could endure and then his brain would just turn to mush. He had been certain he passed that threshold earlier, but that pain had been nothing compared to the freak show going on in his mouth this time. He screamed for all he was worth and felt his bowels and bladder try to turn themselves inside out emptying their contents. He could only begin to describe it as a million ferocious piranha like ants devouring his face. He felt his body shaking uncontrollably and sweat and other bodily fluids poured out like they too wanted to escape the pain.

Suddenly it all stopped and he felt a wave of euphoria spread through his body. The pain was still there, but it was distant. He thought he was having an out of body experience. It was like he was tripping on acid, like he was floating away. He was dying, that must be it. Then suddenly he became very aware of the pain again—too fast, his head swirled and his heart raced. Everything was going to explode in a fury of the worst pain imaginable on the face of the earth. Before he blacked out the monster whispered, See you again tomorrow night.

Paul woke up sitting in bed screaming. He was covered in sweat. He was surrounded by a pool of urine and fecal matter, but otherwise he was unharmed. He drew a deep ragged breath and caught the faint odor of 3-in-1 oil. He then started crying uncontrollably.

TWO

30 days earlier…

It was really a thing of beauty. One might consider it a Norman Rockwell painting played out in real life. And the majestic part of it was that it wasn’t a one-time performance. It was something played out every time Chaplain Michael Spear walked into Growing Oaks Assisted Living Center. It was also likely a similar situation every time he walked into any of the assisted living centers or memory care units he visited throughout Genesee County. Mike would have been the first to tell you he was just doing his job to the best of his ability, but the hint of altruism and the overload of love told an entirely different story that did make it beautiful.

Mike entered the facility after punching in the key code on the numerical pad. It was a lock designed both to keep people out and also to keep people in. He wasn’t tall. He didn’t have extraordinary thick beautiful hair. He was well built, but not strikingly so; more like a bodybuilder than a model. He was not classically handsome. His beard was a perpetual five o’clock shadow no matter how much he sometimes wished he had a baby face. When Mike had been going through jump school in Fort Benning, Georgia at 18 years old the black hats hounded him every afternoon claiming there was no way he had shaved that morning. So to avoid an extra 30 minutes in the gig pit every day Michael had to run back to the barracks and shave again during lunch. Most of his features were pedestrian at best. But one thing that stood out was Chaplain Mike’s smile and eyes.

His smile was not perfect or striking. It was somewhat crooked and not symmetrical at all. The left side didn’t go up nearly as high or wide as the right side due to some nerve damage as a child involving a golf ball off a baseball bat that hit a young Mikey right below the cheek bone. His teeth were not perfectly straight nor perfectly white either. They were spaced too far apart thanks to an over zealous dentist and a quack of an orthodontist. The front left incisor was discolored due to a softball taking a bad hop when Mike was on the All-Army team in Korea. It never caused him any pain and therefore he never got it checked out. Mike joked that he was two faced. The left side resembling Quasimodo and the right side Cary Grant, neither extreme was true. But what his smile did hold in all its imperfections when flashed was the message I am so happy to see you! It didn’t matter if you were staff, if you were visiting a resident, if you were a resident who was blind, if you were a resident that hadn’t spoken in years, it simply didn’t matter—everyone got the same message from that smile: I am so happy to see you.

But it wasn’t just the warm genuine smile that set Michael apart, it was also the eyes. The eyes with the color of a 1970’s mood ring. Some would swear they warmed with a swirling earth tone green. Some would claim they dazzled with a bright blue that lit up the room. Many more would say they were a cloudy gray that invited you in to a friendly conversation. On his driver’s license it simply said ‘green But whatever color you saw them they also had a message: I’m listening, cast all your cares upon me." Michael was an amazing listener in part because he was an introvert and didn’t like to talk, but also because of the captivation of his eyes. When you talked he made you feel like you were the only person in existence. He had no need or desire to interject his own story and by all accounts seemed absolutely captivated by whatever it was you were telling him. Between the smile and the eyes he was able to bring peace and tranquility into some of the worst shit storms life could throw at you.

Mike walked around the room greeting everyone by name with either a hug or a warm squeeze of the hand. His amazing memory allowed him