Head Game

By Gary Brandner

A never-before-published novel by the late, great Gary Brandner.

Do you know who you are?

"He stared at his image in the streaked men's room mirror and tried to relate the face to the name.

He still dripped the cold water he had dashed on to ease the lurching nausea.

It would take some getting used to.

He still thought of himself as Jay Baysinger, but the evidnce was piling up that he was not.

So how could he remember all the Baysinger stuff, even if sometimes imperfectly?

No answer. And if not Baysinger, who was he, and what was he doing here?

Again, no answer."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201319342

Book preview

Chapter 1

The mid-morning sun lay warm and heavy across Jay Baysinger’s back. He peeled off the tweed jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooking a thumb through the hanging strap. The jacket was wrinkled, the lining damp with perspiration, as was his shirt. He wore no tie. Why not? he wondered. He always wore a necktie to work. Where was it?

He couldn’t remember. Well, it would come to him. Probably took it off down at the lab and left it lying there somewhere. It would not be the first thing he had forgotten. When he was involved in a project he tended to become absent minded, much to the amusement of his fellow researchers. Who was he working with today anyway? Ah, no matter, he was on his way home now. Had to learn to leave work behind. That’s what had caused the problems between him and Kristy— bringing the work home.

Baysinger trudged on up the slight grade of Lemon Grove Street. With the tips of his fingers he massaged his upper forehead, right at the hairline, where there was a feeling of tightness. Not a headache, exactly, just a slight, unsettling pressure. He raked fingers back through his scrubby hair. Bad haircut. He was going to have to find a new barber.

It would be good to get home and relax. Home to Kristy. Baysinger smiled, conjuring a mental picture of his wife. Pert and slim with short glossy black hair and Irish blue eyes. He resolved to start showing her more attention, as when they were first married. The growing distance between them was his fault, he would admit that. They still enjoyed their good days, but those were getting fewer. Well, that was going to change.

He told himself this would be one of the good days. Kristy would sit him down in his favorite recliner and stroke his head and put a tall, icy drink in his hand. She would listen to his recitation of the day’s problems, and make him smile with stories of her work with troubled children. A very special woman, Kristy Baysinger. He resolved to make her know that he appreciated having her to come home to after a tough day like this one.

And this had been a tough day. Hadn’t it? Oddly he could not recall the details. A combination of the slight headache and the heat had muddled his mind.

He stopped, shaded his eyes with a hand, and looked up at the sun. It was almost directly overhead. That did not compute. Why was he coming home in the middle of the day? Damned if he could remember. What was the matter with his memory?

The first chill of apprehension hit him. He had an odd sensation of floating off and up, enclosed in a sealed pocket, watching himself walk up Lemon Grove Street somewhere below. And at the same time he was down there, being watched. The dual point of view made no sense. He started off again at a quicker pace, up the street toward his home.

Lemon Grove was a long, straight street lined with tall coconut palms. The street ran from the Golden State Freeway all the way up to the rolling green spread of Brand park where the white Grecian library nestled in the embrace of the Verdugo foothills. It was a nice, clean, comfortable street in Glendale, California. A street where life was pleasant and predictable.

Baysinger smiled as he quickened his pace, remembering the excitement He and Kristy had shared when they signed the papers four years ago making them first-time home owners. The house was carefully chosen after two years of budgeted living in a Van Nuys apartment. They got a good buy on the house, which the owners had abandoned to move to Arizona. Neighborhoods to the south and the east had deteriorated, and gang graffiti had spread like a fungus outward from Los Angeles. However Lemon Grove Street had stayed much as it had been in the 1950s.

A troubling new perception slowed his steps and brought him to a stop. He knew this street as well as he knew his own face. He had walked it many times, the three long blocks from his house to Gilbert’s liquor store-delicatessen down on the corner of Glenoaks. That walk was, embarrassingly, almost the only exercise he got these days. In the car culture of southern California, nobody walked anywhere unless he had to.

But why was he walking now? He carried no package from Gil’s. Returning from work? But that was wrong. He always drove to and from the job, Monday through Friday, and sometimes Saturday. For that matter, what day was today? What the devil was wrong with his thinking process?

A growing anxiety prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. He frowned in concentration, taking a hard look at his surroundings. There was something different about Lemon Grove Street today. Something wrong. These were the same houses—1950s ranch models and tile-roofed Spanish bungalows. And yet they were... different. The shrubbery was wrong—too bushy, or too bare, or in some cases not there at all when it should be. The tight feeling at his hairline increased.

Baysinger started walking again. He crossed Cypress Avenue, the last street before his own block. There was a construction barrier set up where a trench ran the length of the block. When did they dig that? There was no trench there when he left the house. Was there? Why was it so difficult to remember?

A soft buzzing began inside his head. Like the stirring of a distant swarm of bees. He really needed to get home and relax.

He walked faster, eyes shifting from one side to the other as he registered the subtle but unmistakable changes in his neighborhood. A fence surrounded the Carney’s lawn where there should be no fence. Children’s toys lay scattered on the grass. Frank and Emma Carney were a quiet couple in their late 60s who never had children, never wanted any. And across the street yellow-brown patches marred Terry Williams’ lawn. To proud gardener Terry Williams, a dead patch in his beloved dichondra would be unthinkable.

Baysinger began to sweat. Finally he was home. He turned eagerly up the walk to his front door. And stopped. Planted in the grass to the left of the walk was a Century 21 real estate sign. For Sale. And a little tag hung underneath the sign: Sold. Sold?! What the hell was going on? A joke? Not funny. And yet somebody had jammed a For Sale sign into his lawn between the time he left the house and now. What time exactly did he leave the house? The bees swarmed closer.

A clang of metal behind him spun him around. Two men were carrying furniture up a loading ramp into the back of a large truck. On the side of the van was the red shield of the Salvation Army. Baysinger walked back out to the curb and looked at the chair the men were horsing into the truck’s interior. It was his familiar and beloved recliner.

Hey, what are you people doing? he said.

The two men turned and paused with the chair halfway up the ramp. The younger looked to the older man to answer.

We’re making a pickup. The tone of his voice said that much should be obvious.

That’s my chair.

The man sighed as though he’d run into this situation before. You’ll have to talk to the lady. She called for us to pick up the furniture. It’s all signed for.

I didn’t sign anything. Mister, the stuff is all loaded. Well you can just unload it.

Can’t do that, friend. You’ll have to call the downtown office.

Then I’ll damn well call them.

While the men watched him with long-suffering expressions, Baysinger marched up the walk to his front door. He grasped the brass doorknob, turned it and shoved. The door did not budge. Locked. He dug in his pocket for his keys. Not there. He checked his other pockets, the jacket. No keys. He always carried his keys in their neat leather case. They were as much a part of his clothing as the wallet on his hip. But what the hell?! The wallet was gone too.

Behind him in the street the truck engine ground to life. He turned to see the Salvation Army rumble away carrying his recliner. Damn! What could have gotten into Kristy? She was going to have some explaining to do.

He thumbed the mother-of-pearl button set into the stucco wall beside the door. From inside he could hear the familiar bing-bong of the chimes. He must have put his keys down somewhere before going to the store.

Sure. And he forgot to change his wallet from one pair of pants to another. Easy explanations. Everything would be lying right there on the bureau, and he would feel like a fool. He and Kristy would have a good laugh at his absent-mindedness and make jokes about the early onset of Alzheimer’s.

No! This was not funny. What about the truck? And the For Sale sign? And the wrong look of the whole neighborhood? Too many things were out of place here.

His pulse raced, the surging blood pounded in his ears. The swarming bees droned ominously.

The door opened. Jay Baysinger’s knees turned to water.

Chapter 2

A tall, thin young man Baysinger had never seen before barred his entrance. Baysinger looked him up and down. The boy’s hair was pale and short. He was cultivating a hopeful moustache, He wore faded jeans and a T-Shirt with a cartoon character Baysinger did not recognize.

Well?

Words clotted in Baysinger’s throat. He looked past the young man into the living room. His living room. But it was not his any more. Half the furniture was missing. Not only his recliner, but two other chairs, a pair of end tables, the desk he always used at home, and a large bookcase. Cardboard cartons were stacked along the wall. Clothes, clothes, were piled on the floor, separated into jackets, pants, shirts.

Of remaining furniture he recognized Kristy’s piano, the coffee table, and the couch with the floral pattern he had never liked. Two tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea sat on the coffee table. Across the room Kristy, his wife, sat on the couch looking at him. There was nothing in her face to indicate she knew him. What’s going on? The words came out of him in a pinched whisper.

You want something? The young man in the doorway was looking at him warily now.

Baysinger frowned at him. Who are you?

The boy turned to Kristy, who shrugged, then back to Baysinger. I think the question here is, who are?

His patience was about used up. I’m the guy who lives in this house and bought most of that furniture they just trucked away. He took a step forward, and when the boy put out an arm to stop him, angrily pushed it away. He focused across the room at Kristy. Somebody better tell me what the hell’s going on here?

His wife stood up and faced him. She wore a man’s blue work shirt and tight white jeans. I think you’ve got the wrong house, mister.

For a terrible moment Baysinger felt his sanity tremble. Could he have somehow made a dreadful mistake? Even knowing it was impossible, he took a step back outside and read the bronze metal numbers screwed into the wall beside the door. Numbers he himself had put up there. 1436.

If there’s a mistake here, he said, I didn’t make it. His voice gained strength as some of his confidence returned. I live here. This is my house. To the young man he said, I don’t know who you are, sonny, but you, pointing at Kristy, are my wife. His words lost some of the intended power when he was swept with a wave of vertigo and stumbled against the door jamb.

The other two exchanged a look. The boy stepped forward, ready to catch him.

Hey, are you all right, man?

I... I... I don’t know, Baysinger got out. The room wavered in and out of focus.

Maybe you’d better sit down. I don’t want to sit down.

But he allowed himself to be led into the living room. Kristy cleared a stack of newspapers from one end of the couch, and he sagged onto the cushions. A hard, cold knot began to grow just under his diaphragm.

He looked up into the faces of the two people in his living room. The boy was standing disconcertingly close to his wife. Kristy’s expression, gentle concern, still with no sign of recognition, chilled him to the bone. I’m Jay Baysinger, he said, feeling foolish. I live right here at 1436 Lemon Grove Street in Glendale, California. You are Kristy, my wife. I don’t know your friend. Now how about an explanation?

Kristy approached him warily. Either this is one ugly joke, or you are a very confused man. Apparently you know my name, and my husband’s name, and you have the address right. That doesn’t prove anything.

I don’t see that l have to prove anything. Suppose you just start by proving who you are.

My name is Jay Baysinger. He bit off each word and spat it out. You prove I’m not, if you can.

Kristy faced him, her shoulders squared. My husband, Jay Baysinger, has been dead for two years.

It was like a punch in the stomach. No!

Both Kristy and the boy started at his vehement denial. The boy looked toward the door as though for reinforcements. Kristy took a step toward the table that held the telephone.

Wait a minute, he said. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am confused. Let me try to sort all this out. While his wife and the young blond man moved closer together and watched him, Basinger looked around. This was his living room. His house. His furniture, what was left of it. The pictures on the walls were familiar. The hole was still in the wall where he had knocked out a chunk of plaster when he carried in the new television set. The place even smelled the same—lemon furniture polish and that floral stuff Kristy used on the carpet when she vacuumed. And yet, like the neighborhood, nothing here was quite right. The bees were back, humming in circles in his head.

He took a closer look at Kristy. She was maybe a bit thinner, and her hair was longer than it should have been, but beyond any possible doubt she was his wife. There could be no confusion about that. Baysinger became aware that the young man was talking to him.

My name’s Ross Newland. I work with Kristy sometimes down at the clinic. He paused, letting the implied familiarity sink in. We’ve known each other almost a year. I know what he looked like. I’ve seen pictures of her husband. You are not anything like Jay Baysinger.

He looked back at Kristy. She slowly shook her head, watching him carefully.

Look, something weird is going on here. I don’t know what it is, but I do know I live here and Kristy Baysinger is my wife. We’ve been married six years. Or is it seven? He turned on the couch and looked over his shoulder. There should be a picture of you and me, taken on our honeymoon in Hawaii, right there on the piano.

Kristy stared at him. How did you know that?

I know it because I live here, damn it. Because it is our honeymoon picture. Can we please knock this off?

Kristy took a few seconds before answering.

"There was a picture there. Of Jay and me. She chewed on her lower lip. Just a minute."

She walked over to the row of cartons, dug through one of them, came out with a square, tissue- wrapped packet. With her eyes on Baysinger, she pulled away the tissue and dusted off a framed enlargement of a color photograph. She stepped forward and handed it him.

He saw a young man and woman in luau shirts smiling into the camera. They stood on a white sand beach with their arms around each other. Picturesque palm trees leaned into the cloudless sky behind them. The woman was a slightly younger version of the Kristy who stood now watching him. He remembered the beach, the trees, the warm day, even the silly shirt he was wearing. But the fair-haired, slightly plump young man with his arm around Kristy was a stranger.

Baysinger looked up from the photograph. This isn’t me. Kristy took the photograph from him. I know. That’s Jay Baysinger. My husband.

He looked to Ross Newland for some sign that this was all an elaborate hoax. The boy gave him none.

Baysinger lurched to his feet. He walked unsteadily to the gas fireplace and stared into the mirror above the mantle. The face that looked back was still his—gray eyes, high cheekbones, stubby brown hair. Definitely not now or ever was he the honeymooner in the photograph.

Kristy said, not unkindly, If you’re feeling all right now, I think you’d better go.

A lump, cold and hard like congealed grease, seemed to constrict his breathing. He swallowed hard and clenched his hands, digging the nails into his palms.

"This is... wrong. What are you doing to me.

Who is that in the picture with you, Kirsty?"

She answered him gently, I told you. That’s my husband, Jay Baysinger. nine years ago. where he worked. The picture was taken right after we were married Two years ago Jay was killed in an accident. That’s all there is. That’s the end of the story.

"What about the For Sale sign out front? The...the Salvation Army truck?"

I’ve had the house listed for a year. The real estate market is bad, and it took until last week to find a buyer. The deal is in escrow now. I’m starting my packing and getting rid of a lot of things I should have dumped long ago so I’ll be ready to move.

The swarming bees grew louder and became a rushing wind. The light in the room dimmed and brightened and dimmed again. With an effort he brought everything back into sharp relief. Anger flowed in to cover his confusion.

All right,’’ he said through clenched teeth, game’s over. You two have had your fun. I want an explanation, and I want it now!"

Ross Newland reached for the telephone. That’s it, man. Either you’re out of here or I’m calling the police.

The mention of the police froze him. Why? Jay Baysinger had never been in trouble in his life. He had no reason to fear the police. And yet the threat was powerful enough to grab hold and push him across the room and through the front door.

The boy followed and stood in the doorway. And don’t come back.

Kristy watched him from across the room. You really should get some help.

Baysinger stood for a moment just outside the door of his house with the warm sun overhead and his wife inside looking at him like a stranger. He bit down hard on the knuckle of a forefinger, as though to wake himself from this nightmare.

You got a problem here, Kristy?

Baysinger started at the sudden male voice behind him. He turned to see his neighbor—fat, friendly Howard Denbo. Howard did not look friendly now. His right hand gripped the handle of a heavy hedge clipper. Howie, for God’s sake, tell these people who I am.

I give up, pal. Who you?

Baysinger could only stare. Howard took a firmer grip on the hedge clipper.

Kristy came to the door to stand beside Ross Newland. It’s all right, Howie. The man made a mistake. He’s leaving now.

Baysinger took a last searching look at the three stony faces, saw no softening. He took two faltering backward steps, then wheeled and walked stiffly toward the street. Behind him the door to his house closed with a thump. The dead bolt lock clacked into place. At the sidewalk he turned and headed down the street the way he had come. He did not look back at his home or at his good friend and neighbor, who stood watching him, the hedge clipper held ready.

The familiar neighborhood took on a surreal look as he continued down the block where he and

Kristy had lived together. The houses were too sharply defined. The sunlight too bright, the grass too green, the patches of shadow too dark. Everything stood out in painful relief.

Baysinger mentally replayed the scene he had just been through. None of it made any sense. It was not conceivable that this was a cruel joke. Kristy was not the kind of a woman to do such a thing. And yet she had looked him straight in the eye and betrayed no hint of recognition. Told him Jay Baysinger was two years dead. And there was that photograph taken on their honeymoon with a strange man standing in his place.

His mind rebelled. This was not happening. Could not be happening. A boy he had never seen before was sitting in his living room, apparently helping his wife pack up to move out of their home, which had a For Sale sign out front. And how could he explain his friend and neighbor Howie Denbo? Good old Howie, with whom he’d drunk beer, watched football, shared do-it yourself projects. Howie had stood ready to eviscerate him with a hedge clipper. If this is some insane dream, he thought, please, please let me wake up.

He walked more swiftly down the inclined street, his mind a kaleidoscopic jumble. Clutching his rumpled jacket in one hand, he began to jog, then to run. The tall palms bounced forward to met him. Baysinger ran on. He ran as though demons were chasing him. His hard-soled shoes banged the concrete sidewalk, each step sending a jolt up his shin bone, through his knee, upper leg, and into the pelvis. His arms pumped, the breath blasted in and out through his gaping mouth. The palm trees, the parked cars, the houses with their neat lawns, the cloudless sky, the relentless sun all blurred into a rushing diorama.

On and on he ran, heedless of the children who stopped their play to watch the wild man galloping down their street. He gave no thought to what he was running from. Or to. Only the physical act had reality. If he ran fast enough, maybe he could outdistance the terrible dark shadows of his mind.

Chapter 3

California State Prison at Folsom has an inmate population of 6,400, give or take a couple of dozen. It opened in 1890, and is the second oldest correctional institution in the state.

Folsom is considered a high-risk, maximum- security institution. Hard time. Christmas comes on time every year, even to Folsom and its 6,400 souls. From