Serial Saturday: Don’t Look at Me by Tom Little, Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Ferrill had been waiting hours to see a psychologist. The hospital’s psychiatric department was the first to bleed when the state calls for budget cuts, and the staff had dwindled to a handful of overworked professionals. If they could determine what’s gone wrong in his head, they would wrangle a psychiatrist to write his prescription. He was invited into a common interview space in the late afternoon.  

Dr. Spurling had been briefed on Grant’s death (documented as a hit-and-run in her file), and Ferrill’s behavior following the incident. Before he arrived, she repositioned the office lamps to illuminate the corners, eliminating shadows. She had studied the brain scans and the X-rays. She observed the way he grasped his black jacket for security, the way his eyes deflected from the officer’s face before he left. 

There were several tests arranged on her desk, but she didn’t acknowledge them. She asked what was on his mind. While he was waiting, Ferrill thought he would try to explain away the haunting face, but now he was thinking of Grant. The Grant from years ago, before beer and dope and leather jackets. Before they went exploring on the south side—when his family didn’t mind the young man showing up uninvited and everything was cool with his parents. He shared his memories through tears, walking backward from their final moments. Spurling listened, watching the boy let his guard down and very gradually loosen his grip on the stained jacket. 

***

Marshall returned to the hospital that evening. Helms waited for him in a covered driveway. A late rain shower had left the air thick and stinking of asphalt. Helms watched the detective cross the parking lot, walking on a sheen of hot rain, reflecting streetlight. He hoped Marshall had come back with some new insight that could save the boy. He took so long, he must know something. Marshall greeted Helms with a shrug and asked where the boy was. Helms led him to the psychiatric department.   

Marshall knocked once, then entered the psychologist’s office. “Excuse me,” he said. “I thought this would be done by now.”

Ferrill shrugged. “We’re just talking.” He glanced at Spurling, hoping that didn’t sound dismissive. Then he turned back to the detective. “Are you taking me somewhere?”

“It would be best if you stayed here another night, kid. The house is not an option.” Marshall tensed as he realized the psychologist may have heard all about Ferrill’s dream house. “Uh, you can’t go home yet.” 

“Well, are you going to keep me here until it gives up and breaks out?” Ferrill looked to Spurling for support. “Don’t say I can’t go. It can’t know that.” 

“He’s still on about the house,” Marshall sighed, looking to the psychologist. “He’s seriously troubled about this place. It has some history to it. What do you think is going on here?” 

“We can speak about that later,” she said. “Let us finish our meeting here and I’ll be right with you.” 

The detective slid his hands into his pockets and waited outside. Ferrill stepped out half an hour later looking for Helms. Spurling followed, standing in the doorway with a handful of notes for Marshall. They described a young man with a very troubled mind. 

***

Ferrill was moved to the psych ward that evening. The psychologist recommended a sleep study, but the personnel wouldn’t be ready for another day. The boy would just have to be patient. 

Marshall arranged for Helms to stay and watch over the boy, in-part to keep him unavailable during the aftermath of Grant’s death. It was patchwork, and Helms would soon have to come up with a grand explanation for the young man’s conspicuous wounds. There would be no other witnesses. The two paramedics occupied a room across the hall from Ferrill, admitted after questioning by Detective Marshall.    

Awake in the grey room, Ferrill felt his time slipping away from him. There was a constant gnawing in his gut. An impatient tic tic repeated in the back of his mind. It was watching him all the time now. He had become so vigilant, eyes probing the shadows, fearful that the twisted figure maybe near. It always was. The perpetual alertness had given to fatigue, and Ferrill fought to stay awake. If he fell asleep, the void may open underneath. Through the green Exit light, he watched Helms nodding, tapping his foot until the head sagged and his breathing slowed. The darkness overcame and Ferrill heard pages turning all around him. 

Adrift in nowhere, he heard his mother’s voice. “It’s time to go home.” Ferrill sprang up in his grey domed cell—the pysch ward, but not quite. As his eyes strained to open, he saw that someone was standing at the foot of his bed. Grant held his jaw shut with a bloody hand. Though clenched teeth he spoke. 

“Ferrill. Take it home. You know where to go. Get up and do it tonight.” 

Ferrill could only whisper. “Will I die?”

Grant, his eyes like silver dollars, paused a moment. “It is sorry.” 

Ferrill began to cry. “Could I keep it in here forever? Does it have to come out?”

“I could not keep it. Every moment captive is misery. You feel it suffering inside, don’t you?” He opened his jacket, revealing a twisted mass of emaciated flesh. Below the ribs, he was hollow. “It will eat away at you until it can break free. Send it home and no one else well ever have to see what we have seen.”

“They won’t let me go,” Ferrill protested, hoping to bargain with his friend.

“Then I will leave you.” 

Grant’s voice deteriorated into a rasp. A familiar snap filled Ferrill’s ears and Grant’s body fell beneath the bed like a marionette, the strings cut and jaw slack. The silver eyes remained, suspended in the dark, and Ferrill discovered the face hiding just behind. Like a bat unfolding its wings, it stretched its leather-tight limbs over Ferrill’s body, the pale face following in a hateful scowl. 

It climbed over the bed, the eyes open wild and jaw agape, just above the boy’s face. It spoke slowly, to measure its words across the boy. “I’ll… leave… you…” The switchblade claws walked up Ferrill’s legs, up his torso to his lips, prying them apart. “And… the man… will see. The officer will take me.” 

Ferrill looked around for Helms, asleep in the room. It would serve him for striking Grant, but now he’s trying his damnedest to help.  

“I’ll go!” Ferrill shouted. “Wait for me and I’ll take you myself.” Eyes clinched, he felt the gnarled body’s weight ease away. “You don’t have hurt anybody else.” 

Tic tic just above his face. He opened his eyes to see its cracked palm spread. The clawed hand caressed his sweat-soaked brow. With a wave, his eyes were closed again.

“Go tonight.” 

Ferrill was again bathed in green Exit light. Helms was asleep in his chair. The curtain was drawn in the grey room. Knowing his every move was under surveillance, he wasted no time rising to his feet and finding the officer’s keys. Helms had removed his belt prior to settling down to rest. It rested on a meal tray by his chair. Ferrill worked slowly to remove the keyring from its secured clasp. Quietly, carefully. A glint of silver made him flinch. It was his pocket knife. Helms had confiscated it at the curb. The boy tied his shoes and returned the knife to its worn groove.