Revised!
A Story by Curtis Graham III
From what I could determine, there was no real reason for what I had begun to think of as the Walk. I suppose it was just something one had to do, although I am the only person to have had this experience, to my personal knowledge. I can't remember exactly how or why I came to be in that dark corridor. The best way I can put it in words is: I was just there.
I had said that I couldn't remember how or why I was on the Walk--that doesn't mean I was totally devoid of memories. The most recent thing I recall before being in the dark was going to bed--the radio being turned on but the volume so low that it was more like hearing whispers of a million voices rather than late-night music--the shades drawn down, the curtains closed. As my eyes had become heavier, I don't recall any light being seen in that dark bedroom, except for maybe the dull light struggling to be seen through my window from the street light across the street; to be honest, I don't remember seeing even that--it felt like I was in a roomy morgue. I remember the smell most of all: that smell that drifted up from the vent every now and then (usually when the weather outside was colder)--a mixture of lint, cold metal, copper, and rubber (I figured the latter was probably an old condom or something like that). That fusion of smells was like that of a body bag…a vinyl smell: death, sex, fear, and rubber.
The Walk (I don't know if that's what it's really called, that was just my name for it) possessed this same smell, and no matter how long or how far I walked, I couldn't get away from that horrid stench. The Walk felt more like a morgue than my room did--seemed tighter, somehow. I confirmed this feeling by paying attention to my sides (from the corners of my eyes) whenever I walked underneath the monotonous overhead lamp lights that hung from the ceiling from chains, set every twenty yards or so; the walls on either side of me were, from my judging (which wasn't accurate, considering I couldn't turn my head and look), about three feet from touching my broad, stiff, naked shoulders. The stench recoiled off the claustrophobia-causing walls and invaded my nostrils like cheap perfume.
But, to be perfectly honest with you, dear listener, the smell I had eventually became au fait with; I know it sounds crazy, but it's true all the same. That reek was the only other presence that I felt in that damp, dimly lit corridor. It wasn't necessarily the lack of light that frightened me, nor the fact that I couldn't move my muscles in any way except to walk. No, it was neither of these that chilled my aching bones, but the sensation of being alone and naked, exposed…that's what got to me.
Thoughts screamed in my brain: Why can't I stop? Why am I unable to control my muscles? Why am I naked and cold? Why am I here, and not in my bed? No answer came for any of them. I attempted to use my mind to stop my feet from moving forward (each time the sole of my foot stepped down upon the cold stone floor--it was undeniably stone--light tingles slithered up in waves through my legs and to my hips), but to no avail. My feet were like a stubborn spouse: they didn't seem to hear nor understand me. There's a simile if there ever was one.
My spine remained stiff and rigid (the way you feel when taking Keyboarding in high school), and my eyes were locked forward, doomed to stare straight ahead of me (not that I could see much), wondering what dreadful surprise might be awaiting me at the end, if there was an end. My heart pounded in my chest, like an Indian brave pounding on a drum, praying to the gods for rain after a long drought. It felt as if it would beat so hard that it would burst right out of my chest, leaving behind nothing but severed arteries and veins, demolished ropes of muscle, and bits of sinew and heart on a broken ribcage. Such thoughts were ridiculous, of course, but still…
Anything could be possible. I was here, wasn't I? Just another unexplainable phenomenon for scientists to ponder over.
Time passed, as it always does. Just how much I couldn't tell you. Unlike my friends when I was a young boy messing around in the drainage pipes around the outskirts of town back in the early fifties, I didn't have a watch or compass in my head. The only thing I got out of my journey so far (I couldn't tell you if it was almost over or just beginning) was that my senses, minus sight, seemed more acute. I felt like a wolf, you know? It felt like I captured every sent that floated around in the tight passage (the dominate ones were the same as before: copper, rubber, a damp smell, like wet leaves). I could feel and hear the creaking agony of the tendons in my neck and back and thighs with each step I took. They sounded like a door opening in an old horror film, or a coffin from a vampire movie. The sense that bothered me most of all was my taste--that had never changed; only increased. My taste buds shocked constantly with the flavor of copper. I could remember only two things that had that sensation in my mouth: a penny or blood.
I didn't have ole Honest Abe in my mouth.
I so desperately wanted to lick the roof of my mouth, perhaps to try and rid myself of that awful taste, or perhaps because a feeling of cotton had now accumulated in my throat and mouth as well, but my tongue simply laid there on my mandible like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
All of a sudden, my eyes filled with a painful and irritating burning sensation. At first I couldn't figure out why (I didn't try to, for the stinging was excruciating), but then I tried to blink, and couldn't. All at once a brand new feeling washed over me, one I had never felt before in my life and didn't particularly care for: the loss of power; I couldn't even force myself to blink.
What in the hell is wrong with me?
After an assumed eternity of walking away cramps, charley horses, and pulled muscles (I never thought it was possible to do so, but I proved myself wrong), the Walk seemed to become brighter, somehow…less dreary. The cracks and crevices were more visible now (it was nearly impossible to see them from the corner of my eye in the little-to-no light) as I walked further on. As I looked ahead (where else was there for me to look? ), I began to sense that I was nearing the end of what I referred to as the Walk. And it was like the stories always say about a person on their deathbed waiting for heaven: the Light at the End of the Tunnel, if you catch my drift.
After some length of time (each step brought me more and more light, which was bright and stinging to my exposed eyes, but wonderful all the same), I arrived at what I perceived to be the source of the light.
The once-dark and tight corridor opened up into an extremely well lit room with four perfectly square walls, set evenly apart (from my point-of-view, at least). The two to my sides appeared to be made entirely of glass. The wall straight ahead--which was the only one I saw clearly--seemed to be made of some kind of white material; whether it was painted this way or appeared white due to the light I did not know. The entire room, which, and I'm taking an educated guess here, was probably one hundred feet in diameter, was clean and bare, save for something near the far wall, which aroused my curiosity ever more, despite how exhausted I was.
I made these observations while I continued to walk. Oh yes, I hadn't stopped, not yet. Each agonizing step brought me closer and closer to the lone object, which was like a fly on the wall. My obdurate feet carried me forward, driving cold nails up my thighs and spine. My ankles had gone numb long ago, while I was still in the hall. My focus rested on the dangling object; if I had looked at the blurred images in the mirror-walls, I would've screamed long ago.
I didn't stop walking until I was directly in front of the thing, which, by then, was too late. My body was too tired and worn out to turn and run away. The rapid beating of my heart, which had been slowing down, picked back up, skipping a few beats. If I could close my eyes, I would've, just to shut out the appalling image from my sight and mind. That, I'll admit, was the one thing I had never lost control of the entire time, and I was truly grateful for it. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, or so they say, and they're right…whoever "they" may be.
A large meat hook hung from a large chain bolted to the ceiling, the links swinging to and fro, left and right, like some strange pendulum. Impaled upon the monstrous hook was a human skin, or one hell of a realistic fake. Its features were stretched to such proportions that identification would've been impossible had anyone but I been in there. The skin's limbs, cheeks, fingers, toes, penis, chest, neck…its every feature was expanded, giving it the appearance of an oversized foreskin.
For the first time, I had control of my body (at first I couldn't figure out why the sudden change, but now I truly believe I had lost power over my being simply to be brought here and see this), and I began to back away, my legs too numb to feel anything anymore. My heart, conscience, and soul were filled with nothing but pure terror. My Achilles backed into something jellylike. I began to slowly turn around, thinking: Oh God, what now? A quarter of the way through the turn, I was facing the mirror-wall, and I finally saw the truth of my excursion down the Walk. I was staring at my own grotesque cadaver.
I appeared to be flipped inside out. That was the first thought that entered my mind, but that wasn't entirely true. I was still whole, just missing my epidermis. I wasn't a corpse, not exactly, for my muscles were alive and pulsating; they were twisted and turned in ropy knots that were too complex for the naked eye to distinguish. The tendons in my neck creaked and screamed with every movement I made. My bones peeked through in several spots, horribly bright underneath the light of the room in which I stood. I was exposed to the world--this world, at least, wherever it may be, whatever Hell this may be. I couldn't see, but I could certainly feel, blood and adrenaline flowing through my veins and arteries. My brain throbbed inside the thick protective layer of my skull. My eyes hung loosely in their sockets; the tissue that had once been my eyelids was no longer there.
I turned back the way I had entered. Even the darkness was better than the truth. I saw my bloody footprints emerging from the corridor, a bloody trail that was now maroon instead of red and coagulating. I wasn't sure if blood could coagulate that fast. Then again, I wasn't entirely sure how long I had been there.
I started back to the darkness, aching to hide in its envelope of midnight, when a low, trembling voice sliced through the air, first penetrating my cartilage for ears, then, a split second later, piercing my thoughts. Either real or imaginary I had not a clue. Not then.
No…
I stopped and turned.
Stay here…with me…we are One…
My skin, which hung from a giant meat hook that was all-too familiar, seemed to be grinning at me through its loose cheeks. As I turned my head to the side, listening to that voice and the creaking of my tendons, I smiled at my glassy eyes in the mirror. My vocal cords loosened up, and my tongue finally worked. I dampened my parched mouth, and it seemed as if my saliva had been replaced with blood.
"Home," I dryly whispered to myself, which were both the body and its skin on the hook.
(From the Eagleton News, Saturday, February 25)
At the reading of the will, Mr. Dean's brother was bequeathed his most cherished item: a large meat hook he had used to hang the bodies of deer he hunted on before gutting them. It had been located in his storage shed prior to Robert Dean's passing, hung from the tin ceiling by a metal chain, the coagulated blood of a long ago hunt lying in a gelatin puddle on the stone floor directly beneath.
Mounted above the deceased man's fireplace in his home was the "best hunt he had ever had," according to his daughter, Julie Dean, and her fiancé, Mark Thoreau, co-founders and partners for Dean & Thoreau, Attorneys at Law firm: a twelve-point buck. When guests poured in at the will reading, they all mentioned that the stuffed deer head, known as Henry to the late Mr. Dean, gave them "the heebie-jeebies." When asked why, they all responded in the same manner:
"It seemed to be grinning down at me under its dead skin."
Copyright 2003, "Little" Curtis Graham
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