Warnings and Memories

"You don't wanna get to know me. Not someone was screwed up as I am."

It was just supposed to be a check-up. His cancer had been completely cured for years with no signs of coming back. He'd made a full recovery. But there was always that 'just in case'. The 'what if'. So every six months, he came in, Just in case.

I'd been his attending nurse since he started coming to the office, but it wasn't all that surprising. It was a smaller-sized town so there were only a couple other nurses besides myself. Six months didn't seem like that often, but when he did come he usually spent the day laboring through every test. He was a quiet man but would murmur a joke or two every now and then. He was used to everything, all of the tests. Compared to cancer, drawing some blood and going through some scans was heaven.

I'd sort of got to know him from his regular visits. And yes, he was handsome and had an endearing personality, from what I knew anyway. But it was only supposed to be a check-up, just like all of his past ones. Yet somehow, it became more than that.

I can still picture him sitting there, torso exposed, as I took his blood pressure. Somehow we'd gotten onto the subject of living in Oregon and he had joked half-heartedly that he didn't care about the rain as long as he was as far away from Connecticut as possible. I'd been thrown off by this, and at the flicker of… something that appeared in his dark blue eyes. At my inquiry of why he'd moved, he'd let out a dry chuckle. One of those hollow ones that was empty of any real humor. Almost sarcastic in a way. His response was one that was almost typical of the question I'd asked.

"It's a long story."

At my reply that I didn't mind and we had the time, I still had a few tests to run on him, that's when he warned me. That he was 'screwed up' and that I should just leave it be. But I was never one to be scared off from something just because I should. And that's when it all started. He agreed to tell me his story, but only if I'd have dinner with him. I agreed without hesitation.

We ate at a tiny little café with homemade fries that made your mouth water just at the smell. We didn't talk about his past there, instead we just chatted about anything and everything. With every passing moment he got a little more open, a little more comfortable. But that something that had flared up in his deep eyes earlier still resided, lurking restlessly in the shadows.

After dinner, he invited me to his apartment where he could tell his story in peace. Several things ran through my mind. That I barely knew him. All of my mother's warnings from when I was younger about people I didn't know.

And that I would severely kick myself if I didn't go.

So I followed my heart, and my curiosity, and went home with him. We sat together on a small couch of worn navy blue fabric, one that I found myself on many times afterward. He poured us each a glass of wine of a deep crimson and gazed into it silently for a while. His pale, angled features were void of the smile and humor there earlier, now solemn and pained from whatever he was thinking of. I studied him all the while but said nothing, letting him gather his thoughts. Finally, he began.

"You know how I had cancer? Well… that wasn't my only problem when I lived in Connecticut. Actually… it was almost the highlight of my issues."

From there he told me the story of his life, or at least, his life in an old white house with a secret. One that nearly tore he and his family apart. Literally. How it had not always been a house, but a funeral home. More than that, the owner, Doctor Aickman practiced in necromancy and had a medium named Jonah. But because of the Aickman's twisted greed, he stole bodies and used necromancy to try and enhance Jonah's abilities. The bodies were all in the walls of the house. And their spirits were not very happy about it.

As I listened to him talk about how he was the first one to start seeing things, how his family thought he was losing his mind and actually became afraid of him, the strangeness of the story was smothered by sympathy for him. To not only have cancer, but to be looked at with fear and uncertainty by the people who should have been there to comfort him? It was terrible.

But finally they believed him when things began happening to them too. And things escalated until finally, he knew there was only one way to be rid of it for good, one way to save his family. He had to burn the entire house to the ground. Then finally, the spirits would have their peace.

So he did. And almost died doing it. His cancer had been on the brink of killing him in the first place, the fire didn't help. But he pulled through and, unexplainably, was cured of his cancer.

It wasn't surprising that they'd wanted to immediately get away both from where such a terrible event had occurred and from the paparazzi sniffing around for them like a pack of bloodhounds. Thinking that quiet and peaceful would be the best, they moved to Michigan. But for him, it was still too close. So that's why he moved here. Far from any poking media or the ghosts of his past. Somewhere where he could start anew.

"You can go ahead and run screaming out the door now, I understand. In fact, I'm kinda surprised you stuck around this long."

If any other person had told me that story, I probably would have left right then and there. I was sort of on the fence when it came to paranormal phenomena being real, but all the same it was a rather crazy tale.

But there was something about the way he'd told it. The look of pain in the ocean depths that were his eyes and the way his features would contort with fear and disgust at certain memories. How he squeezed his wine glass so tightly at certain points, mostly when talking about his family being afraid of him, that it looked like it might snap. It just seemed impossible that he was making it up, more so than the story itself. Nor did I think he was crazy. And in a way… it did sort of explain how his cancer had gone from lethal to non-existent.

When I told him that I believed him the look of shock that crossed his face was like I'd just stated I was really a man. It was swiftly replaced with suspicion and he asked me if I was kidding just to humor him. I wasn't. I proved it too. The kiss was gentle but he ended up spilling wine on the floor anyway. But we just laughed at it.

I didn't just see him every six months from then on. More like nearly every day, at the very least every other. It seemed cliché, a nurse falling for her patient. Even more daunting was that in all of the drama-filled TV shows and movies those kind of relationships never work out. Especially when your boyfriend was a cancer and possessed house survivor.

I guess we were just rebels.

Our life together wasn't perfect, not by any means. It wasn't really anything between me and him however. More like him and the shadows of his past. Sometimes he was perfectly fine, smiling serenely with that quiet sarcasm and wit that made me grin and smack him playfully on the arm. But then there were the time periods where everything that had happened to him came rushing back. It usually happened at night, but it affected his waking hours as well. Dark circles would form around his eyes, brown hair messier and unkempt, a smile hardly ever daring to touch his lips.

It was the nightmares that hit him hardest. Tonight was no different.

I jolted awake when a strangled cry burst inside the room. Eyelids snapping open and heartbeat going sporadic and frenzied, I sat up slightly while looking in the direction the outburst had come. He lay there, writhing in place while his knuckles went white from clenching the white sheet in his hands. His ivory skin was slick with sweat, the moonlight sneaking in through the window causing it to glimmer eerily. His breaths were ragged and out of control, like he'd run for miles without stopping and were interrupted by small pained moans. Things like this had happened before. But never this bad.

"Matt!" I pushed myself up and onto my knees, grabbing his bare shoulders that were slicked with sweat and shaking him to try and free him from his nightmare "Matt, wake up!"

His eyes flew open and he gasped, a rattling, loud sound, then before I knew what was happening I was being thrust sideways by a pair of strong hands wrapped tightly around my neck. Feral and untamed fear burned like a twisting, roaring fire in his navy blue eyes, like a man controlled by the animal instinct to survive. But he didn't really see me. It was not me he was strangling, at least not in his mind.

My own instincts kicking in, my mouth worked desperately to try and supply air to my screeching lungs while I gripped his wrists and tried in vain to pull his hands off my throat. My vision blurred with tears while going black around the edges, brain starting to suffocate from lack of oxygen. I had to snap him out of it or he'd kill me without even realizing it. "Matt!" I rasped, voice barely even a scratchy hiss "Matt, it's me!"

He blinked and his eyes cleared of the insane, wild rage that had consumed them moments before. His face, which had been contorted with blind fury, was painted with shock then he swiftly retracted his hands and I fell onto the bed, coughing harshly and gulping down air.

"Oh my God. I-… I didn't-… I wasn't-…" he stammered but was unable to speak, starring down at his shaking hands in horror as if they were not his own. I couldn't reply yet, massaging my neck with a hand while I continued to hack and tried to get enough oxygen back into my burning lungs. I blinked to clear my vision and my heart twisted with sympathy when I saw a few tears slither down his waxen features and drip down onto the sheet already wet with his sweat. His glistening sapphire eyes tore away from his quivering hands to look at me, pain and regret bright on his features, and whispered "I'm so sorry."

I swallowed to try and soothe my aching throat and pushed myself up in a sitting position. Reaching over, I cupped his cheek in my hand and said softly, voice raspy by at least working "It's okay, I understand. It's not your fault."

"I just-…" he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the side of his face into my hand and sobbed "I could have killed you and I didn't even know it. How the hell do I even know I'm me anymore?"

He shoulders began to shake and I moved closer to him, pressed my back to the headboard of the bed and taking his arm to bring him near to me. With my assurance and persuasion pushing him down, he laid down against me with his head on my chest. I could feel his tears soak into my nightgown and his sobs as he shuddered against me. Whispering reassurances to him, I held him close and pressed my lips to the top of his head, his soft hair tickling my skin.

"It's okay, it's okay. It's not your fault, none of it is. Of course you're you, you always have been. That's why I love you." I murmured rubbing his back in an attempt to ease his harsh tremors.

And I did. No matter how many days were spent in mostly silence due to a reminder of his past the night before. Or how many sleepless nights I went through comforting him and reminding him he wasn't alone. Despite him nearly strangling me. None of that was him.

Matt Campbell was a quiet man who murmured snarky remarks and placed small kisses on my ear when I wasn't paying attention. He would whisper little stories to me as we curled up together beneath the covers on a chilly winter night. And above all?

He was not a slave to the ghosts of his past.