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It seems that light bulb in Erik's kitchen has declared a war on Charles' retinas and his hearing. It is buzzing on and on. The sound is low, but goodness, it's drilling a hole in his skull. Circles of light are stuck to the back of his burning eyelids. Charles licks his lips and goes on.
"Soon after I went through the list you've showed me, it had confirmed my suspicions. I initially included a male student in the list of my own, but then reconsidered. Basically, their preferred choice is a female. It's almost archetypical, I'd say. A young adult or teen, in other words, she, who has already hit puberty… exhibits regressive social behaviour around the time of disappearance, emotionally liable, submissive, abusive or neglecting parents, from lower to middle strata and," Charles makes a sweeping gesture at the fridge, which is now transformed into a whiteboard with printed pictures stuck to it, "they are obviously very pretty."
Headache starts knocking from inside as though drilling wasn't enough.
"You have the eye for pretty, don't you?" Erik draws obscenely, with a disdainful twist to his thin mouth.
"Excuse me?" Charles reels back, stung.
"Yes," Erik looks up from his notes. "I see your point and I agree."
"Didn't you just say —"
It's now Erik's turn to regard him with a frown.
"Charles, since you've started your lecture I hadn't said a word. You may sit down, by the way."
"But… Okay, um, never mind," he stops in his tracks and clasps the back of steel chair, trying to herd his thoughts. "The time of each disappearance is very significant for perpetrators. That and the choice of victims led me to believe that it might have certain ceremonial or symbolic significance. The end of October? Any ideas? Harvesting, perhaps?"
"A sacrifice?"
"Or a tribute of sorts. You see, there is a rational thought behind this. These are the children you lure with honey: with promise of salvation and love. You make them believe that their "new" life will be completely different, but in order to show that they're ready they have to be prepared to burn all bridges. Maybe, suicide notes were just goodbyes, which were interpreted in the wrong way. Or, possibly, intentionally misinterpreted."
"How would you describe the mastermind. Any thoughts?" Erik asks.
"A man. Narcissistic, superficially charming, act-focused. Well off."
"Sexually motivated?"
"Not sure yet."
"Is it true? Can psychopaths bond with people very rapidly?"
"If they are intelligent enough, yeah, they can assess your value and personality after observing you," here Charles perks up. "Yes, Erik, thank you! That's how they find them. By observing them first. It is well planned and well executed, and if something does go wrong, like in Wagner's case, when an outsider happens to ask too many questions, it is dealt with. Do you think Blake knew something happened to his girlfriend?"
"Yeah, Blake's had plenty of time for thinking it over," Erik stands to pour himself coffee. "And what happened at the hotel was definitely not a gentlemen brawl. That was some neat work. I took a look at the report: fire exit in sight, no cameras in the adjacent corridor. And, also, any person would bleed out in a matter of minutes after sustaining those injuries. A severely bruised trachea suggests that he was silenced with a direct blow to a throat, so he wasn't able to make a sound."
Charles nearly gags at the description, because visuals are still fresh in his mind, but he doesn't want to forget. This memory, he decides, is a good reminder why he is doing this.
"Charles, you alright?" Erik nods to the coffee maker. "Want some?"
"I just," Charles, lost in thoughts, blinks to chase away persistent black dots, "I haven't been sleeping well."
"Then, go. Or would you like me to walk you to your door?"
Scowling slightly, Charles picks up his folder.
"I think we should consider making the door in the wall."
"Maybe, later," snorts Erik. "Wait, you've forgotten your phone."
Sure, his phone is on the table, next to his empty cup. He pockets it and when he does he recalls something.
"I think I heard you talking to a woman once," says Charles slowly.
"We don't do talking lately. We're bone-picking," Erik looks down at his steaming cup as if trying to glimpse an advice in it.
"Your wife?" suddenly realizes Charles and then wants to slap himself. "Sorry, that's not my business."
As he is putting on his coat in the corridor, he sees his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. It twists in a grotesque fashion, so that his face gets split by mirror distortion, which, he swears, wasn't there before.
"I can look into the rest of it tomorrow after work," he promises Erik, who is watching him attentively, still cradling his cup.
"Take your time. If it is not one family like we thought, but a ring or an entire cult, we don't need to hurry. Something tells me they aren't going anywhere."
"It is premature to state this, but you seem to be right," Charles grabs door handle, but Erik's next words glue him to the spot.
"What if this voodoo is real? Remember what happened to Adler?"
"That can be explained as well," a tad jarred by Erik's hesitation, Charles, however, pauses to clarify it patiently. "Sudden blindness is not so sudden, as a rule. On the contrary, blurring and shadowing may occur before vision loss, but many just disregard it. Irene didn't see his face because her eyes were already failing her. Don't forget that she was young and scared, and also her best friend vanished recently. And people, when feeling vulnerable, seek simple answers. Often in wrong places. There comes supernatural."
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Even brushing his teeth before bed is a tremendously tiring chore. He turns off the tap and the last frustrating thing he recalls before falling asleep — he hasn't switched off bathroom lights.
Deep in dream, he senses an alien presence in his room. He is not really sure whether he is drifting in and out of sleep or awake, but he is sure that he isn't supposed to move. He knows that the person is standing by the window, and thus he feels the shift in the air when they take a step forward to hover over him. When the person bends to touch him, Charles stops breathing. The cold fingers tug away at the crunched collar, exposing his neck. Charles feels like chocking in fear as the touch lingers, pressing a little.
When he wakes up with the alarm clock, crappy is the only word fit to encompass his state. His entire body is aching as though he's been working out the day before and sleep didn't make a lot of difference.
Having switched on a kettle, Charles can't process where tea is. It takes him a very long minute, which is spent staring out of the window at greying dawn.
No stranger to sleep paralysis, he had never experienced such a vivid one. He stopped having them when he turned seventeen.
Bugger.
Whilst rubbing some life into his face, he makes up his mind and goes to check the lock on the door. It makes total sense to search through the house, or so he is telling himself, that's why he starts by checking windows. Then takes a peek into a utility room and, feeling a bit silly, pushes a mop under the bed.
The mirror in the bathroom is unapologetically honest. Dark circles under Charles' eyes don't worry him much at the moment. He carefully tilts his head back and examines his neck. It is sore like the rest of his body, though, thankfully, unmarked.
"Okay, stop being ridiculous," he chastises himself.
By accident, he runs into Moira at the parking lot. It looks like he isn't the only one, who has had a rough night. Worry lines on her forehead get sharper as she folds her arms, staring at something in the boot of her car.
While Charles is running late, he can't help stopping by. Apparently, she was regarding two sizeable boxes wrapped with duct tape, which are too large to be carried by one person.
"Thanks, I'll be in your debt," she shuts the boot with an exasperated groan. "They aren't very heavy."
"What's in here?" Charles strains to shift it, badly surprised at the sudden bout of fatigue flooding him.
"Bones. For taphonomy installation."
"Well, I looked forward to starting my morning with carrying dead. Are they human?"
"Yeah," she manoeuvres her box in order to free one arm, "it's insane. It rocks my faith in science and the notion of sharing. I couldn't get the shipping. I'm borrowing them from our Natural History Museum only because my husband is their major contributor. It's not like I'm going to use them for purposes other than intended."
"I must say, you have the most fascinating job."
After shooting him a curios look, she huffs a small laugh, nodding in the direction of the lane leading to the faculty of Natural Science.
"This way. Did it go well last Saturday?"
"I'm afraid, interviewing me wasn't very helpful. I didn't see anyone or anything that might help the police."
"Good for you. That you didn't see anyone," she paused to shift her grip on the box. "Civil duty seems like a fair concept until it gets in the way of normal life. Warren, my arguably efficient step son, has changed so much since he's began working with the police. Sometimes, he appears a totally different person. I now feel reassured, that I was through with a dream of applying to police academy by the time I graduated from secondary school."
"Certain experiences can do that to you," he nods, merely sidestepping the puddle.
"How's your patient doing?"
Charles stalls time by shaking his head, frantically trying to remember what exactly she was talking about.
"Sadly, we didn't manage to advance far," he smiles, if only faintly, willing to redirect the conversation, when it strikes him. "Ah, it almost skipped my mind. Do you, by chance, recall the symbol consisting of two semicircles and a vertical line?"
"Sure I do. It's really common."
Moira doesn't comment on his abrupt change of topic. A raised eyebrow is the sole indicator of her incredulity. She bends to deposit her box on the stair, the first of many running up to the open faculty doors.
"Thank you, Charles. My students should come along and take it from here. At least, it's in their best interests."
"Common as in universal?"
Aware of her eyes on him, Charles cautiously places his box next to hers, whilst his mind is trying to make a connection.
"That's heresy," she chuckles and startles him. "If you would look up. This is a core element of our town's emblem."
Moira then points to the brass plate by the faculty door.
"And you can see it in our university's emblem as well. This element is on every historic landmark there is. I assume people don't notice it because they see it so often."
She continues telling something, but Charles can't focus on her words. They seem to be spoken from a distance. His eyes are trained on the small replica of university emblem, which resembles a seal with demi-gryphon spreading its wings over the top. Inside this seal there are two semicircles facing opposite, divided by a thin vertical line — a court sword splitting the image in half.
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When Charles turns the corner he immediately gets confronted by the worrying sight of someone fondling his letterbox.
From this distance, Charles can't see what exactly they are doing, so he quickens his pace, quite determined to catch the offender in the act. However, the person swivels round before he is close enough. An alarmed face, he then glimpses, reveals a boy with a wild mop of dark hair, who takes one look at him and breaks into running.
Charles raises his voice to utter the most unpedagogical thing, but he is beyond exhausted, therefore running is out of question.
"Hey, don't run, please! I'll pay you!"
The boy, however, comes to a stop and Charles, secretly relieved, stops too, so as not to scare him off.
"I'm serious. If you come back and tell me what you've been doing, money's yours."
"How much?" comes a matter-of-fact question.
"Just a minute," he hurriedly reaches for his wallet, praying that he didn't spend all cash.
It should be disturbing, that he feels vaguely proud of himself when he calls out an amount, which satisfies the boy. Charles then sets the banknote down on the letterbox and takes a few steps back.
"Frank gave me this address, like, a week ago," scoffs the boy upon grabbing the money swiftly, avoiding looking Charles in the eyes.
"Frank Blake? Wait, what's your name?" he asks, and then shakes his head in disbelief, because his anonymous source has already turned his back on him, apparently unbothered.
In the fading sunlight, the street is already empty, as usual, and he is grateful, for this once it works in his favour. As he inhales cool air, his head spins slightly and he reaches out, steadies himself with a hand on the letterbox. The world around him expands for a fraction of second. He absolutely has no time to be taken ill again, thinks Charles morosely.
As expected, among the pile of junk mail he discovers a sheet of paper, with worn corners, folded in four. After placing it on his kitchen table, he dials Erik. It goes to voicemail twice, before he gives up and leaves a message.
"I have discovered something, which might be interesting. I think, you should come and see for yourself."
It's a very exuberant torture: he keeps looking at the innocent piece of paper, while drinking water. In his mind, he has already laid it open and seen the contents. When he turns his head away from temptation, his gaze falls on Frank Blake standing in the doorway. Visible patches of his skin have turned a discoloured green-blue. There is an ugly, black blotted shape on his throat. His dull, whitish eyes have sunk in as decay laid claim on his flesh.
This is not right, not right.
In the wake of this thought, Charles glances down, conflicted.
Maybe he is this close to snapping, after all. What day is it? Tuesday? No, it's already Thursday. All restless nights, nightmares and stretched-out nerves are building up, he reasons. It's coming round the bend.
Resolved, he picks up a knife and carefully unfolds the corners of Blake's note. He's chosen not a very convenient tool for the task, but it works and soon he is done.
It's a patch of land. Probably, a screenshot from Google Maps. The excitement shimmering inside him blooms out of proportions. What great news! Now, they can finally stop wondering in the dark.
He did remember that Erik asked him not to act on his own. But, frankly speaking, unfolding the note could barely count for independent action. He could have disposed of it anyway, if he hadn't met that boy, who was lurking around. To tell the truth, stuffing such thing in someone's letterbox wasn't Blake's wisest decision.
After texting Erik, for good measure, he goes upstairs, peeling off his sweater on the way there. His eyelids are fluttering and his head feels heavy like a rock. When he wanders in the bathroom, he begins searching through a medicine cabinet. There was something he could take for headache, at least. Because he suddenly can't remember the medicine's name he has to pause and think hard. Such simple task turns extremely difficult. He loses a perception of time, in a way. Happy to have found the right bottle, he swallows two pills and chases them with tap water.
As Charles lays his hand on the light switch, he stops and his heart stops too. He never switched them off the other night, but when he woke up this morning they were off. That sharp and cruel fear from his nightmare twists in his gut again.
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Struggling to see straight, he stumbles into his living room. The blackness is creeping in around the edges of his vision. He barely makes it through the door. He can't think.
The floor lurches beneath his feet and to restore his balance he tries to take hold of something, anything. His back collides with something hard. Ah, the bookcase, of course.
Glass shatters. Something heavy thumps down.
The photograph, the one encased in glass frame, is now on the carpet. He can't remember people who are in it. They are faceless blurs. It's his fault.
When he attempts to pick it up, his knees give out and he sags down. What time is it? How long has it been?
He has to clean the glass, he thinks desperately. To collect all the pieces. Why can't he remember?
Charles tells his rebellious hand to twitch. His fingers feel so thick and heavy that to move them is next to impossible. Although, he does that, bit by bit, and when he finally grabs a shard of glass he feel victorious. Instantly, red swells up where his fingers come into contact with it, and he thinks — that's blood. And he also thinks, very, very slowly, that he can't feel a thing. Not a prick of pain from the cut. Nothing at all. Is it even supposed to hurt? Is it real?
Remember, he tries again, please, remember what you must do.
Write it down.
Write down what? With what? No pen in sight and he can tell he isn't getting up to look for any.
Through relentless fog inside his head there prowls an idea. So simple, really. He should have thought of it sooner.
When he pushes up the sleeve of his coat it pushes back. Charles tries on and on, until he catches it in the crook of his elbow. The shirt sleeve is much easier. He gets it terribly bloody though, because he is still clenching the shard of glass in his right. He can't let it get lost.
Now, he presses glass to his skin and drags it down, slashing an uneven vertical line. His eyes are closing. Letters in flesh, they are trickier than he had thought. It turns messy very fast and he can't discern what he's already written.
A bother.
The glass is slippery. The thought of dropping it before he finishes is scary.
"Charles? What the —!"
The loud footsteps. And then…
"Fuck!"
His wrists are clasped in a very tight grip and he is forced upright, so his world tilts and then continues swimming. Oh no. He didn't finish.
"Charles, come on! Look at me. Yeah, like that. Lord, your eyes…"
That is a familiar face. A familiar voice, he decides.
"You're coming with me, but I need to take care of this first."
At that Charles' mind wanders off. When it comes back he's lying on the sofa and his left arm is wrapped up in a towel: elbow to wrist. His right hand is free, so he lifts it up, with enormous effort, and then tugs at the end of the towel, desperate to pull it free. He needs to remember, damn it.
"Fuck, no!" exclaims someone from above and puts a pressure on his right hand. "Come on, Charles, listen to me. I'm watching you and if I see you doing something like that again, I'd have to restrain you. I don't want to. Are you sure you want that?"
Charles gazes up. He finds enough strength to shake his head. Just in case, he makes an effort to say something. Thus, he manages a harsh no.
"Okay. That settled, let's try to get you walking," the voice disappears, before coming back with brimming intensity. "Charles, you stay awake."
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Charles isn't sure he really wakes up, because a significant part of him doesn't. It simply seems as if his eyes have been open for a while, but only now the world starts filtering in, in fractions: golden lamplight, a pillow under his head, Erik, watching him from the spot by the window. And pain. As though he's been through a rough up.
For now, Erik stays silent. He definitely notices Charles looking, but, for some reason, he opts to watch without speaking.
Utterly confused, Charles is just trying his best to get his bearings and understand why everything, especially his arm, is hurting and why his head feels nauseatingly empty.
"Do you now know who I am?" asks Erik finally.
"Erik Lehnsherr," Charles half rasps half whispers. "You, you're my secret neighbour. I think, you're getting divorced. You're very determined to hold onto some traumatic memories from your past. You may struggle with impulse or emotional control, though —"
"Enough, stop," Erik comes closer. "What day is it?"
This is the exact moment when Charles strains to reply and then stops, troubled.
"I have n-no idea. I was, yes, I was definitely at work. Wednesday, was it? No, Thursday," he tries.
He thinks, mutely, that panicking won't take him anywhere, but, apparently he's not in the state to banish all its vile sprouts.
"It's Saturday morning. You've been missing since Thursday night. Do you recall leaving me a voicemail?"
It's complicated. Does he?
"Erik, what happened to me? Why am I here? It's your bed, isn't it?"
"You tell me what happened. Fucking hell, Charles. I thought you were dead. Spent twenty four hours looking for you. And then, I come home to go through your things one more time, to look for clues, and you're slitting your wrists in your living room. You can't recognise me, so I assume that you're drugged out of your mind. The symptoms seemed to match. But then, you start talking to dead people. Rather expressively," that is followed by an emphasised stare.
"How long was I out?" he shoots a wary glance to his left arm — that explains pain and a bandage, at least.
"Five hours. I had to give you an injection. To help you calm down. Dragging you here was not a walk in the park, by the way. So tell me, please, what do I do with a patient like that?"
"I like how you abstract away from this situation," notes Charles quietly.
"Were you hallucinating? Or do you really think you are able to talk to people, who aren't there?" presses Erik, clearly determined to squeeze as much as possible from him. "Charles, did I do the right thing?"
"Yes, absolutely. That's just so weird. I need to think," he repeats. "Please, Erik. I need to think."
"If you're at risk of committing bodily harm or self-injury, I'd rather you were in the environment where professionals might take care of you."
"I'm not suicidal. But, I see, you're not very inclined to believe me."
"These past few days you've been acting differently. I don't know you too well, that's the given, but when I notice discrepancies I'm usually right."
"I told you why," Charles nods fervently, finding himself near tears and at the same time realising that Erik won't budge unless he presents him with a solid argument. "I had a dream about someone breaking into my house. Goodness," something does re-emerge from the depth, weak like a whisper. "Someone was in my house. Maybe, that's why I left?"
"When I found you, you've had your coat and shoes on. Nothing else. No phone, no keys. Just some bills in the right pocket."
"I know, wait. There should be something on the kitchen table," Charles' breathing turns ragged, despite his best efforts to remain calm. "Something important. Have a look, please."
"I'm not leaving you unsupervised," says Erik dryly.
Overwhelmed and extremely hyper-sensitive, Charles could almost read his thoughts: they are probably the same he would be having if he were to confront someone delirious, someone, who claimed to have experienced memory loss. A great many thoughts are revolving within his mind, but, right now, not a single one can truly explain what is going on.
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