What Goes Around Comes Around
© Andy Echevarria

 

The young boy sat, mouth slightly open, hands folded in front of him. He wore the look of a child entranced by a cartoon show or bedtime story. Nevertheless, he didn't feel good; he felt used, as though a guinea pig in an experiment.

He supposed the main reason was his wonder over what the doctor would attribute the dark dreams that had haunted his sleep for the past six days. Perhaps he'd be thought of as insane. The previous shrink had, after only the second session of therapy, informed his parents that he'd need additional professional therapy, "help" which would likely last for months or even years--in the doctor's own words, he was "bright but slightly eccentric."

The boy spoke: "For six days I've had strange dreams.'' His hands unfolded. "Somebody--or something--is chasing me." He thought of all the sweaty nights he'd awoken to after yet another nightmare, and his forehead instantly broke out in a sweat.

"And in these…dark dreams, I should say, who--or what--is pursuing you?''

"Don't know, doc. I'm always too scared to look back. All I hear is some voice telling me it's going to eat me when it catches me,'' the eleven-year-old responded.

The psychiatrist observed him through wide eyes. "Well, nightmares are an entirely natural occurrence." He paused. "Everyone has them. I certainly wouldn't deem you abnormal on account of these terrible dreams. Though you could have some sort of other problem." He sifted through a stack of papers on his desk. "Your report says other things."

The child waited.

"For one," the doctor continued, "says you have a history of manic-depression and depression. Is that so, young man?"

Before the boy continued the psychiatrist opened his drawer and pulled out a small red box. He held it out. "Would you like one? Chocolate-covered raisins. Brought these on a trip I recently undertook to Germany."

The frown on the child's face had lightened, but not by much. "No, thank you.''

The psychiatrist frowned. "Fine." He placed the box on the table. "So the dreams--tell me more."

The boy thought of the visions he'd encountered the previous evening. He closed his eyes, tried to recall the nightmare. After a long moment he opened his eyes. "Can't remember."

"Try, young man." The doctor placed an index finger on his upper lip. Such body language, thought the young boy, usually meant interest, whether feigned or sincere. With psychiatrists, though, one could never tell. He suddenly remembered reading somewhere that "psychiatrist," with the letters rearranged, spells out the phrase "Sit, pay, chat, sir." (They had a fancy word for it, which started with an "a," though he couldn't recall it.) He was certain there were some good ones out there, maybe even the majority, but this one…well, he received nothing but bad vibes every time he entered the doctor's offices.

The child sighed, then closed his eyes.

Instantly it came to him: a vision of two figures chasing him through a dark tunnel. "I was being chased by someone. Two of them, actually,” he said, his eyes still shut. "I try to run and I get away from them, and then all I known is I wake up and I'm in New York again."

"These…'someones.' Would you describe them?"

The young boy's attention was suddenly diverted to the wall behind the doctor, to a black-and-white picture on a wall above a bookcase: a young woman, probably no more than twenty-five, in front of a large house. On her face lay a smile--one as enigmatic as that of Mona Lisa. In her arms she held a rose-colored blanket, within which presumably rested a baby.

The doctor said, "That was my grandmother in1912, the year my mother was born." He turned around in his chair. "Taken two days before my grandmother died.''

* * *

"Think. Concentrate. Is there anything you might remember--a person, thing, place--even something as minute as a certain color or sound?"

"Nothing, doctor. Not a thing."

"Fine. It appears as though the nightmares you had have been completely obliterated from your memory."

"You mean, gone forever?"

"Quite possibly." The doctor wrote some notes on his legal pad. "In such case hypnosis may be effective. In this instance, however, due to the horrible nature of your dreams, I cannot recommend it." He paused. Then: "I'll tell you what I'll do--" His voice was louder and appeared to have taken on a tone of cheerfulness "--I'll put you on medication. It seems medication, combined with regular therapy, would be the best course of action if one hopes for a speedy and full recovery." And then he fell silent for several moments--moments which seemed like hours. Finally he added, "I think you're stricken with a condition commonly known as anxiety disorder."

The young boy blinked. "What's that mean, doc?"

"Well, for one, your condition is manifesting itself in dreams…dark nightmares which are causing you great distress. The fact that you don't recall them--well, a lot of us don't remember most of our dreams. But your dreams are of a particularly disturbing nature. You'll be monitored for seven days. At the end of that period we'll meet again. Then we'll come to the conclusion on whether further medication is necessary, or if we can just continue to depend on therapy only."

"That's fine, doc. I'll do what you say.''

The doctor rose, took two steps toward him, then suddenly stopped. "Anything else you feel is important you mention before I call this meeting to an end?"

The young patient shook his head.

"Now if you'll excuse me." The doctor turned, walked towards the door. "I'm going to get that prescription for you and--"

And then suddenly the doctor...disappeared. He'd heard a poof sound, one louder than any he'd ever heard, and the doctor was gone...just like the girl from I Dream of Jeannie.

Then a voice, effeminate but deep: "Murderer," it whispered. He turned, for the voice seemed to have come from behind.

No one.

His gaze shifted to the picture on the wall. He stood there, wondering if he's had hallucinated the voice, or if indeed there was someone there, someone hiding perhaps, who had spoken to him. He glanced around the room.

Still no one.

He again looked at the picture, concentrated on the woman.

Her face still bore an enigmatic smile. The probability that she'd been the one who'd spoken was one in a million...no, zero in a zillion. The idea that a woman in a photograph had spoken was utterly silly.

A second later he heard the sound of the doorknob behind him move. He turned, and his eyes confirmed what he'd suspected--the knob was moving, slowly, alternating between clockwise and counterclockwise directions.

"Who's there?"

No answer, though the knob continued moving.

A chill coursed through him.

"Who's there?" he repeated, and as soon as he'd said those words the turning stopped.

He breathed a sigh of relief. What's wrong with me? Am I crazy? Or am I seeing things that are not there perhaps because of another panic attack?

"The lady in the picture's dead," someone said. The same voice that had spoken his name moments ago.

"What?"

"The doctor's a killer. He's guilty and he's starting to feel it." His eyes were still on the picture, as though mesmerized by it.

And then suddenly…the eyes moved.

First to the left, then to the right. He stood there, not believing what he'd just seen. Was this real--or could this have been a dream?

He guessed his sense of fear had to do with his long-held fear of medical institutions and, although this was no hospital--no syringes or medicine on shelves behind glass cases, no scent of alcohol in the air, no workers dressed in white robes--this was a doctor's place, and psychiatrists were doctors as far as he was concerned.

Or had it been something else?

The woman in the photo became larger with each passing moment. He wanted to look away, wanted to tell himself that this was all a dream, yet a part of him, the part that connected the subconscious with the conscious, told him that what he was now seeing was all real.

"Did you just hear me, boy?" the voice continued. "The doctor's killed someone--and he's now coming to get you."

"Oh, my God...he's a murderer!"

* * *

"Young man?”

"Huh?" He shook his head, which felt light.

"Is everything better now?"

He didn't know what the doctor was referring to. The young boy stared at him wide-eyed with surprise and confusion.

"You're still in my office," replied the doctor. He had his arms folded across his chest. "You fell into a daze there for about five minutes. Tried waking you up but you kept screaming 'Murderer! Murderer!'"

"Gosh, that's kinda weird," said the patient. "I feel...sick." The boy put a hand to his stomach. "It's as though I've eaten something really bad."

"You looked pallid. All the color in your face is gone." The doctor stood up in his chair.

"I know, doc. And I feel terrible."

"Allow me to recommend something that will alleviate your condition, at least momentarily." He motioned towards the door.

"No! Stop!" the boy screamed.

The doctor suddenly stopped, turned. Bewilderment colored his face. "Something wrong, young man?"

The vividness of the recent nightmare still stood fresh in his mind. He'd on more than one occasion in the past had a sense of eerie familiarity following a nightmare, and uncanny sense of déjà vu. In about half of those instances that which he'd dreamed had eventually played itself out in reality. He shuddered, convinced that that which he'd just envisioned with such clarity in the dream world was about to enfold before his eyes. "I want you...to leave me alone," he said, his voice heavy. “Please.”

"Is something wrong?” the doctor repeated. “We can of course talk this--"

"Please," the boy pleaded. "I had these...visions. Horrible." He suddenly remembered the black-and-white photo in the vision with the doctor's grandmother and her creepy, enigmatic smile. He regarded the picture. It was the same as in the photo--the woman had the same unusual smile on her face, though (and thank God, he thought), she wasn't talking.

The doctor turned to the picture, then to him. "It's that picture, isn't it?" He chuckled. "You know, it's not the first time someone has been frightened by that photo." He sat back down. "Is that what scared you?"

The child said, "I saw her--dressed in red and black. You took her, stabbed her to death, and then you buried her behind your house. The cops never found her, but she's still there."

"I'm sorry?"

* * *

Ten minutes after his patient had left, the doctor stood at his desk. He thought of the young boy. What a confused young man, he thought--saying he'd had those visions in which he, the doctor, was a murderer.

He'd told him the truth--that everything was all in his head.

Except...

Twenty years ago, something happened, something that no one until this day has ever known. Sometimes he'd forget about it, but only for a while; it would always come back, for it still lived within him, those dark memories of yesteryear, a monkey on his back. And whenever he thought of that time of twenty years ago he'd immediately be overcome with guilt.

The newspapers, cops, as well as most members of his family, had deemed it an accident.

And it many ways it had been an accident. You see, he really hadn't meant to kill her--no. But something had overtaken him on that day. For months he and Lucy had been having serious problems--the new baby, their sex life (mostly because of the new baby), financial worries. Each new problem would often be compounded by the previous; it would be a matter of time before he'd explode.

And he did, on the day that she'd decided to bid him good-bye.

"I don't want to live with you anymore," she'd said. "This time it's for real." And then she'd added: "The magic has died." When she'd said those words, he'd simply snapped, as some people did whenever things didn't go their way. She'd been dressed in her best--a black silk skirt with roses every inch or so, red shirt brighter than the lipstick she wore on that day.

And those were the clothes he dressed her in on the day he'd done it. After strangling her (using a knife would be too messy and more trouble than it was worth), he buried her in a lot he'd made especially for her in the back of their house. His grandmother had soon gotten involved in the whole mess; had simply walked in by accident on the scene, having come out the home. As soon as he'd seen her he knew he had no choice but to kill her as well, and he buried her, too, right on top of his wife.

* * *

In those days they'd owned two dogs. But some sweet angel must've been watching over him, because, after a thorough search which lasted more than four hours, followed by intense questioning by police for twice as long, the authorities had found no evidence of foul play and thus he'd been cleared.

But his mind and conscience certainly hadn't.

Every day the murder still haunted him. It assailed him in his dreams. Sometimes made him squeamish when he ate.

A secret no one else had known, except for...

How had the kid known?

Maybe it had been a coincidence. Nothing more. But then, how did he know her name? How could he know where she was buried?

And those accusatory words: 'Murderer!' Said with such clarity and conviction in spite of the boy's look of horror on his face. Everything added up: This young man for sure knew something which no one until this day had ever known: that he was a murderer.

He put his head down on the table. His temples hurt. He massaged them for several moments.

The pain persisted, however, and after several minutes he felt worse than when he'd put his head down and started massaging. How the kid know he was a murder? Only God knew.

A longtime skeptic, like James Randi, for the first time in his life he was convinced that there truly were some people who are psychic.

He'd have to silence the kid.

He rose and headed towards the door.