Succubi

She was pregnant in the dream. Her belly was stretched huge and pink. Then she saw the faces…

The faceless faces.

“Some guy called you a bunch of times yesterday,” Melanie said. “I asked what he wanted but he wouldn’t say.”

Martin looked up. “Did his voice sound—”

“It sounded creepy, like he had a chest cold maybe.”

The same person Martin had mentioned. “It’s probably somebody selling magazine subscriptions,” Ann attempted. But now her curiosity was festering. She didn’t like the idea of someone calling her and not knowing who or even why.

“Whoever he is, I’m sure he’ll call back,” Martin remarked. “I’m a little curious myself now.”

Ann felt a little better when she got something in her stomach. Her glazed Muscovy duck appetizer had been prepared to perfection, and Martin devoured his poached salmon. But Ann realized that her sudden weird behavior had dampened the entire evening. Melanie and Martin were good sports but it showed. They knew something was wrong. Again, Ann struggled to make conversation, to normalize. “I’ll be able to drive Melanie to school most mornings,” she said, but the fact assailed her. Melanie had been in high school two years now, and Ann didn’t even know what the place looked like. She didn’t even know where it was. Martin had registered Melanie.

“Next week I figure I’ll take her to some of the museums in the District,” Martin said. “Too bad you can’t get off.”

Ann didn’t know what he was talking about. “Museums?”

“Sure, and some of the galleries.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to the National Gallery,” Melanie said.

This observation made Ann feel worse; it was just another thing she’d been promising Melanie for years but had never made good on. Still, though, she didn’t understand. “Martin, how can you take her downtown? She has school.”

Martin tried not to frown at her neglect. “It’s spring break, Ann. I’ve been reminding you for weeks.”

Had he been? God, she thought. She remembered now. It had slipped her mind completely.

“Melanie’s off for the whole week, and so am I,” Martin said.

A vacation, it dawned on her. It would be perfect. “I’m sorry, I forgot all about it. We’ll go someplace, the three of us.”

Martin looked at her funny. She hadn’t had a vacation in years, and in the past, whenever he brought it up, an argument usually resulted. “You serious? They’ll give you a week off just like that?”

“Martin, I’m one of them now. I can take off whenever I want provided everything’s in order.”

Martin looked incredulous, poised over his salmon. “This I don’t believe,” Melanie scoffed. “Mom’s going to take time off? That’s a change.”

“A lot of things are going to change now, honey,” Ann assured her.

Melanie was ecstatic. “I don’t believe it. I’m finally going to get to see the National Gallery and the Corcoran.”

“Since your mother’s talking mighty big now,” Martin added, “maybe she can do you one better. Maybe Giverny. Maybe the Louvre.”

They think I’m bullshitting? Ann couldn’t help but smile. Finally, she could do something for them that involved her. “It’s settled, then,” she stated. “This weekend we leave for Paris.”

Melanie squealed.

“You better check with your bosses first,” Martin suggested. “We don’t want to get our hopes up for nothing.”

“Don’t you understand, Martin? I am one of the bosses now. This’ll be great. Paris. The three of us together. The timing couldn’t be better.”

That much was true. The timing couldn’t have been better. But what Ann Slavik didn’t realize just then was that the circumstances couldn’t have been worse.

—

Chapter 2

They never came to him here. They could, he knew, if they wanted to, but there was no reason. He could still see them in his mind and in his dreams; he was always dreaming of them: their swollen, perfect breasts, their beautiful bodies glazed in sweat and moonlight, their unearthly faces. They were like the drugs he used to take, euphoric, potent without mercy. In his dreams he remembered how he’d cowered before them in the promise of flesh. Five years ago they hadn’t been dreams at all.

The phone rang and rang. No one home, he thought, and hung up. He retrieved his quarter and dime and waited.

“Hurry it up,” Duke complained. “I’m missin’ Ping Pong.”

“Just a few more minutes,” Erik grated. “Please.”

Duke shrugged. “It’ll cost ya, fairy.”

Yeah, he thought. “All right. Five minutes?”

Duke grinned.

Erik Tharp didn’t even care anymore. He was doing what he had to do. “The Rubber Ramada,” the staff called this place. It was the state mental hospital. He’d been locked away, forgotten, but that was good, wasn’t it? The world had forgotten about him now, after five years. But so had they.

They’d never been able to control him as well as the others. They had no use for people they couldn’t control. The kid thing had been a frame; Erik hadn’t done any of it. He’d dug for them, sure, and he’d snatched some people. But he hadn’t murdered those kids.

Duke was another story; he was crazy. Not like the schizoaffectives or the delusional psychotics. He was just plain don’t give a shit, mean ass crazy. Ganser syndrome, it was called, He belonged in prison, not here. He’d made up a story in court about how aliens from the Orion complex communicated through a transmitter that had been implanted in one of his fillings. “The dentist was in on it,” he’d told the judge. “They forced me to do it.” He raped a sixteen year old girl and cut off her arms. “They said they needed the arms,” Duke had informed the jury. “Never said what for, though. Just bring us the arms.” He’d been found not guilty by reason of clinical insanity. In a state like this, Duke would never walk the street again.

But neither would Erik. They’d seen to that.

Erik knew what they were doing. He’d been one of their ilk once. Brygorwreccan. Digger.

I’ve got to get through, he thought.

“You don’t hurry it up, you’ll have to do it twice,” Duke informed him.

There were four classes of patients here. Precaution, Class I, Class II, and Class III. Precautions were restricted to the observation dorm. Mostly autistics and suicidals. Two techs were in the room at all times, and most of the pats remained restrained, either in Posey bed nets or Bard Parker straitjackets. Class I’s couldn’t leave A Building, the main wing; their world was a dorm and a dayroom. But Class II’s got to live in B Building and were allowed to eat in the cafeteria. II’s also enjoyed the luxury of supervised field trips, outside volleyball, and full roam of Buildings B through E. They could go to the rec unit which had a library, a music room, and an automat—provided they signed out with a tech or a Class III patient.

Last week Erik had passed his board review for Class II status. And Duke had been Class III for almost a year.

The two of them made a deal.

Another luxury of the higher class status was that you got to use the pay phone in the rec unit anytime between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m. Duke’s deal was this: he’d use his Class III escort privilege to take Erik to the pay phone, and he’d also give him change to make calls. Duke had an uncle who sent him money and cigarettes every