The Road to Hell
Lauren Houghton woke on Monday morning to the insistent buzzing of her alarm clock. She opened one eye and peered at her bedroom window where the sun was shining in and bathing her room in golden light.
It can't be morning already, she thought, trying to deny the evidence of her own eyes. It seems like I just fell asleep.
With the alarm clock still urging her to get out of bed, she opened her second eye and reached out her hand to silence her tormentor. She enjoyed the blessed silence for a few precious moments before forcing herself to get up. An early morning shower helped revive her, and two cups of strong coffee finished the job. Once she was fully awake, she dressed, brushed her teeth, styled her hair and made a tossed salad for her lunch.
I'm ready for another day, she thought as she left her house, locking the door behind her.
There were few homes on the cul-de-sac and even fewer cars on the road, so backing out of her driveway was easy. As she moved the gear shift from reverse to drive, her eyes were drawn to the house across the street from hers. Someone had tied four helium-filled blue balloons on the mailbox and placed a waterproof sign announcing "It's a boy" on the front lawn.
Cindy had her baby, Lauren thought with a smile. I'll have to pick up a gift and a card for her on the way home.
She was mulling over ideas for a baby gift in her mind as she put on her signal and turned onto the main road. The car dealership on the far corner of the intersection was having an inventory reduction sale to make room for the new year's models; and to call attention to the event, there were balloons placed on all the cars on the lot.
This advertising ploy was not an unusual sight, neither were the balloons that were placed on her neighbor's mailbox nor the scaled-down version of a hot air balloon that was flying over the home improvement store. What was out of the ordinary was the clown standing in front of the fast-food hamburger stand frantically twisting long, thin Qualatex balloons into an assortment of animals.
That restaurant isn't due to open for another three hours.
* * *
Today must be my lucky day, Lauren thought when she found an empty parking space in front of her office.
As she walked through the entrance of the building, she noticed the receptionist had four Mylar balloons floating in the air above her desk.
"What's the occasion?" Lauren asked.
"It's my birthday," the young girl replied.
"Well, happy birthday. Is anyone going to take you out to lunch today?"
"Yes, a bunch of us are going to that new Irish pub on Fourth Street. Want to come?"
"I'd love to."
As Lauren waited for the elevator, she glanced back at the receptionist's desk. There was not one birthday card or floral bouquet, only balloons. Usually when an employee celebrated a birthday, he or she was inundated with cards, and if that employee was female, roses or carnations.
But the day is still young, she reasoned as she stepped into the elevator car. I'm sure the gifts have just started to arrive.
When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, Lauren stepped out into a hallway that wound through a maze of cubicles. Because six-foot-high partitions separated each accountant's workstation from his neighbor's, she was not able to see any employees or their desks. What Lauren did notice that morning were the balloons that seemed to hover over nearly one-fourth of the gray panels. Apparently, Jim, Stephanie and Hannah were also having birthdays, and Jennifer was celebrating her engagement. Furthermore, it was Maria's first wedding anniversary, and George's last day of work before retirement.
There is going to be some party at the pub today!
Lauren made her way through the maze to her own eight-foot-by-eight-foot workspace, stopping briefly at each desk and congratulating the person sitting beneath the balloons. As was the case with the receptionist, no one had a greeting card on display.
Is there a paper shortage or did Hallmark go out of business?
For the next three hours, Lauren buried her nose in a stack of papers. Her mind on her work, she was oblivious to everything around her except her calculator and the tax forms in front of her. It was half past eleven when she finally felt in need of a break. The two cups of coffee she drank that morning were sitting in her bladder begging to be released. When she stood up, however, she immediately forgot about going to the ladies' room.
Balloons were hovering above every desk except hers. And what an assortment there was! There were balloons of every color and for every occasion. Lauren read the sentiments on those nearest to her cubicle: "Baby Girl," "First Birthday," "Get Well Soon," "It's a Boy," "Over the Hill," "Congratulations" ....
"Merry Christmas"? This time of year?
"What's with all the balloons?" she called over the partitions.
No one answered. She walked through the maze, searching each cubicle. They were all void of people.
Oh, great! They went to the pub without me!
Lauren looked at her watch and realized she had plenty of time to make it to the birthday celebration. Or was it a retirement party? Or an anniversary or engagement party?
"Who knows?" she laughed aloud. "Maybe it's a Christmas party!"
When Lauren got off the elevator on the ground floor, she noticed that even the reception area was empty. Apparently, all the secretaries who normally relieved the receptionist when she left her desk had gone to the pub.
The office manager isn't going to like that. The reception desk is supposed to be manned at all times.
When she exited the building, she noticed the parking lot was filled with cars. Had everyone decided to walk the six blocks down to the Irish pub? Lauren took a moment to decide if she should do the same. It would probably be quicker than having to take the time to find a parking spot on Fourth Street, but walking six blocks there and then six blocks black in her high heels would mean sore feet and probably blisters.
I'd better drive, she decided, even willing to give up her prize parking spot in front of the door for the sake of her feet.
When she turned the key in the ignition, the radio came on. Although the dial was set to an all-news station, the 1983 song "99 Luftballons" by the German band Nena was playing.
Balloons again! I can't seem to get away from them today.
After the engine warmed up, Lauren fastened her seatbelt, put the car in reverse and backed out of her parking spot. As she neared the lot's exit, the song on the radio came to an end and another one began. She was not surprised that the deejay played "99 Red Balloons," the 1984 English version of the same song.
Despite the bizarre presence of so many balloons in her office and the fact that an all-news radio station was playing music, Lauren was not alarmed or even overly concerned. After all, stranger things had happened. Hadn't they? But as she approached the main street that ran in front of the office building, she had her first inkling that something was not quite right. There was not a single car on the normally busy street.
There must be a bad accident somewhere that made the police close the road, she thought, looking for a logical explanation.
As she drove toward the pub, however, all sense of logic abandoned her. Just like in the office, there were balloons everywhere. They were tied on trees, parking meters, utility poles and mailboxes. Balloons and more balloons ... but no people.
"What's going on?" she cried out, her voice echoing in the car.
After driving five blocks, Lauren turned the corner onto Fourth Street. The all-news radio station was now playing Goldfinger's 2000 cover of the song. Suddenly, her foot slammed on the brake pedal and she screamed in fear. Up ahead were more balloons, much larger than any others she had ever seen. They were like Macy's parade balloons on steroids.
"... ninety-nine red balloons floating in the summer sky. Panic bells, it's red alert. There's something here from somewhere else."
The balloons Lauren was staring at in horror may indeed have been from "somewhere else," but there were more than ninety-nine of them, and they were not red. They were green: lime green, olive green, mint green, forest green and most predominantly Kelly green. These flying monsters, which seemed to be congregating around the pub, carried messages such as "Kiss Me, I'm Irish," "Erin Go Bragh," "Top 'o the Morning" and "If You're Lucky Enough to be Irish, You're Lucky Enough."
"What the hell is going on?" she whimpered.
The marathon of balloon songs came to an end. The all-news station was quiet until one voice spoke over the air: "Concentrate on that memory."
The voice was eerily familiar as were the words it spoke. Lauren closed her eyes and tried to remember.
"Concentrate," the voice repeated.
Something soft brushed against Lauren's arm, and her concentration was broken. She opened her eyes and saw a small blue latex balloon with no words or markings. It was nearly deflated, yet it was floating in midair. As she examined it, wondering how it was able to defy gravity, Lauren noticed that it was expanding and contracting in sync with her breathing: when she inhaled the balloon contracted, and when she exhaled it expanded, each time growing slightly larger.
Is this what happened to all the people? she wondered. Has everyone had the life sucked out of them by balloons?
Her heart began to race with fear and her breathing quickened. Likewise, the blue balloon contracted and expanded more rapidly, soon doubling and then tripling in size. Lauren's terror mounted as the latex stretched further and further. She knew from blowing up balloons in her childhood what happened when they were overfilled with air.
"Concentrate on that memory."
I remember! she thought triumphantly.
The blue balloon burst with a resounding POP at the same moment Lauren Houghton's heart stopped.
* * *
"When do you think you'll get back?" Whitney Stearns asked as she watched her husband remove his jacket from the hall closet.
"Thursday night, hopefully. Saturday morning at the latest."
Sheldon Stearns kissed his wife and his three-year-old daughter goodbye, picked up his suitcase and set out on the road. He hated having to leave his family so often, but as a regional sales director for a national chain of auto parts stores, he was required to travel on a regular basis. Being on the road was tough, but the pay was good as were the benefits: health, dental and vision insurance, 401k plan, travel pay, three weeks' paid vacation and the use of a company car.
Of all the trips Sheldon was required to make, it was the one to Centralia—where he was now headed—he liked the least. Not only was it the farthest distance, but it was also the most monotonous route. Four hours on a highway that ran through farmlands, empty fields and woods. Before he got to that highway, however, he had to drive through town.
As he turned onto Route 178, he groaned with frustration at the seemingly endless line of traffic in both directions.
God bless Paul Galvin! he thought, switching on his stereo.
Although most people could tell you what Thomas Edison, Alexander Graham Bell, Eli Whitney and Henry Ford invented, few had ever heard of Paul Galvin, the inventor of the car radio. Not even long-distance commuters who spent hours on the road each day with only their AM or FM stations as company knew the name of the man who made it all possible.
When the traffic signal turned from yellow to red, the deejay played "Pink Houses." John Cougar Mellencamp belted out the chorus, "But ain't that America ...," just as Sheldon glanced out the driver's side window. What he saw was America, at least the part he saw as he travelled along Route 178: strip malls, parking lots, fast food restaurants, gas stations and billboards.
Do people really pay attention to billboards anymore? he wondered as he waited for the light to turn green.
Sheldon had driven that same route six times a year for the past four years, and he could not remember what was written on a single one; yet in the time it took him to drive from the current traffic signal to the next—a distance of less than a mile—he counted five: the first advertising Coca-Cola, the second McDonalds, the third Duncan Donuts, the fourth announcing the redesigned Subaru Imprezza and the last was a public service ad warning against the dangers of smoking.
As he slowly made his way from light to light, Sheldon began looking for these large, outdoor signs. He was amazed at just how many he found. Not only did major companies like Apple, Toyota and Anheuser Busch use billboards to advertise their products, but so did local businesses, law firms, hotel chains, radio stations, motion picture studios and medical centers.
America! he thought nostalgically. Where are the spacious skies, the amber waves of grain, the purple mountains majesties and the fruited plain? All I see are Best Buys, Targets, Burger Kings, Exxon stations and Walmarts. It's like Joni Mitchell said, "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."
* * *
Around noon, Sheldon stopped at a hot dog stand for lunch. He was not that hungry, but he knew on the stretch of road ahead there were no restaurants, only a few gas stations and one rest stop with vending machines. Besides, he had a fondness for hot dogs, despite their reputation as an unhealthy food.
Twenty minutes after Sheldon took to the road again his car radio lost the station he had been listening to. He turned the tuning knob, but was only able to find one other station, and it was currently broadcasting The Rush Limbaugh Show.
"Thanks, but no thanks," he said, turning the radio off.
Being careful to keep his eyes on the road ahead, he reached over to the glove box and took out a stack of CDs he kept there for just such an occasion.
No offense to Paul Galvin, he thought, but sometimes a CD player is a Godsend!
With his eyes alternating between the road ahead and the CDs on his seat, Sheldon tried to decide what to listen to: Springsteen, Green Day, U2, the Stones or Billy Joel. Then he saw an unopened CD, a gift his youngest sister had given him two Christmases ago. It was an audiobook entitled The Edgar Allan Poe Audio Collection, and it contained a number of Poe's tales read by Basil Rathbone and Vincent Price. A life-long fan of classic horror fiction, he had always wanted to listen to the audiobook, but never managed to find the time.
This is as good a time as any, he thought and then removed the wrapping and put one of the five CDs into the car stereo.
As he drove down the highway, listening to "The Mask of the Red Death," he noticed the billboards continued to appear with surprisingly regularity, just like the small green markers on the side of the road that counted down every tenth of a mile to the state line. These rural signs, however, belonged to a different breed of billboard. They all carried a warning: "Friends Don't Let Friends Drive Drunk," "Speed Kills" and "Don't Text and Drive."
After two more stories, "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Black Cat," Sheldon ejected the CD and put in another. If authors, like musicians, had greatest hits, than the second disc contained Poe's. Sheldon, who knew the words of "The Raven" by heart—at least most of them—spoke along with Basil Rathbone, whom he still thought of as Sherlock Holmes.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary ...."
The billboards ceased to warn motorists of the hazards of careless driving and instead advertised specialists in the medical field. Surgeons, obstetricians, cardiologists, dermatologists and podiatrists alike were hoping to snag potential patients who passed by along the interstate.
"Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore ...."
After the physicians came a string of billboards advertising health insurance companies: Blue Cross/Blue Shield, Aetna, Humana and United Health Care.
Ain't that America, Sheldon thought. You need health insurance if you want to pay all those doctors' bills.
Meanwhile, Basil continued his magnificent performance: "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ...."
Next came a half a dozen billboards advertising hospitals. It was hard for Sheldon to imagine that there was more than one, let alone six, in such a rural area.
"But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token ...."
Sheldon was distracted from listening to his audiobook when he saw the next succession of billboards. The first was for the Hawthorne Funeral Home, the second for the Morrison Mortuary and the third for Stevens and Sons Funeral Parlor. In all his traveling, he had never seen a sign advertising the services of an undertaker, but then he had never really noticed how many billboards he passed or taken the time to read them.
"Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ...."
After four more billboards rented by enterprising morticians, there came several promoting cemeteries, memorial parks and crematoriums. There were also those advertising caskets, funeral urns, headstones, burial plots and mausoleums.
As Sheldon drove past these morbid billboards, he tried to shake off the spell of the macabre images of death, by imagining Basil Rathbone in a Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat reading to Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson, "I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'"
At the sight of the next billboard, Sheldon took his foot off the gas pedal and put it on the brake—thankfully, there were no cars behind him. He stared for several moments at the solid white billboard with the black lettering that read, "Concentrate on that memory." Like an itch he could not scratch or a thirst he could not quench, that sign tried to stir up an event in his life he could not remember.
Suddenly, Basil Rathbone was silent. The CD ejected from the stereo of its own accord, and the radio began to play a golden oldie by the Five Man Electrical Band.
"Sign, sign, everywhere a sign blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind ...."
A cacophony of automobile horns drowned out the song, as though a hundred cars were bearing down upon him from behind, demanding his attention. Sheldon glanced at the rearview mirror. The road behind him, like the lanes before him and beside him, was deserted. He had the road all to himself.
The driver shook his head. What was wrong with him today? Was it the billboards or The Edgar Allan Poe Audio Collection that disturbed him? Maybe he should have listened to The Rush Limbaugh Show after all.
"Concentrate on that memory," a vaguely familiar voice said.
I need to get out of here, Sheldon thought, putting his foot back on the gas pedal.
As he passed billboards that were appearing in greater number than before, he tried to keep his eyes on the road. With each sign he passed, he accelerated. He was racing along at over ninety miles an hour when his eyes involuntarily went to the next billboard. It featured a single headstone surrounded by green grass, weeping willow trees and blue sky. Although he was nearsighted and in need of a new pair of glasses, he had no difficulty reading the writing on the stone: SHELDON STEARNS.
Not even the horror of seeing his name written on a headstone could match the terror that followed, when he saw an eighteen-wheeler blocking the road ahead. His foot went to the brake, but at the high speed he was traveling, he was unable to stop. When his vehicle crashed into the jack-knifed truck, it exploded in a ball of flames.
As the black smoke billowed over the scene of the accident, a raven flew overhead and landed on a nearby billboard. On the sign there was a black-and-white photograph of Basil Rathbone. A comic-like speech bubble contained the words the late actor was speaking: "And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted—nevermore!"
* * *
With Mattie and the kids visiting his mother-in-law in Florida, Wyatt Banning enjoyed the serenity of the house that was left in the wake of their departure. As much as he loved his family, he enjoyed the brief respite from the chaos that usually reigned when the four kids were getting ready for school at the same time he and his wife were getting ready for work. With his loved ones on vacation, Wyatt had the bathroom to himself and could read the newspaper while enjoying a second cup of coffee without interruption.
The thirty-six-year-old computer analyst sat in the breakfast nook, in front of the large bay window, looking out over the back yard. He was enjoying a chocolate-frosted, Bavarian cream donut—if his wife had been at home, it would have been low-fat granola as usual—when he saw a pair of blue jays fly down from a tree and perch on the rim of the plaster bird feeder that stood in the center of his wife's flower garden. The next bite caused a dollop of Bavarian cream to squirt out the back of the donut.
The baker really filled these things, he thought as he licked the sweet custard filling off his fingers.
When he looked out the window again, he noticed a bright crimson cardinal had joined the blue jays. By the time Wyatt finished his donut, three more birds were perched on the feeder: a robin, a woodpecker and a large black crow.
I never knew that feeder attracted so many birds. I'll have to pick up some more wild birdseed when I go to Lowes.
Reluctantly, Wyatt rinsed out his coffee cup and put it in the dishwasher. He then went upstairs to his bedroom and got dressed for work.
As he backed out of the driveway, he noticed the two blue jays, cardinal, robin, woodpecker and crow were lined up on the fence in front of his house.
How nice, he thought humorously. They've come to say goodbye to me.
"See you later, fellows," he called out his window as he drove away.
When he got to the stop sign at the end of his street, he looked back at his yard in the rear-view mirror. The eight birds were still on the fence. Was it Wyatt's imagination, or were his fine-feathered friends watching him?
* * *
Normally, Wyatt Banning did not listen to the radio on his way to work. The forty-minute drive, most of which was along rural roads, was often the only place he could find peace and quiet. But after having a serene morning watching the birds in his yard, he was in the mood for music.
When he pressed the power button on his stereo, the song that was playing was Bobby Day's "Rockin' Robin." Wanting to hear something more soothing, like elevator instrumental music, he pushed the radio's scan button. The song switched to "Blackbird" by the Beatles. After several seconds, the radio moved to the next station on the dial. This one was playing "Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd.
"What is this, John James Audubon Day?"
The stereo continued to sample each station, waiting for the driver to make a selection. All the songs followed the theme of the first three: "When Doves Cry" by Prince, "Fly Like an Eagle" by the Steve Miller Band and "Snowbird" by Anne Murray. Wyatt finally reached over and pressed the power button when the scanner found the last station on the dial, one that was playing the Trashmen's "Surfin' Bird."
"A-well-a, everybody's heard about the bird."
When the song continued to play, Wyatt pressed the button again.
"B-b-b-bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
He pressed it a third time, harder than before, but the song continued to play.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
"If I can't turn it off, at least I can turn the volume down so that I won't have to listen to it."
However, the volume button snapped off in his hand.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
The song droned on and on, the lyrics so repetitive it was like listening to someone chanting rather than singing.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
"Doesn't that song ever end?" Wyatt cried in frustration.
It was then he noticed the birds perched on the power lines that ran parallel with the highway. There appeared to be thousands of them, of all different species, sizes and colors.
"I feel like I'm in an Alfred Hitchcock movie," he said, nervously wiping his perspiring palms on his pants. "What I need is a break from driving."
Wyatt took the next exit, putting his foot on the brake to slow the Toyota down as he entered a sharp, blind bend in the road ahead. Even though the car was traveling under thirty miles an hour into the turn, he still had to swerve onto the shoulder to avoid the flock of Canadian geese that was blocking his path. When the Toyota came to a stop, the engine stalled. Unfortunately, the radio kept going.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
"Something's not right," Wyatt said as he noticed a large number of chickens, ducks and roosters heading toward his car. "I've got to get out of here."
He tried starting the car again, but the engine would not turn over. After several desperate attempts, he realized he had flooded it.
"Oh, Christ!" he exclaimed as he looked through the windshield and saw flamingoes and peacocks also headed in his direction.
He felt like Tippi Hedren as he sat helpless in the driver's seat while the birds smashed into the Toyota's windows. Meanwhile, not even the sound of shattering glass could drown out the Trashmen.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
As if pelicans, seagulls, owls and penguins—yes, penguins!—were not bad enough, ostriches, condors and vultures soon joined their fellow birds. As wave upon wave of birds battered the car, Wyatt wondered how long the body and even the safety glass would hold up under the assault. Eventually the birds would get inside. He shuddered to think what they would do to him when they did.
"A-well-a, bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the ..."
The radio finally stopped. A sad, half smile suddenly appeared on his face.
At least I won't have to listen to that damned song while I'm dying.
"Concentrate on that memory," a voice said out of the car speakers.
Unlike his two former college classmates, Wyatt Banning immediately recognized the voice. And he understood why his world had suddenly become an immense aviary.
"Professor Findlay!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping someone would hear him above the din of the attacking birds. "Make them stop! For God's sake! Make them ...."
Just as a prehistoric pteranodon with a wingspan thirty feet in length ripped the roof off the Toyota with his immense claws, the Trashmen returned for one last chorus.
"A-well-a, don't you know about the bird. Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word. A-well-a, bird, bird, b-bird's the word."
* * *
As his students left the lecture hall at the end of class, Professor Felix Findlay gathered up his books and papers and shoved them into his well-worn briefcase. He reached into his desk drawer, took out his bagged lunch and walked toward the pond that was located on the easternmost corner of the campus. The renowned educator and scientist took his lunch there every day because it was the one place he could avoid students and faculty members alike.
"Ah, egg salad!" he said, after he unwrapped his sandwich.
Then he popped the top on a can of Coke and enjoyed the cool breeze that blew through his slightly long, gray hair as he drank the sweet-tasting soda. His wife had also packed an apple in his lunch—her idea—and a chocolate fudge brownie—his idea.
He had just taken a bite out of the apple and was eyeing up the brownie when he noticed a woman, probably in her early thirties, walking in his direction.
"Professor Findlay?" she called when she got within ear-shot of him.
"Yes."
He wanted to tell her to leave him alone to enjoy his lunch in peace, but he was not a rude man by nature.
"Hi, I'm Mattie."
"Are you one of my current or former students?"
"No, my late husband was, but I don't suppose you'd remember him. His name was Wyatt Banning."
The color drained from Felix's face, and he lost all appetite for his fudge brownie.
"W-what brings you h-here to see m-me?" the professor stammered nervously.
"My husband died in his sleep a few weeks ago. He must have been having a nightmare because he seemed quite agitated. His tossing and turning woke me up. I've never known him to talk in his sleep, but that night ...."
"What did he say?"
"Most of it was incomprehensible, but I was able to make out a few random words and phrases: trash man, radio, the names Lauren and Sheldon—don't ask me who they are. And then he shouted your name and said, 'Make them stop.' His last words sounded like bird and word."
The professor, whose eyes were staring at the tranquil pond, asked, "Why have you come to see me?"
"I honestly don't know," Mattie said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Wyatt was in perfect health. An autopsy was performed, and no discernible cause of death could be found. His heart simply stopped for no apparent reason. I suppose I came here in hopes of getting a better understanding of what killed him."
"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to help you. I haven't seen your husband in fifteen years."
"But he called out your name before he died."
"He called out Lauren's and Sheldon's names, too. I don't see ...."
Mattie reached out and grabbed the professor's arm.
"You know who they are, don't you?" she asked excitedly.
"No, no. They're common names, after all."
"Look at me!" the widow screamed, tightening her grip on Findlay's arm. "You know something. I can see it in your face."
After one last, longing look at the pond, the professor closed his eyes. He would never again bring his lunch to that spot, for it would never offer him the tranquil escape it had in the past.
"Please!" Mattie urged.
"Your husband was a bright student, one of the best I ever had the pleasure to teach. He would have made a brilliant psychiatrist."
"A psychiatrist? But he studied computers in school."
"He switched his major."
"I thought I knew just about everything there was to know about my husband. Now I wonder if I knew him at all."
"I was his mentor," Felix announced, his eyes brimming with tears. "Wyatt, Lauren Houghton and Sheldon Stearns—what promise their lives held!"
"What happened to them?"
"You're familiar with the old saying, 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions'? Our intentions were the purest, the noblest. We believed we could cure dementia, specifically, Alzheimer's disease."
"Three students and a college professor could cure a disease that the best minds in science and medicine have yet to conquer?"
"We were young and foolish—rather, they were young; I was middle-aged but just as foolish."
"How did you propose to accomplish this miracle?"
"We hoped to strengthen the memory process with a combination of hypnotherapy and psychotropic drugs."
"How far did you carry this theory of yours?"
"Six students volunteered to participate in a controlled research study."
"You experimented on your students?" Mattie cried. "That's not only unethical; it's immoral and probably illegal!"
Professor Findlay offered no defense of his actions. His good intensions had led him down the road to hell, and there were no exits in sight.
"All of the students were hypnotized in the lab and were subjected to recorded messages while they slept. Only three of the six received medication—at its lowest effective dose. Those three students later exhibited a remarkable increase in their ability to recollect facts and figures. It was as though they had all developed eidetic or photographic memories, whereas those in the control group experienced no noticeable improvement in memory function."
"So if your experiment was a success, what changed Wyatt's mind about becoming a doctor?"
"There were ... side effects."
"What kind of side effects? Addiction to the drugs?" Mattie asked.
"No. Nightmares."
"I never knew my husband to have any dreams, good or bad, until the night he died."
"During hypnosis, each of the students was asked to select a pleasant memory from their childhood. They were told to concentrate on that memory, to fixate on it, if you will. While they were concentrating on those pleasant memories, my assistants and I administered the drugs and the placebos. It was three months after the start of the experiment that Lauren began having nightmares. Her pleasant memory had been her tenth birthday. In her dreams she recalled the party in a warped, frightening way. The most innocuous aspect of the memory, the balloons, terrified her. Sheldon's happy recollection was his family's vacation to Disneyland. He became tormented by the memory of the billboards he passed on the drive to California."
"What was Wyatt's chosen memory?"
"A day at the Museum of Natural History."
"Where he no doubt visited the Hall of Birds?"
"Yes. Your husband was plagued by attacking birds in his nightmares."
"And the night he died, he called out to you to make them stop."
"Because I did ... once," the professor admitted sadly. "I eventually made all the nightmares go away, but by that time my three gifted, promising medical students had lost faith in me. The following semester Lauren switched her major to accounting, Sheldon to business administration and Wyatt to computer science. I haven't felt the same about teaching since then."
"So your cure was only temporary. My husband's nightmares came back, and one of them frightened him to death."
"Your husband is not the only one, I'm afraid. Lauren Houghton and Sheldon Stearns also died in their sleep, with no apparent cause found."
"You killed them! You were supposed to teach them, but you took them to that road to hell and put them firmly in the driver's seat."
"Concentrate on that memory."
Professor Findlay smiled, knowing it was Wyatt's voice he heard. Mattie, who was deaf to her husband's words, stood up and reached inside her purse.
Felix closed his eyes and focused on his own pleasant memory: a backyard barbecue at his home at which all six of the students who participated in the experiment were in attendance along with their dates. They were all enjoying the day, believing they were about to embark on a journey that would end in a major medical breakthrough, unaware that they would soon reach a dead end.
The grieving widow stared down at the professor with unconcealed contempt in her eyes.
"Concentrate on that memory," Wyatt's voice repeated.
Unwilling to let his students expose themselves to danger while he observed them in safety, Professor Findlay had subjected himself to the same hypnotherapy and psychotropic drug treatment as Lauren, Sheldon and Wyatt. Like his young protégés, he had also experienced the side effect of terrifying nightmares. He, too, had believed they were banished forever.
"It's funny," Felix said as Mattie raised the knife above her head, ready to plunge it into his heart, "I always imagined it would be Wyatt who would haunt my dreams, not his wife. You were the quietest one at the barbecue that day, the least threatening. Balloons, billboards, birds ... and you. Apparently, these are the things that nightmares are made of."
* * *
Students who walked into Felix Findlay's classroom the following day were surprised to see a substitute sitting at the professor's desk.
"My name is Dr. Mosby," the man announced gravely. "I'll be teaching this class for the rest of the semester."
"Where's Professor Findlay?" one student asked.
"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but Felix Findlay died in his sleep last night."
"99 Luftballons" written by Uwe Fahrenkrog-Peterson and Carlos Karges (German lyrics), performed by Nena. (c) 1984 CBS, Inc.
"99 Red Balloons" written by Kevin McAlea (English lyrics), performed by Nena. (c) 1984.
"Pink Houses" written and performed by John Cougar Mellencamp. (c) 1983 by Riva Records, Inc.
"Big Yellow Taxi" written and performed by Joni Mitchell. (c) 1970 by Joni Mitchell.
Edgar Allan Poe Audio Collection written by Edgar Allen Poe performed by Basil Rathbone and Vincent Price. Unabridged edition published 2012 by Harper Audio.
"Signs" written by Les Emmerson and performed by the Five Man Electrical Band. (c) 1970.
"Rockin' Robin'" written by Leon René (a.k.a. Jimmie Thomas) and performed by Bobby Day. (c) 1958.
"Blackbird" written by Lennon-McCartney and performed by the Beatles. (c) 1968.
"Free Bird" written by Allen Collins and Ronnie Van Zant and performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd. (c) 1974.
"When Doves Cry" written and performed by Prince. (c) 1984 by Warner Brothers Records, Inc.
"Fly Like an Eagle" written by Steve Miller and performed by Steve Miller Band. (c) 1976.
"Snowbird" written by Gene MacLellan and performed by Anne Murray. (c) 1970.
"Surfin' Bird" written by Al Frazier, Carl White, Sonny Harris and Turner Wilson, Jr., and performed by the Trashmen. (c) 1963.
Can balloons really inspire nightmares? I suppose some can!
