August 8, 2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dear Therapy Diary,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I feel like an idiot writing this, but Dr. Brown tells me keeping a diary is an effective form of therapy, so here goes. My name is Steven Buckley. I\u2019ve always been dismissive of the softer sciences. I\u2019m a middle-aged math professor raised by naturalist parents. Order and logic dominate my world view. Until a few hours ago I would have told you that repressed memories are utter nonsense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Brown started today\u2019s session by revisiting why I came to him in the first place. One unused exam paper sitting on a desk at the end of a midterm. It wouldn’t have bothered most people. A simple oversight, right? Only I know I counted those papers. I\u2019m anal that way. I counted papers the second time it happened, too, and the third. The fourth time convinced me something was seriously wrong. I went to my doctor, but he found nothing that would show up on a brain scan, so he referred me to Dr. Brown. I was reluctant to see a psychiatrist, but at that point I was out of options.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On my first visit I had told Dr. Brown I thought the missing papers were meant for students who had disappeared. He asked me today if I still stuck to that theory. I said I did. He said I must talk to people from admissions all the time, wouldn’t they have informed me if students were missing? I said I accepted his logic although it did nothing to ease my conviction. He asked if I thought people were trying to deceive me. I said no. Then he asked me something new.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSteven, why can\u2019t you tell me the names of the missing students? You were their professor, surely you would know their names.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had no answer to that, and he knew it. He wouldn\u2019t break eye contact. I felt my face getting hot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don’t know. Can we talk about something else?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSure. What would you like to talk about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow about that pale band on the ring finger of your left hand?\u201d It was an intentionally mean question. I was putting him on the spot to see how he liked it. \u201cYou divorced?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not going to talk about my personal life, Steven.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d hit a nerve. A big one, judging by the way he straightened his tie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI won’t tell. Come on, you asked what I wanted to talk about.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFine. My wife recently passed away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My self-righteousness deflated around my shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay, well, I\u2019m sorry. Would you like to talk about it?\u201d I wondered if shrinks ever saw other shrinks. I imagined they did. \u201cSeriously. I could use the break. You can charge me the full hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He relaxed, leaned back, rubbed his face. \u201cSure, why not. Well, a week ago the hobgoblins took her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My heart was suddenly galloping. My mouth had gone dry and sticky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Brown leaned forward and took my arm in the way you do when you think someone\u2019s going to faint. His thick black eyebrows rose into a concerned peak. \u201cI said a week ago she had a heart attack. She collapsed in Walmart while grocery shopping. Are you okay, Steven?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI need some air,\u201d I said, and rose from my seat, then screamed and backed away from the doctor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His face was melting. An eyelid slid down his cheek, leaving behind a slick, empty socket. The skin of his jaw tore open, and a mandible unfolded there, searching the air like a blind man\u2019s cane. Before I could scream again, the ground slipped out from under me. I tumbled into darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I woke up on the couch. Dr. Brown was dabbing my forehead with a cloth. His face was normal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou passed out. Are you feeling better?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d I felt oddly wonderful, actually, given what I\u2019d just witnessed. My head had been crammed full of new thoughts about a girl from my university days named Oleanna. A girl whom, until today, I didn\u2019t know I\u2019d met.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen you were coming to, you said something about\u2026 goblins?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes!\u201d I shouted, snapping my fingers in Dr. Brown\u2019s face. He backed away, looking bemused, possibly concerned that he might have to call security. It was all coming back to me now. \u201cNot goblins \u2013 hobgoblins! Botrell called them hobgoblins.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We spent the remainder of the session discussing my new memories. Dr. Brown is convinced they\u2019re not memories at all. He says my subconscious is expressing itself through metaphor.That would be the easier thing to believe, but it\u2019s wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They\u2019re memories all right, of real events that have been stolen from me for all these years. I plan to meet with the only person in the world who can back me up on that. You are my sole witness, Therapy Diary, should this all go sideways on me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now let me tell you what I remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
August ?, 1985<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Freshman Orientation Week at Grant University found me sitting in the public area of the campus food court flipping through sports options and thinking I might sign up for badminton. I had no interest in sports, but I was going to have plenty of spare time to kill my first semester. All my high school chums had scattered to the winds and I was terrible at making new friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A girl sat forty feet away. She was picking at a plate of fries, but every once in a while she would glance my way. She had blond hair down to her shoulders, a petite nose spattered with light freckles, eyes the cool green of a summer lake. She was beautiful, but I had fallen in love at first sight too many times. I just wasn\u2019t willing to take the chance. Best to ignore her and avoid the sting of finding out she\u2019d been looking at someone else, or it was some sort of joke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked up again. Smiled. Waved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What the hell. I headed over, prepared to be humiliated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHi. I\u2019m Steve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOleanna. I’ve seen you around. You’re in Team Brad, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our orientation groups were named after our senior chaperones. My group’s chaperone was Brad Turner, a colossal dick if there ever was one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah. You’re Team Jennifer, right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYep.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere are you from?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA small town up north. You’ve probably never heard of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTry me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCalhoun.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBeen there. Stopped for gas on a family trip. And yeah, nobody\u2019s ever heard of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She laughed, I blushed, and from that point on we were inseparable. Unfortunately the world rarely caters to young love, and thirty hours later my parents were dragging me away for the weekend in their Ford pick-up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oleanna was staying near campus, where she now lived. Her parents were both dead of cancer, and her previous caretaker, an uncle, had died of a coronary a year before. She had no other living family. She was truly on her own. At least she had two healthy inheritances to rest on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGo,\u201d she said, after kissing me gently on the lips. It would have been more, but my parents were watching. \u201cI’ll see you Monday. I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Monday took forever to arrive. The weekend had given me far too much time to think. I\u2019d convinced myself that whatever magic Oleanna and I had shared was certain to have fizzled out by now. I needed to see her, to slay these doubts before they swallowed me whole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We shared our first class — Sociology 101 with Professor David Botrell. I had no idea where it was located, and had foolishly thrown away all my campus maps, so I stood in the middle of a bustling hallway, trying to choose a direction. A passing student caught a glimpse of my timetable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve got Botrell,\u201d he said. \u201cYou should switch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy’s that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause Botrell’s a weirdo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI mean he puts students on the spot. On day one he’ll ask you to share something personal about yourself in front of the class. Something embarrassing. And you’ll do it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m not going to tell a class of strangers something embarrassing about myself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhatever,\u201d the kid said, and disappeared with his friends into the crowd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I finally found the room – a newly renovated auditorium that smelled of plywood and paint. Oleanna was in the second row talking to a friend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHey,\u201d I said, sitting beside her. She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. My smile felt entirely too large on my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow was your weekend?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood. I mean, it was nice not to have Brad around making me sing the school anthem in my underwear or something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Oleanna laughed. Her friend seemed annoyed by my intrusion, but I didn’t care. I was flying high. I was one of those tired tropes, the university virgin, but not for long. The sexual tension between us was so thick I could almost see it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The professor came to the podium looking frumpy in corduroys and a tartan sweater. His down-turned eyes lent him the countenance of a hound dog. He smiled, which lifted his features like a center pole hoisting a tent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood morning class. I’m Professor David Botrell. Welcome to Introductory Sociology. I know some of you are merely here to fulfill a course load, and that’s fine. Still, I hope this class helps you to understand yourself a little better. You’re all social beings, after all, defined to a large extent by your interaction with others.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He carried on, but I wasn’t listening. I was staring at Oleanna. She was staring at the instructor with a look of rapture. Everyone else was staring in the same manner. Everyone but me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGames are a perfect example of focused social interaction,\u201d Botrell said. \u201cWho\u2019s played the game 7-Up in school?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everyone\u2019s hand shot up, so I threw mine up too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d Botrell said, pointing at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSteve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSteve, can you explain the rules of 7-Up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSure.\u201d I cleared my throat. \u201cSeven people are selected to come to the front of the room, while the rest of the students put their heads on their desks, cover their eyes, and put up one thumb. The seven at the front go around and touch a thumb each, then go back to the front. Then everyone puts their heads up, and the ones who had their thumbs touched try to guess which of the seven did it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cVery good. Then what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf they guess correctly, they swap places with the person who touched them. Then another round starts.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat happens to those who guess incorrectly?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The professor crossed his arms. \u201cNothing happens to them. That\u2019s significant. Can anyone tell me why?\u201d No takers, so he continued. \u201cMost games, at least in North America, have winners and losers. Winners get rewarded, while losers get punished.\u201d He turned back to me. \u201cSteve, what are the consequences of winning or losing in 7-Up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere are none.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen why play at all?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause 7-up isn\u2019t a real game. It\u2019s a way for teachers to kill time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAh,\u201d the professor said, tapping his nose. \u201cVery good. Behind every game is an agenda.\u201d He snapped his fingers and the room filled with the sounds of shifting and throat clearing. \u201cWe\u2019re going to play our own version of 7-Up now, as a means of introduction. Everyone, heads down and thumbs up. I\u2019ll touch your thumbs one at a time, and when I do, keep your head down and say your name and a brief statement about yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everyone dropped their heads, covered their faces, and raised a thumb. I followed suit, peering through a crack between my arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The professor never left the podium. There was movement on either side of him. Then I saw them. Monsters, loping on four long limbs. They moved in an erratic shuffle which suggested a strange configuration of joints. Their flesh was raw, the dark maroon of dried blood. Long mandibles extended from their heads. I gathered all this from my peripheral vision, because if I looked at them head-on, they weren\u2019t there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They shuffled among students, touching thumbs. Those who were touched confessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen I was eleven, I left the gate to the backyard open so that my puppy Roger would run away. I hated him for liking my brother Dennis more than me. He was run over by a car.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m bulimic because I don’t want to be fat like Becky. She got married this summer and I hate her for being happier than me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One of them touched Oleanna, and she said, \u201cI’m all alone in the world. I don’t think anyone has ever loved me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One of them shuffled up beside me. I squeezed my eyes shut. It brushed my thumb. Its touch was hot and cold, like dry ice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I said, \u201cWhen I’m stressed, I pull the hair out at the nape of my neck.\u201d It was true. I had often been teased about the bald patch behind my right ear during exams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Spoke over one another like zombies until the bell rang and everyone lifted their heads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you, class,\u201d Mr. Botrell said. \u201cSee you all on Wednesday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Students wandered out looking stunned. I wanted to say something to Oleanna, but she was half-way to the door. I called her name. She didn\u2019t turn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I jogged down the center aisle to the podium.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me, Professor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat can I do for you… Steve is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes. May I ask you a question?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHas anyone ever mentioned strange things happening during that game?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Botrell frowned. \u201cI don\u2019t think so. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI could have sworn I felt a cold breeze in the room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStrange. I didn\u2019t feel anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I studied his face. I saw nothing to indicate he was lying. What I saw was a middle-aged professor half listening, already prepping for his next lecture in his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, I enjoyed your introduction.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThanks Steve. I’m looking forward to our time together.\u201d He gathered his papers and left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the time I got to my locker I was already convinced I\u2019d imagined it all. I’d had painless migraines before and seen strange artifacts dance in my peripheral vision. That could have been it. Maybe Botrell played some hypnosis trick on us. He seemed like the type to do that sort of thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Five weeks later Oleanna and I had sex for the first time. It happened at her apartment because she didn\u2019t have any roommates. Afterward, as we lay together on her couch watching television, I stroked her hair and said: \u201cIt\u2019s not true that nobody\u2019s ever loved you, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d She was laying on top of me. She twisted her body and squinted at me. \u201cWhen did I say nobody\u2019s ever loved me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you remember? First day of Botrell\u2019s class. I said I picked the hair on the back of my neck when I was nervous.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stared at me for several seconds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUmm, I never said that.\u201d She kissed me. Her tongue darted playfully between my lips. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ve broken your brain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was somewhere else for the rest of the afternoon, unable to focus. My mind was circling that first day like a tongue circles a sore tooth. But life goes on, and by the end of the week that day had once again faded into my rearview.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wouldn\u2019t see the monsters again until well into second semester.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few months later Oleanna and I were in Vincent’s, one of the university district\u2019s more popular night clubs. We were celebrating the end of finals. Normally we would have been with mutual friends, but tonight I\u2019d asked if we could be alone. I wanted to tell her I loved her. We never talked about the future, and I thought we should. She\u2019d captured my heart, a helplessly corny sentiment that I would surely butcher by saying out loud. Still, I felt compelled to try.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A live band played thirty feet away. I nursed my drink until they took a break, then put an arm around Oleanna. I leaned in to speak. I had no idea what I was going to say. I never got a chance to say it because Professor Botrell interrupted us. I hadn’t even seen him walk up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSteve! Oleanna! I come here every Friday and I can’t say I’ve ever seen you here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHey,\u201d I said. \u201cI didn’t know professors hung out here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you kidding? We need to kick back after exams as much as the students. You guys mind if I join you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I tried to say no, but Oleanna said, \u201cOf course. We’re not snobs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We drank and listened to the band while Botrell rattled on. He told us how he studied overseas after meeting his wife there on vacation. He shared anecdotes about students. He confided embarrassing information about fellow professors. Oleanna seemed interested. I couldn\u2019t have cared less.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I excused myself to use the washroom. I kept an eye on Botrell and Oleanna from the line; I was sure they were getting closer to one another. Oleanna had her chin propped on her palm, her eyes shining in the club\u2019s pulsing lights. Botrell shouted something. She threw her head back and laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was drunk, and she got animated when she was drunk. After emptying my throbbing bladder I would go back, endure the rest of Botrell\u2019s drivel, then try again some other night. The pivotal moment would have to wait.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Botrell kissed her. It was barely a touch of the lips, but it was unmistakable. Oleanna didn’t act surprised. She didn\u2019t pull away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outrage slammed me like an icy wind. I wanted to go over there and scream, overturn the table, smash Botrell\u2019s face, make a scene. Only I\u2019m not the scene-making type. I never have been. I\u2019m more the cry-into-my-pillow-until-exhaustion-drags-me-to-sleep sort of guy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So that\u2019s what I did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next day, Oleanna denied everything. She said they had waited for me for an hour before going their separate ways. But I\u2019d seen what I\u2019d seen. We agreed to spend some time apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I could have dropped Botrell\u2019s class. But that would have meant an incomplete on my transcript, so instead I arranged with a friend to get the notes. It wasn\u2019t a participation class; I could get away with only seeing Botrell at exams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My grades began to slip. I couldn\u2019t think straight. Whenever I saw Oleanna in the hallway she would look away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One Saturday afternoon I found myself staring dumbly down at a Calculus textbook. I closed the book and headed down E-wing, toward Botrell’s office. I figured he might be grading the section exam we\u2019d just written. I glanced out the window and saw his little VW bug in the parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hammered on his door. No response.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI saw your car outside,\u201d I shouted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI’m marking papers. Arrange an appointment with Cathy on Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOr I could call the Dean right now and tell him you\u2019re having an affair with a student.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A moment of silence, then Botrell opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat’s not going to work,\u201d he said. \u201cIt’s your word against mine. I have a spotless record, and I’m good friends with Dean Marcus. Besides, nothing is going on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow can you say that? I saw you kiss her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He glanced down the hall, then said: \u201cCome in. Let\u2019s talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I entered an office similar to the one I\u2019d inhabit later in life; not much more than a closet decorated with shelves of books, a small wooden desk backing onto the single tiny window. It smelled of men\u2019s cologne and old paper. Botrell offered me a seat, then shuffled around to the other side of the desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I get you a drink?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI bring something in for exam week,\u201d he said. \u201cDon’t tell on me.\u201d He reached under his desk and pulled out a knobby rectangular bottle half full of caramel liquid, and two bell-shaped glasses. \u201cYou okay with scotch?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d never had scotch. \u201cScotch is fine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Botrell handed me my drink. I went to take a sip, but the odour hit me and I set it down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo where do you want to start?\u201d Botrell asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow long have you been seeing Oleanna?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He laughed. \u201cSeeing <\/em>her? We’re not going steady, Steve. I’ve flirted with her a few times to get her away from you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTo get her away from me<\/em>? Why would you do that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Instead of answering the question, he said: \u201cYou saw them. I know you did. You saw the hobgoblins that first day of class.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My expression must have given me away, because he nodded and continued.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI first saw them back in \u201879. My wife and I were driving home from a Christmas party at about two in the morning. We hit black ice on a stretch of highway 2 just north of Calgary. The back of our car swerved into the oncoming lane, and we were sideswiped by the trailer of an oncoming semi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Botrell threw back his drink in one shot and poured himself another. His hands shook so violently he nearly spilled the bottle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe trucker didn\u2019t stop. I\u2019m not sure he even knew it happened, visibility was that bad. Anyway, Amanda’s side hit a light post, which I\u2019m positive killed her on impact. I was battered and thrown around, but we both had seatbelts on, so I was basically okay. I looked over at her. She was staring back, only her eyes were blank. It was like looking at empty broken windows where someone had once stood…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Botrell went quiet and stared at nothing. I took a sip of my drink. The sweaty sock smell that had initially repelled me wasn\u2019t so bad now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEventually there were sirens, but first there were hobgoblins. They came from the trees. I could only see them out of the corner of my eye; if I looked at them straight on, they disappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey spoke to me telepathically. They said I was their gateway to this world. They made a deal with me. They would save my wife if I agreed to help them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you did,\u201d I said, feeling more numb than any scotch could account for. I knew his wife was still alive. He\u2019d said as much that night in Vincent’s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI did. And Susan pulled through. It was touch and go for awhile — her skull had been cracked, and part of her pelvis had been shattered — but in the end she made an almost complete recovery. She has a limp, that\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou must have been mistaken,\u201d I said. \u201cShe couldn’t have been dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Botrell chuckled. \u201cYeah, I suppose so. Only you saw them, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you telling me all this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause we\u2019re in this together, Steve. We\u2019re a rare breed. In seven years, you\u2019re the only other person I\u2019ve found who can see them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do they want?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don’t know. But they take people. Loners. People with little or no social connections.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey take people? Wouldn\u2019t there be proof if they took people?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe it\u2019s more accurate to say they erase<\/em> people. The people they took were never here. As far as anyone is concerned, they were never born.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about this, then asked, \u201cIf that’s the case, how do you know they take people? Did they tell you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSometimes they leave things behind. I think they took some people from my wife\u2019s trauma support group, because someone lost a broach. That one alone might have been legit, but there were other things, strange things, like shoes and jackets. Things nobody leaves behind. And there are only about two dozen people in the group at any given time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou help them. You help them take people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Botrell shrugged. \u201cIf I don’t, I\u2019m afraid I\u2019ll wake up back in the car on the day of the accident, and Susan will be dead. That’s the deal as I understand it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Something clicked in my head. \u201cI’m the next gateway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Botrell nodded somberly. He looked at the scotch bottle on the desk as if it would better appreciate his situation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd you’re pushing me away from Oleanna because she’s the next victim.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Another nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou need to stop them!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can’t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes you can! You\u2019re the only one who can!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLook, I’ll just say it. I’m choosing my wife over your girlfriend. You’d do the same.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell then, I\u2019ll stop them,\u201d I said defiantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou can try. You might be able to bargain with them. You have some leverage, after all, seeing as how you\u2019re their next gateway. I don\u2019t think they find gateways every day.\u201d He looked at me, and trepidation trickled down my spine. That look said we were locked in the same deadly game. I could tell he was as scared as I was, and for good reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust be very careful what you promise them Steve.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Warning Oleanna proved impossible. She was still mad at me, so trying to persuade her was like being caught in one of those Chinese finger traps where the more you pull the more stuck you get. It didn’t help that my story sounded like the ravings of a lunatic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Still, I tried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I started attending Botrell\u2019s class again, keeping a healthy distance from Oleanna. I told myself that she would come around eventually, but that would never happen if I wasn\u2019t around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And of course I was watching for the hobgoblins. If Botrell was right, and not just an alcoholic professor off his nut, I was the only one who could save Oleanna from them. What a romantic notion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Too bad Oleanna could never know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One Thursday, in the middle of class, Botrell stopped in mid-sentence, cocked his head, and said: \u201cClass, heads down, thumbs up.\u201d The class complied like puppets, dropping their heads in lockstep. I dropped mine as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hobgoblins shuffled out of the shadows. They shimmered and danced at the edge of my world, ghost thieves planning to steal my life away when I wasn\u2019t looking. They weren\u2019t interested in playing 7-up today. They bee-lined for Oleanna. I stood, pulled a knife from my pocket, and held it to my throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They gathered around me. I could see them full on now, and I wished I couldn\u2019t. They had no faces; where faces should have been, there was only raw-looking, weeping meat. Their mandibles bent and twitched like insect legs. They entered my head like scuttling like bugs, probing for intent. I screamed a single thought in silence: Leave Oleanna alone or I\u2019ll close this gateway forever.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The noise in my head stopped. The monsters waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pushed the corner of the blade into my neck, but even as I felt its bite I knew I wasn’t prepared to follow through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And because I knew, they knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They fell on Oleanna — her head in the nest made by her arms, her thumb in the air — like a school of famished piranha.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSteve, what are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Mr. Botrell. He sounded both scared and angry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was standing in class without any memory of standing. I had a knife to my throat. Everyone, including Oleanna, was staring at me, their mouths agape. I pulled the knife from my throat, stared at its maroon stained tip. Someone gasped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSteve, put the knife down,\u201d Botrell said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow walk slowly to the door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked furious. I did as he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cClass dismissed,\u201d he said to the others. \u201cBut I would like everyone to stay in their seats until Mr. Buckley and I have left, please.\u201d The silence in the room was so thick that I could feel it pulling on me, as if it had a gravitational field. Everyone had been stunned into unquestioning compliance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This was the most confusing and humiliating day of my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was going to be a virgin forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n August 12, 2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Therapy Diary,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Today I met with my old professor, David Botrell. I tracked him down on Facebook. With a name like Botrell, he wasn’t too hard to find. I sent him a message and he messaged back immediately, saying he always enjoyed hearing from old students. He lives an hour from me. We met halfway, at a little place off the highway called Irene\u2019s Steakhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He’s gotten thinner. His hair is white, which makes him look older than he is. He still wears the same bulky sweaters. Conversation can be real hard to kick-start when you haven\u2019t seen someone for decades, but we fell into a comfortable rhythm almost immediately. When I began reminiscing about falling in love with Oleanna, he admitted he didn’t remember her, but he smiled and listened nonetheless. His mood changed when I recalled the night at Vincent’s. By the time I finished up, his expression was a stone mask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did you want to get out of this?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don’t know. Maybe a sympathetic ear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou’re not planning on blackmailing me with any of this nonsense about a relationship with a student, are you? Because that never happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, of course not.\u201d The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. He must have sensed as much because he relaxed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, I sympathize that you believe it all actually happened. But the details are concerning. I think you should listen to Dr. Brown and keep up with the therapy. Needless to say, there were never any monsters — what did you call them? Hobgoblins? I strongly suspect there was never any Oleanna, either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood and collected my jacket. \u201cI think I’ve wasted enough of your time. Thanks for meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot a waste, Steven,\u201d he said. \u201cI wish you the best. One question before you go, though. How did you know about my wife? Have you talked to someone I know? Because I’ve never told any student about that accident, ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLike I said, you told me. In your office.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSure,\u201d he said with a sideways grin, \u201cexcept that never happened. My wife wasn’t resurrected by imaginary creatures, Steven, she died in ’79.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Doubt bloomed. What if I had<\/em> just imagined it all? In school I had learned Ockham’s razor: Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected<\/em>. Which hypotheses proposed the fewest assumptions in this case? That I had once known a girl who had been abducted by strange creatures from another dimension? Or that I was simply delusional?<\/p>\n\n\n\n As I walked the restaurant\u2019s long blacktop to my car, I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and tried to speed dial Dr. Brown. The phone issued a chime I’d never heard before. It said number not found.<\/em> I thumbed through my speed dial numbers. Dr. Brown\u2019s entry was missing. Strange. I opened a browser and searched for his website. I found nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I swung by his office on my way home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It’s a nail salon now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n August 14, 2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Therapy Diary,<\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019m throwing you away. I no longer need you. The verdict is in — I\u2019m not crazy. I had my doubts when I found no evidence of Dr. Brown having ever existed. I spent days contemplating whether I had invented him the way I invented Oleanna. I lost sleep wondering how far gone I was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then yesterday, as I arrived home from shopping, I noticed two large ceramic pots overgrown with colorful flowers standing sentry on my front step. They hadn’t been there earlier. Like most men, I\u2019m a home d\u00e9cor minimalist; I never would have chosen something so ornate and pretty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A pair of hobgoblins stared at me through the window to the left of my front door. I should have been startled, yet I wasn\u2019t. Strangely, I was relieved. I went inside, looked to my left as soon as I was through the door, but they were gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHoney, is that you?\u201d Like the appearance of the hobgoblins, this voice from my kitchen should have shaken me, but it didn\u2019t. \u201cI’m whipping something up for dinner that’s a bit of an experiment. I hope you like it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I knew that voice. My heart hammered in my chest. I went to the kitchen, and there she was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Oleanna.<\/p>\n\n\n\n September 9, 2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n Dear Diary,<\/p>\n\n\n\n I suddenly want to keep a diary. I don\u2019t know where this compulsion came from, I\u2019ve never been so inclined. It\u2019s doggedly persistent, though, like a song I can\u2019t stop humming, so today I picked you up at the drugstore, little notepad. I don\u2019t know what kind of relationship you and I will have yet, but let\u2019s just see how it goes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Oleanna thinks we’ve been married for two largely uneventful decades, and she’s not wrong. I remember our marriage as well, and our life since.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I remember more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Last night the hobgoblins came to me in the kitchen. Oleanna was in bed. I couldn\u2019t sleep \u2013 insomnia is something I suffer from time to time, the result of being too high-strung I guess — so I was making myself an egg sandwich.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They told me I could either help them or live the rest of my life alone. I sensed they thought they were doing me a favour, and I suppose they are. There are worse fates, after all, than being reunited with the love of your life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Today was the first day of classes. This semester I\u2019m teaching the newbies in Mathematics 101. The young men and women who will be the soundtrack to my life for the next four months filed into the room. The bell rang its brisk, panicked tone. Our school still has those antique red school bells that resemble someone beating the side of their head. They\u2019re a source of school pride in an age swallowed by technology.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This morning I began with the regular introduction: \u201cThe majority of Mathematics is not practical. It exists for its own sake. It is a playground for the mind, and as such, has always been a young person’s pursuit. In fact, mathematical geniuses typically bloom before the age of twenty-five. Isaac Newton was twenty-three – barely older than most of you – when he discovered Calculus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then I told them we were going to start the semester in the spirit of youth, by playing a game to get to know one another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOkay class,\u201d I said, and clapped my hands. A chill crept through the air. I wasn’t afraid. \u201cHeads down, thumbs up\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" August 8, 2018 Dear Therapy Diary, I feel like an idiot writing this, but Dr. Brown tells me keeping a diary is an effective form of therapy, so here goes.…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-245","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/245","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=245"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/245\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":249,"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/245\/revisions\/249"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wleebrooks.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=245"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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