Dybbuk

Was he dreaming?

He had to be, this had to be a dream because Wilc had no say in what he did. This was worse than LA. Worse than Isao. At least then he was only missing time. Not living a waking nightmare where he had no say in where he walked. What he drank. Ate. Said. This was the longest dream he’d ever had.

And it scared him.

Wilc was at the wheel of the Bronco again. It sat parked, under the shade of an elm. The tree was old. It’s seen things. Felt death hang from its branches and been fed with the tears of the guilty and innocent alike. It was an old tree, one that had been here longer than Clarion and Wilc had no idea how he knew. But this was a dream, after all.

Wasn’t it?

His fingers drummed across the steering wheel. There was a distant rumble. Not in the air. Not in the ground; but from within. For all the lack of control Wilc had in this crazy dream, he could feel it. Gnawing at his bones, at his muscles and deeper still.

Hunger.

For the wind. The warmth of an afternoon. The feel and bite of an aged whiskey. The smooth pull of a good cigar. A kiss.

Everything.

But this need… was something deeper.

It couldn’t wait any longer. Whatever this was, this thing inside, taking control in this dream. It needed it now.

Wilc was moving, out of the Bronco up a sidewalk path and to a door. This door belonged to a well-kept house. No… a home, a welcoming place that allowed you to slough off the day’s grime to rest and hide just for a little while. Wilc knew it, just like he knew about the elm. His hand rose to knock, but paused. A glint caught his attention. It was mounted on the door frame and silver. It was two inches in length and looked like it would contain a small piece of paper with the prayer inscribed on it; for a moment a small fear pricked at Wilc. The fear and small bit of shame, dissipated at what should have been held in the mezuzah, but wasn’t.

The Wilc that wasn’t Wilc, smiled and knocked at the door.

Apprehension and anticipation mixed and welled up from inside. One was his but not the other. Then he knew.

He didn’t want the door to open.

Wilc didn’t want to see what was beyond this threshold. Knew, that if that door opened, what followed would be something he wanted to be no part of. Something he dreaded with every passing second.

The door opened.

A boy stood at the crack between the frame and the door. He was freckled, blond and no older than six.

“Is your mother home?” The Wilc that wasn’t Wilc asked.

The boy shoved his finger up his nose.

“Jadon, what did I tell you about opening the door?”

“Not to do it.” The boy’s voice came out muffled with his finger up his nose.

“Get that out right now,” A woman wedged herself between her son and Wilc, a baby girl on her hip. “Excuse me, but can I help you?”

No.

He wanted to turn around. Wanted to leave this young mother and her children behind. Yet, where there was something familiar about her. Where had he seen her before?

“Do you know a Victor Shaw?” Wilc heard the words, but knew he didn’t ask.

The case?

Why he dreaming about the case? So real, but he hadn’t done this part yet. He hadn’t had time to interview family. And where was his accompanying officer?

The woman at the door paused. The kind of pause Wilc heard a thousand times before. The kind of pause people hope will hold off the oncoming tidal wave of grief and guilt and tears.

“Yes,” she finally said, “I’m his daughter, Emma.”

Wilc felt the familiar action of brushing away the end of his blazer. An action that allowed anyone to see the badge clipped to his belt. The action that helped them to know, to understand what he was and why he was there.

“I’m a Detective with the Clarion Homicide Unit—”

“Oh God.” Emma covered her mouth.

“I’m sorry to inform you—”

“Oh God,” she repeated, as if it would lessen the blow. As if it would undo what had been done. “Wait. Wait.” Emma turned around. “Jadon? Honey, why don’t you put on a movie for you and Grace?”

“Any movie?” Jadon said excitedly.

“Yes, any movie.” Emma repeated, the baby started to cry, feeling the change in her mother’s body language. How did he know that?

The sound of rubber soled shoes squeaked further into the house.

“Emma, I need to ask you a few questions.” Wilc hear himself say. Not him, him but something in control of him. Couldn’t she tell? Couldn’t she hear it? He could, the more he talked, the more he sounded…wrong. Like two voices talking over each other. Wilc leaned forward, “Can I come inside?”

And it grew, that tremble of dread. That urge of need twitched between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t his urge. It wasn’t his need. Yet he feared it all the same.

“Emma,” Wilcs voices insisted, “Can I come inside?”

Emma faced him, tears brimming but not falling.

Strength.

There would be fight in this.

Good.

What thoughts were these? They weren’t his. Not his.

“Yes,” Emma nodded and opened the door wider. “Please, come inside, Detective.”

No.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

And still he stepped over the threshold.

“Let me,” Emma stammered as she closed the door, “let me settle the kids. I don’t— I don’t want them— Jadon he’s such a smart boy. Please, excuse me.”

Emma left, shuttling Grace down the hallway towards her too-smart son in another part of the house. Wilc that wasn’t Wilc took the house in. The walls were covered in framed photos of birthdays and parks and family. So much happiness here.

Then one photo made his body still.

It was an older gentleman, polished and well dressed. A man who wanted for nothing.

Victor Shaw.

He seethed.

Not Wilc.

This thing pretending to be Wilc, the thing deep inside and in control. It wanted Victor. Denied. It had been denied its tribute and locked in that small space with no reward. There was always a reward. Always a soul to make the darkness better. Warmer. How could it gather strength, without substance for its soul? But Victor was lost. Lost. Lost. So it would have to call Victor, entice him back.

That’s what this thing inside him wanted.

It would stop at nothing.

“Detective?”

Wilc turned around. It was Emma. She stared at his hands.

He looked down. In his hands were the remains of the photograph. Its metal and glass frame crumpled like thin foil. A few droplets of blood stained the wood flooring.

“What are you doing?” Emma’s voice warbled.