Sliding his left arm from beneath the covers, he reached to the bedside table, feeling for the handset. His fingers closed around it and he carried the receiver to his ear. "Yes?" he mumbled.
He listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before grimacing irritably and reaching out to thump the handset back on its cradle.
His eyes opened wide as he looked toward the bedside table.
The telephone was still ringing.
He stretched out his arm and fumbled for the lamp switch. Twisting it, he averted his face from the glare, then picked up the handset again and pressed the receiver to his ear.
There was only the dial tone.
Millman stared, bewildered, at the handset. He could still hear the sound of a telephone ringing.
Several moments passed before it came to him that the ringing was inside his head.
"I have the test results," Dr. Vance told him.
Millman waited anxiously. "My immediate assumption was that it was tinnitus," Dr. Vance continued. "There's no sign of middle-ear infection, though, no symptoms such as earache, fever, a sensation of pressure in your ears."
"What is it then?" Millman asked.
"You know for a fact it doesn't ring all the time."
"Only at night," Millman answered. "It wakes me up."
"That wouldn't be the case if it was tinnitus," Dr. Vance said. "The ringing would be constant."
Millman looked at him in worried silence.
"Don't tell anyone I said this," Dr. Vance went on, "but you might try getting a chiropractic adjustment on your neck. I had a friend who suffered from what appeared to be tinnitus. After he got a neck adjustment, it went away."
"And if that doesn't work?" Millman asked.
"Try it first," the doctor said.
Millman twisted on the bed with an angry groan.
The telephone was ringing again.
He reached out quickly with his left hand and grabbed the handset, carrying the earpiece to his head.
Then he slammed the handset down on its cradle. "Damn!" he cried.
He lay on his back, a look of apprehension on his face as he listened to the sound of the ringing telephone inside his head.
"Everything's been tried?" Dr. Palmer asked.
"Yes," Millman said despairingly. "There's no sign of a fracture or a concussion. Nothing wrong with my spine. No sign of any foreign body. No growths, no tumors, nothing. I even had a neck adjustment. It made no difference."
"The ringing happens every night?" Dr. Palmer asked.
"Yes."
"At the same time?"
"Three in morning," Millman answered. "I can't sleep any more. I just lie in bed waiting for it to start."
"And you're positive it sounds like a telephone ringing."
"It is a telephone ringing," Millman said impatiently
"Try answering it then," suggested Dr. Palmer.
Millman lay on his back in the darkness, listening to the ringing sound inside his head. He wanted desperately to make it stop. But Dr. Palmer's suggestion disturbed him. It seemed a bizarre thing for a therapist to say.
Still…
The telephone kept ringing. Millman's left hand twitched as though about to reach for the telephone on the bedside table. But he knew that wasn't where the ringing was coming from.
Impulsively, he visualized a telephone inside his head. He visualized his left hand picking up the handset. "Hel-lo," he said aloud.
"Well, finally," said the voice.
Millman felt himself recoil into the mattress, heartbeat pounding suddenly. "My God," he said.
"Take it easy now," the voice responded, that of a man. "Don't get yourself in an uproar. There's a simple explanation."
Millman couldn't seem to breathe.
"Still there?" the man's voice asked.
Millman swallowed. He sucked in a wheezing breath and muttered, "Yes."
The voice said, "Good."
Millman had to ask, although he knew it was insane.
"Who is this?" he said.
"The name's not important," the man's voice replied. "I'm not allowed to tell you anyway."
"What are you talking about?" Millman's voice strained.
"Take it easy," the man's voice said. "You're getting yourself upset for nothing. I told you there's a simple explanation."
"What?" demanded Millman.
"Okay," the man's voice answered. "Here's what's going on. It's a government project; a secret project, it goes without saying. You'll have to keep it quiet. It's a matter of national security."
Millman's mouth slipped open. National Security?
"I won't go into background," the man's voice continued. "You know the situation in the world. Our government maintains a constant policy of espionage. We have to know what's happening on the other side."
"But-" Millman started.
"Just listen," the man's voice interrupted. "We have agents all around the globe, sending us information. The transmission of their messages has always been a risk. Any device they use can be detected sooner or later. Which is why we're experimenting with inner-brain communication."
"Inner-brain-?"
"Yes." The man's voice cut Millman off. "A method by which agents can transmit information with no risk whatever of being intercepted. I don't mean telepathy or anything like that. I'm talking about a microscopic insert."
Millman tightened. "What?"
"Relax," the man's voice told him. "If it's so minute it never even showed up on your medical tests, it's certainly too small to bother you."
Millman tried to speak but couldn't.
"You're probably wondering why you were chosen for this experiment," the man's voice continued. "Actually, you're not the only one. I can't tell you how many there are, but the number is considerable. As to how you were chosen, it was mathematical; a random generator."
"I don't understand," Millman said.
"To be perfectly candid," the man's voice went on, "only a few of you have reached the stage of answering our call. The rest are still fixated at the point of thinking it's a physical affliction, making endless rounds of doctor visits. Congratulations on being imaginative enough to answer the ringing-it is that of an actual telephone, by the way."
Millman braced himself. "But-" he began.
"-we never asked," the man's voice finished Millman's thought. "True. And we're sorry it disturbed you. Still-under the circumstances, we couldn't very well have asked for your permission.
"At any rate," he added, "we won't be bothering you as much now. The connection's been made."
"For how long?" Millman asked.
"I'm sorry," the man's voice responded. "That's not my decision to make."
Inside his head, Millman heard the distinct sound of a telephone handset being placed on its cradle.
He fell back on the pillow; he'd been unaware that he was leaning on his right elbow throughout his conversation with the man. In spite of his distress, he felt relieved that the ringing noise had stopped.
In seconds, he was heavily asleep.
The ringing of the telephone inside his head jarred Millman awake. His eyes sprang open and he twitched on the mattress. "No," he said. It had been five days since he'd spoken with the man. He'd begun to hope it was over; that either the calls would not continue or that he'd imagined everything.
Grimacing, he snatched up the unseen handset. "Yes," he said.
The ringing continued.
Millman looked confused. He visualized the telephone as clearly as he could, lifted the handset and brought it to his ear. "Hel-lo," he said.
The telephone kept ringing. Was it because he hadn't heard it for the past five nights that it sounded so painfully shrill to him?
In his mind, he visualized his hand grabbing at the handset. "Hello!" he said.
The ringing didn't stop. Millman made a pained noise. The sound seemed to pulse in stabbing waves against the tissues of his brain. He clenched his teeth, face contorted.
The telephone kept ringing. Millman kept snatching up the handset in his imagination, crying out, "Hel-lo!"
Abruptly, then, the man's voice answered. "You don't have to shout."
"For God's sake!" Millman cried.
"Take it easy," the man's voice told him.
"Easy?" Millman said. "The phone's been ringing in my head for ten minutes straight!"
"Five," the man corrected.
"Well, why?" demanded Millman.
"I've been busy." The man's voice had an edge to it. "You're not the only line I have to deal with, you know."
"I'm sorry," Millman said in a shaking voice. "But you-" He broke off, frowning. "Why did you keep ringing me then?"
"Oh, was I ringing you? I didn't realize," the man's voice said.
Millman looked astonished as he heard a handset click down in his head, breaking the connection.
Seconds later, the telephone began to ring again.
No matter how often he answered it, there was no response.
The ringing continued almost until dawn, Millman lying wide-eyed on his bed, teeth clenched, hands like talons clutching at the sheets.
"I was wondering what happened to you," Dr. Palmer said.
Millman drew in labored breath. "I thought I knew what it was," he said. "I thought I had to keep it quiet."
"Keep what quiet?" Dr. Palmer asked.
When Millman had finished telling him what happened, Dr. Palmer gazed at him without acknowledgment.
Millman swallowed nervously. "I'm still not sure I'm not making a mistake in telling you," he said, unable to endure the silence. "But he's driving me crazy, ringing me every night from three a.m. to six and never answering."
Dr. Palmer began to speak, hesitated, then finally said, "You believe this?"
Millman regarded him blankly.
"You believe it's a secret government project?" the therapist asked.
"Well-" Millman broke off in confusion. "That's what he said. He-"
The expression on Dr. Palmer's face stopped him.
"David," the therapist said. "Does it really make sense to you?"
Millman struggled for an answer. "I-" He stopped; braced himself. "I hear the telephone ringing," he said. "I answer it. The man's voice speaks to me. I'm not imagining it."
Dr. Palmer sighed. "David, think about it," he said. "A secret government project? Citizens picked at random? Microscopic telephones implanted in their brains without them knowing it? Espionage agents of the United States government transmitting information this way?" He looked at Millman challengingly.
Millman stared back, feeling a heavy weight on his back. Dear God, he thought.
He fought against the feeling. "But I hear the ringing," he insisted. "I hear the man's voice."
"David, not to alarm you," Dr. Palmer replied, "but hearing voices in one's head has been in the symptomatology tradition for a long time."
Millman drank black coffee with supper that evening. He wanted to remain alert.
Lying on his bed in the dark, propped on pillows leaned against the headboard, he waited for the ringing of the telephone to start.
And thought about what Dr. Palmer had said.
He'd gotten angry at the therapist's remark about hearing voices in one's head. Was Dr. Palmer implying that he'd gone insane?
"Not at all," the therapist had reassured him. "What I'm saying is that you're undergoing some kind of mental constraint. That your mind is seeking out a method of redressing it."
"By dreaming up a phone call from some secret government project?" Millman had responded tensely.
"The means by which the human mind attempts to deal with hidden problems can be infinite," Dr. Palmer had told him.
The room was still. Millman heard the whirring of the electric alarm clock on the bedside table.
Was Palmer right? he wondered.
True, it did seem awfully farfetched that the national government would go to such lengths to conduct a project so outlandish.
Still, the alternative.…
Millman bared his teeth in anger. It was all irrelevant anyway. If the man's voice didn't answer any more-and it hadn't in a week-what difference did it make? Palmer might be convinced that presently the voice would speak to him again because it needed to, but he was certainly not-
Millman caught his breath, jerking back against the headboard as the telephone began to ring. His gaze jumped to the clock. It was three.
He let the ringing go on for thirty seconds before mentally picking up the handset and saying, "Yes?"
"We're very displeased with you," the man's voice said; Millman tensed at the tone of it. "You were asked not to say anything about the project, weren't you?"
Millman swallowed nervously.
"Weren't you?" the man's voice snapped.
"Yes, but-"
"You were told it was a matter of national security," the man's voice cut him off. "Yet still you told your therapist."
Millman couldn't seem to fill his lungs with air. He made a wheezing sound. "How do you know?" he asked, his voice frail and breathless.
"Figure it out," the man's voice said. "If we can hear your voice when you speak to us.…"
He didn't finish. Millman shuddered. Every word? he thought in dismay. Every single word I say?
He struggled to resist. "You know what he told me then," he said. "You know what he thinks you are."
"Sure," the man's voice answered scornfully. "I'm not Agent 25409-J. I'm not William J. Lonsdale. I'm not married with three children. I don't work for the C.I.A. I'm your goddamn subconscious mind. Jesus, Millman. What the hell's the matter with you?"
Millman had no answer. He lay immobile, staring up into the darkness. He thought he heard the breathing of the man on the other end of the line.
"All right, listen to me," the man's voice said then. "We're going to try to cut you off the circuit. We have been trying for a week now; that's why we haven't spoken to you. I'll put it on priority now that you've blabbed to your therapist about us. Jesus, Millman!"
Millman heard the sound of a handset being set down.
Hard.
"But don't you see?" Palmer said with a smile. "Your subconscious mind was reacting angrily to having its ruse exposed. A step forward, David."
"He said he was going to cut me off the circuit."
Dr. Palmer shook his head, still smiling. "He won't cut you off," he said. "He has things to say."
"What if I don't want to listen to him anymore?" Millman said.
"David" Dr. Palmer said. "David. Consider. You're being given an invaluable opportunity: to engage in dialogue with your own subconscious mind."
"What if the voice keeps picking on me? Millman asked.
The therapist's gesture was casual.
"Hang up on him," he said.
When the telephone began to ring in his head, Millman was loathe to answer it. The resonating jangle of the bell set his teeth on edge. Even so, it was preferable to the man's potentially abusive voice.
He remained immobile on the bed, a flinching expression on his face.
Could he hang up on the man?
Further, could he snatch up the invisible handset after the connection had been broken, making it impossible for the man to call him anymore? He imagined hearing a dial tone in his head, then an operator's voice, breaking in to tell him he should hang up if he wanted to make a call.
Millman scowled. Now he really was beginning to think like a man who was losing his mind.
Abruptly, he picked up the imaginary handset and said, "Hello."
"Thank you for answering," the man's voice said.
Millman tightened. Now what? he thought.
"I apologize for speaking out of turn during our last conversation," the man's voice said. "It was uncalled for."
"Yes, it was," Millman said impulsively.
"I'm sorry," the man replied. Before Millman could respond, he continued. "Listen," he said, "I'm going to level with you."
Millman's eyes narrowed. Now what? he wondered.
"This government project thing," the voice went on. "It's all a lie."
Without thinking, Millman drew his left hand near his face to stare at it as though he actually held a handset in his grip.
"There's no such thing," the man confessed. "Your Dr. Palmer was correct. It doesn't make sense. Microscopic telephones implanted secretly in people's brains? I can't believe you bought it."
Millman made a sound of spluttering exasperation.
"I'll tell you what it is," the man's voice said. "I won't give you my name because I'm afraid you might report me to the police. They'd lock me up and throw the key away if they found out what I'm doing."
"What are you talking about now?" Millman demanded furiously.
"I'm an inventor," the man's voice said. "I've developed an apparatus which radiates short-wave energy that penetrates the mind of anyone the beamer is directed at, enabling two-way conversation with them. You're the first."
Millman couldn't tell if he felt horrified or enraged. The clashing emotions kept him speechless.
"I know this is as hard to believe as the government project idea," the man's voice continued. "The government would love to get their hands on this, I guarantee you. I'd destroy it first though. It gives me the creeps thinking what our government would do with this device. I'd never-"
Millman broke in fiercely. "Why are you doing this to me?" he demanded.
"As I said," the man's voice answered patiently, "I chose you as my first subject. I didn't have the nerve to tell you what was really going on so I made up the story about a government project when all the time-"
It all burst out explosively from Millman. "Bullshit!" he snarled. "I don't believe this story any more than I believe the other! You're no inventor" My therapist's been right all the time! You're my own-"
"You fool!" the man's voice cut him off. "You goddamned fool!"
Millman tried to answer but the words choked in his throat.
"You just can't leave well enough alone, can you?" the man's voice criticized him. "Just can't let me do this my own way. No! Not you! You're too goddamned smart for that!"
The animal-like sound the man made drowned out Millman's faint reply. "Well, you're not smart! Not at all!" the man's voice cried. "You're dumb! You always have been dumb! A dumb boy and a stupid man! Davie, you're an idiot!"
Millman lurched in shock as the handset crashed down in his head.
He lay in silence, struggling for breath.
He knew the voice.
Dr. Palmer gazed at him without a word.
Millman drew in a laboring breath. "I have to tell you something about my family," he said. "Something I never told you before."
"Yes?" asked Dr. Palmer.
"My mother suffered from dissociated consciousness," Millman said. "I mean, she was psychic. I won't go into details but she proved it many times."
"Yes?" Dr. Palmer's tone was still noncommittal.
"I think I inherited her ability," Millman told him.
The therapist had difficulty repressing a look of aggravation. "You're suggesting-" he began.
"I'm telling," Millman broke in irritably. "You were right. It's not a secret government project and it's certainly not what the man's voice told me last night."
"Instead-" Dr. Palmer prodded.
"It's my father," Millman answered.
The therapist didn't reply. He rubbed his lowered eyelids with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Millman felt a tightening of resentment in his body.
Dr. Palmer opened his eyes. "You believe that he's communicating with you from 'the other side' as it were?" he asked.
Millman nodded, features hardening. "I do."
The therapist sighed.
"Very well," he said. "Let's talk about it."
The instant the telephone rang in his head, Millman snatched up the imagined handset. "I'm here," he said.
"That was prompt," the man's voice replied.
"I know who you are," Millman told him.
"You do." Millman had a fleeting impression of his father's face, a smile of faint amusement on it.
"Yes, I do," Millman answered. "Father."
The man chuckled. "So you've caught me," he said.
Millman was unable to control a throat-catching sob. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"Why?" the voice responded incredulously. "Why do I want to speak to my only begotten son? You ask such a question, Davie? Is it so difficult to comprehend?"
Millman was crying now. Tears ran off the sides of his face, soaking into the pillow case. "Pop," he murmured.
"I want you to listen to me now," his father's voice continued.
Millman's chest hitched as he sobbed.
"Are you listening?" his father's voice inquired.
"Yes." Millman rubbed the trembling fingertips of his right hand over his eyes.
"The reason I'm calling you," his father's voice went on, "is that I feel you should be cognizant of certain things."
"What things?" Millman asked.
"You don't know?" his father's voice responded.
"No," Millman sniffled, rubbing a finger underneath his dripping nostrils.
His father's sigh was deep. "I'll have to tell you then," he said.
Millman waited.
"You're a loser," his father's voice told him.
"What?" asked Millman.
"I have to explain?" said his father's voice. "You leave me nothing? All right; I'll lay it on the line then. You married a bitch. You let her bleed you dry in every way. You let her poison the minds of your two sons against you. You let her divorce proceeding take you to the cleaners. You let her rip away your manhood.
"On top of that, you're a loser at your job. You let that moron boss of yours kick you around like a ball. You scrape to him and let him treat you like a piece of dog shit. Dog shit, Davie! Don't bother to deny! You know it's true! You're a loser in every department of life and you know it!"
Millman felt as though paralysis had gripped him, body and mind.
"Can you deny a single word I've spoken?" his father's voice challenged.
Millman sobbed. "Pop," he murmured pleadingly.
"Don't Pop me, you goddamn loser!" his father's voice lashed back. "I'm ashamed to call you my son! Thank God I'm dead and don't have to see you getting kicked around day after day!"
Millman cried out, agonized. "Pop, don't!"
Dr. Palmer rose from his chair and walked to the window. He had never done that before and Millman watched him uneasily, dabbing at his reddened eyes with a tear-clotted handkerchief. The therapist stood with his back to Millman, looking out at the street.
After a while, he returned to his chair and sat down with a tired grunt. He gazed at Millman silently. What kind of gaze was it? Millman wondered. Compassionate?
Or fed up?
"I don't do this ordinarily," Dr. Palmer began. "You know my method: to let you find the answers yourself. However-"
He exhaled heavily and clasped his hands beneath his chin. "I feel as though I simply can't allow this to proceed the way it's going," he continued. "I have to say something to you. I have to say-" he winced "-enough, David."
Millman stared at the therapist.
"I do not believe-any more than I believe it was a secret government project or an isolated inventor-that your father is communicating with you from beyond the grave. I believe, as I have from the start, that your subconscious mind has, somehow, found a way to speak to you audibly. Trying to establish some kind of resolution to your mental problems."
"But it's his voice," Millman insisted.
"David," Dr. Palmer's voice was firm now. "You believed it was the voice of Secret Agent 25409-J. You then believed, albeit briefly, that it was the voice of some inventor. Can't you see that this subconscious voice of yours can make itself sound like anyone it chooses?"
David felt helpless. He knew he couldn't bear any more of the abuse his father's voice had heaped on him. At the same time, he felt sick about the possibility of losing touch with his father.
"What should I do?" he asked in a feeble voice.
"Confront it," Dr. Palmer urged. "Stop just listening and suffering and talk back. Start retaliating. Demand answers; explanations. Speak up for yourself. It's your subconscious, David. Hear it out but don't permit it to harass you mercilessly. Take control."
Millman felt exhausted. "If only I could sleep," he murmured.
"That I can give you something for," the therapist said.
He couldn't confront the voice that night. He did as Dr. Palmer prescribed and took two capsules, sleeping deeply and without remembrance. If the telephone rang in his head, he didn't hear it.
It relaxed him enough to enjoy a good night's rest. At work the following day, he even found Mr. Fitch endurable. Once, he almost spoke back to him but managed to repress the impulse. There was no point in losing his job on top of everything else.
During the evening, Millman thought about Elaine and the boys.
Had the voice-whoever it belonged to-spoken the truth? Was Elaine a bitch who'd poisoned the minds of his sons against him? Was that why their behavior, when they saw him, was so remote? He'd told himself it was because they got together so infrequently; that he was virtually a stranger to them.
What if it was more than that?
It was true that the divorce settlement had left him very little. Still, it had been his choice. He didn't have to give her so much.
Thinking of it all made Millman tense and edgy, ready to confront the voice.
At three a.m., when the ringing in his head began, he grabbed the unseen handset and yanked it to his head. "I'm here," he said.
"Are you, Davie?" his father's voice responded scornfully.
"You can cut it out now," Millman answered.
"Cut what out, little boy?" his father's voice inquired mockingly.
Millman braced himself. It took all the will he had to resist that voice which had intimidated him throughout his childhood and adolescence.
"You're not my father," he said.
Silence.
Then his father's voice said, "I'm not?"
"No, you're not," Millman said, trying to keep his voice strong.
"Who am I then?" his father's voice asked. "The King of Siam?"
Millman shuddered with uncertain anger. "I don't know," he admitted. "I only know you're not my father."
"You're a stupid boy," his father's voice responded. "You've always been a stupid boy."
"I defy you!" Millman cut him off. "You're not my father!"
"Who am I then?" the voice demanded.
"Me!" cried Millman. "My subconscious mind!"
"Your subconscious mind?" The voice broke into sudden laughter; totally insane, the laughter of a maniac.
"Stop it," Millman said.
The laughing continued, uncontrolled, deranged. Millman visualized a face behind it-white and twisted, staring, wild-eyed.
"Stop it," he ordered.
The laughter rose in pitch and volume. It began to echo in his head.
He had to mentally slam down the handset three times before the laughter cut off.
His hands almost vibrating they shook so badly, he washed down a pair of capsules.
When the telephone began to ring inside his head again, he tried to ignore it, waiting tensely for the drug to lower him into a heavy, deafened sleep.
The tiny, black-haired woman opened the door to her apartment and looked at Millman questioningly. She didn't look as old as he knew her to be.
"I spoke to you on the telephone this afternoon," he said. "I'm Myra Millman's son."
"Ah, yes." Mrs. Danning's false teeth showed in a smile as she stepped back to admit him.
There was a smell of burning incense in the dimly lit living room. Millman noticed crosses and religious paintings on the walls while he moved to the chair the tiny woman pointed at. He sat down, hoping that he wasn't making a mistake. Momentarily, he imagined Dr. Palmer's reaction to this. The idea made his throat feel dry.
Mrs. Danning perched on a chair across from him and asked him to repeat his story.
Millman told her everything from its beginning to the manic laughter. Mrs. Danning nodded when he spoke about the laughter. "That may well provide the clue," she declared. He wondered what she meant by that.
He watched in anxious silence as she closed her eyes and began to draw in deep, laboring breaths, both hands on her lap, palms facing upward.
Several minutes later, her features hardened with a look of disdain. "So," she said. "Now you see a psychic." Mrs. Danning bared her teeth so much that Millman saw her pale gums. "You just won't listen, will you?" she said. "You have to keep investigating. Asshole!"
Millman twitched on his chair, eyes fixed on the psychic. She had begun to rock back and forth, a humming in her throat. "Oh, yes," she said after a while. "Oh, yes." She repeated the words so many times that Millman lost count of them.
After ten minutes, she opened her eyes and looked at Millman. He began to speak but she raised her right hand to prevent it. He waited as she picked up a glass of water from the table beside her chair and gulped down every drop of it. She sighed.
"I think we have it now," she said.
"For God's sake, David!" Dr. Palmer cried. Millman had never heard such disapproval in the therapist's voice.
"I wasn't going to come back," he said defensively. "Wasn't going to tell you. But I thought you might be sympathetic."
"To what this woman told you?" Dr. Palmer asked, appalled. "That you're being possessed by some-some-?" He gestured angrily.
"Earthbound spirit," Millman said, willfully. "A disincarnate soul held prisoner by the magnetism of the living, doing everything he can to-"
"David, David." Dr. Palmer looked exasperated and despairing at the same time. "We're losing ground. Every time we get together, we seem to fall back a little more."
"The spirit is not at peace." Millman's voice was stubbornly insistent. "It wants to experience life again. So it invades my mind-"
"David-!" the therapist cut him off. "Please!"
Millman pushed up from his chair. "Oh, what's the use?" he muttered.
"Sit down," Dr. Palmer told him. Millman stood before the chair, unable to decide.
"Please sit down," the therapist requested quietly.
Millman didn't move at first. Then he sat back down, a look of sullen accusation on his face. "I don't think you appreciate-" he began.
"I appreciate that you are going through one hell of an ordeal," Dr. Palmer broke in.
"But you don't believe a word I've said."
"David, use your head," the therapist replied. "Did you really think I would?"
Millman blew out tired breath.
"I suppose not," he conceded.
He had never in his life felt so divided in his mind-so torn between desire and dread.
On the one hand, he wanted the telephone to ring in his head so he could resolve this madness.
On the other hand, he was terror-stricken by what might happen if he answered it.
Easy enough for Palmer to repeat his conviction that it was his subconscious mind.
What if he was wrong?
Millman was thinking that for what might well have been the hundredth time when the telephone began to ring in his head.
He drew in a long, slow, chest-expanding breath of air, then let it out until his lungs felt empty. All right, he told himself.
The time had come.
He saw the handset in his mind. Saw his left hand pick it up. Almost felt the earpiece press against his head. "Yes," he said aloud.
"This is your father," the voice replied.
Millman answered, "No."
"What did you say?" The image of his father's face appeared in Millman's mind: thin-lipped, critical.
"You're not my father," he said.
"Who am I then?"
"I don't know," Millman answered desolately. "I just know you're not my father." Amazingly, he did know it now.
"You're right," the man's voice told him.
Millman started. Was this the beginning of some new ploy? he wondered. "Who are you then?" he demanded.
"This is a secret government project and I'm Agent 25409-J-" the man's voice started.
"Stop it," Millman said through clenched teeth. "Don't start that again. I won't have it."
"I'm an inventor," said the voice. "I've created a device that-"
"Stop it," Millman cut him off.
"Right," the man's voice said. "This is your father."
"Stop it, damn it!" Millman cried.
"Correct," the man's voice said. "I'm an earthbound spirit possessing you."
"God damn it, that's enough!" Millman shouted. He felt his heartbeat pound.
"Right," the man's voice said. "This is Krol. I'm speaking to you from the planet Mars."
"I'm hanging up," Millman said.
He imagined doing it.
"You can't hang up," the voice informed him. "It's too late for that."
Millman stiffened. "Yes, I can," he said. He tried again to put the handset down.
"I'm telling you," the voice said coldly. "You can't do it anymore."
Millman made a frightened sound and tried again.
"You should be frightened," said the voice.
"I'm going to kill you now."
Millman's body spasmed with a shudder. He slammed the handset down on its invisible cradle.
"I'm going to kill you now," the voice repeated.
"Get away from me," said Millman.
"Not so." The man's voice was one of cruel amusement. "You're mine now, little porker. Don't you know who this really is?"
"Get away from me," Millman's voice was trembling now.
"All right, I'll tell you who I am," the man's voice said. "I have many names. One of them is Prince of Liars. Isn't that a gas?"
Millman shook his head, teeth gritted hard. Again and again, he slammed down the unseen handset.
"You're wasting time, little porker," said the man's voice. "I'm in charge now. Want to hear some other names? Lord of Vermin. Prince of Sinners. Serpent. Goat. Old Nick. Old Davy! Isn't that a gas?!"
"Get away from me!" cried Millman. "I won't listen to you anymore!"
"Yes you will!" the voice cried back. "You're mine now and I'm going to kill you!" The maniacal laughter began again.
Millman reached for the vial of capsules.
"That won't do you any good," the man's voice told him gleefully. "You can't escape me now."
Millman didn't try to answer. Shaking uncontrollably, he picked the cap off, shaking two capsules onto his palm.
"Two?" the man's voice asked. "Not half enough, old man. You'll never get away from me. You're mine, I'm going to kill you dead."
The laughter started in again, booming in some cavern in his mind.
Millman washed a pair of capsules down his throat, water spilling across his chin.
"Not half enough!" the man's voice cried, exultantly. He continued laughing with demented joy.
Millman pressed another capsule in his mouth, another, washed them down.
"Not half enough!" the man's voice yelled at him. "You've let me in too long!"
Millman's palsied hand shoved capsules in his mouth. He washed them down. The glass was empty now. He gulped down capsules dry, his face a mask of terror.
"Secret government project!" howled the voice. "Inventor! Father! Earthbound spirit! Krol from Mars! The Devil! Take another capsule, David!"
Millman lay on his right side on the bed, legs drawn up, twitching. God, please take me out of here! he kept begging, sobbing helplessly.
"Your wish is my command," the voice said finally.
Inside his head, the telephone began to ring.
He lay in his bed, hands clasped behind his head, grinning at the sound.
Then he chuckled, picking up the handset in his mind. "Ye-es," he said musically.
"Please," the man's voice said.
"Please?" he said as though he didn't understand. "Please what?"
"Please let me back."
"Oh, no," he chided. "After all the trouble I went to? Keeping you so occupied you never dreamed what was coming? After all that work, you want me to let you back?"
His face became a mask of feral animosity.
"Never, asshole," he said. "You are out of here for good."
"No!" the man's voice cried.
He snickered. "Gotta go now, babe," he said.
He put the handset down, giggling as he visualized the look of shock on Davie's face. The little shit would try again of course, he knew.
While he waited for the ringing to begin, he made his plans for tomorrow.
First, a call to Elaine. Not another fucking nickel, bitch. And tell that pair of cretins you dropped not to bother me again.
As for Fitch-his eyes lit up-what sheer delight it was going to be to smash that ugly bastard in the mouth and stalk out on that nowhere job.
Then off to enjoy himself. Travel. Women. Fun. Women.
He'd worry about money when he ran out of it.
As for Palmer-he laughed aloud-the clever son of a bitch had it right all the time.
Now let him try to collect his bill!
He was cackling at the idea when the telephone began to ring in his head.
With a hissing smirk, he reached into his mind and yanked out all the wires. The ringing stopped abruptly. There, he thought.
He wouldn't need that line any more.
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