Paranoiac

  Copyright © 2015 by Attikus Absconder. All rights reserved. This eBook or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Isaac, a thirty something novelist awakens from a hellish nightmare only to find himself lost inside of his childhood home. With no memories of how he got there; Isaac compulsively searches for answers through his fragmented, tortured life. The only problem is, Isaac may not be alone.

  Chapters

  Prologue

  Journal Entry One

  Journal Entry Two

  Journal Entry Three

  Journal Entry Four

  Journal Entry Five

  Journal Entry Six

  Journal Entry Seven

  Journal Entry Eight

  Journal Entry Nine

  Journal Entry Ten

  Journal Entry Eleven

  Journal Entry Twelve

  Journal Entry Thirteen

  Journal Entry Fourteen

  Journal Entry Fifteen

  Journal Entry Sixteen

  Journal Entry Seventeen

  Journal Entry Eighteen

  Journal Entry Nineteen

  Journal Entry Twenty

  Journal Entry Twenty One

  Journal Entry Twenty Two

  Journal Entry Twenty Three

  Journal Entry Twenty Four

  Journal Entry Twenty Five

  Journal Entry Twenty Six

  Journal Entry Twenty Seven

  Journal Entry Twenty Eight

  Journal Entry Twenty Nine

  Journal Entry Thirty

  Journal Entry Thirty One

  Journal Entry Thirty Two

  Journal Entry Thirty Three

  Journal Entry Thirty Four

  Contact the Author

  Contact the Artist

  Prologue

  I lay in bed staring through the grand windows in front of me - like I tend to before drifting into a sweet, deep sleep - enjoying the cool spring night as the trees sway back and forth. This had always comforted me, almost as much as the moon. "No moon tonight," I murmured softly. This meant no calming, pale, white light casting long, dramatic shadows into my room. How I wished there was a full moon tonight, it’s tendrils of ethereal light licking the star speckled sky, calling. No reaching out for me and only me. Oh, how I longed for that full moon, my partner in crime, my spectral mistress.

  I sat in bed unable to sleep, staring blankly at the few posters on my wall that remained from my teenage years. And it suddenly dawned on me the terrible taste in music I had in those long ago adolescent years. All of this felt like some horrible window into my past. Hours passed and my mind raced while I sat in the dark. I couldn’t help but listen to the cracks and moans of the old house. It’s as if the room was trying to sing me an eerie lullaby with its chorus of shifting wood and electrical clicks.

  I found myself drawn to the other side of the room. I sat for a long while staring and studying the shadows that must have engulfed half of the room. Shadows so dark they seemed almost tangible, like thick, black curtains draped and sprawled against the walls and floor. I started to feel unsettled and uncomfortable in my little sanctuary. Gradually becoming paranoid like a child staring into a closet terrified of what might be behind the door, or in my case, the darkness. I sat up wide awake intensely gazing into the corporeal void and I had a sneaking suspicion that it stared right back at me. "Why do these shadows feel so menacing?" I asked myself inwardly.

  "Possibly the unknown?" The darkness replied with a deep, calm voice.

  "Who was that?" I yelled out only to be answered by the swaying elm trees that knocked against my red bordered window. I sat paralyzed, my entire body tense. Sweat was rolling down my brow and soaking into my t-shirt. Everything in my room became monstrous; my large red oak desk stared back at me with seething malice. The books sitting inside the glass case of my bookshelf whispered deviously behind my back. I imagined my old oriental rug slithering across the wood floor and underneath my bed. I leered at the old posters and convinced myself that they were crawling like caterpillars across my walls and ceiling. My eyes were open so wide my vision seemed to vibrate with fear. Sweat dripped from every pore of my body causing me to kick off the heavy blankets. Once again I felt like a helpless child.

  "Hello?" I finally called out, feeling stupid yet relieved when only silence answered me. Again, I sat in bed for what seemed like an eternity before I finally convinced myself that the voice was all in my sleep-deprived head. Groggily, I started to slip into a comfortable daze. The darkness seemed to enclose around me. Only a thin layer of soft light illuminated my bed. Just as I was slipping into sleeps' sweet, warm embrace I heard his deep velvet laughter emanating from the shadows.

  I quickly jolted awake. The laughter decayed slowly but the damage had been done. “Show yourself you coward!" I proclaimed trying to sound firm and threatening. Again, there was nothing but silence. I sat rigid, staring into the shadows without blinking. A rattling noise came from across the room. A low hum was ringing in my ears as I perched quietly in my bed. Then, as if in slow motion a large, ornate chair scraped and screeched across the wood floor peeling up the rug as it pushed closer to my bed. The chair stopped at the foot of my bed with a mind of its own. My body started to shake uncontrollably in a pool of my own sweat. I was speechless at the spectacle in front of me, my thoughts erratic and non-sensible, again the soft laughter ensued.

  I violently backed up against my head board smacking my skull on the hard wood, fear numbing the pain. Pale white hands morphed out of the thick, noxious shadows and grabbed the top of the chair, "Why are you so afraid of us Isaac?" It endearingly asked me.

  "Who the hell are you!?" I demanded trying to sound authoritative and demanding with my quivering voice.

  The ghastly figure quaked with its thick, smooth laughter, "That's no way to talk to yourself! Have you no respect?"

  "Get out! Leave me alone!" I choked out before the pale creature began its deep chuckling again.

  Silently and slowly the ghastly figure emerged from the dark, smoky miasma and situated itself into the chair. “NO! NO!" I screamed, terrified and immobilized by what I saw before me.

  “Oh yes! Yes!" he mocked back, his shoulders bouncing up and down as he chuckled. The room started to distort strangely around him and the humming ring in my ears escalated.

  My mouth dropped open, tears oozing from my eyes, "But how is this even possible?" He smiled crookedly and then in an instant it morphed into a grimace.

  “It just is, Isaac!" He remarked, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Do we really have to go through this again? Or have you forgotten you silly boy!"

  “But how can you be me?" My teeth chattered as I stared back at what I could only describe as my pasty skinned twin. "It's impossible! Who are you?"

  “I am you. We are Isaac. Do we really have to do this again?" He repeated.

  "But - but? No!" I stuttered out.

  “Oh poor us... It doesn't really matter they'll be coming to get us soon anyhow," He said, relaxing into the chair and crossed his legs. I watched as he played with his auburn hair that he stole from me.

  "Who's coming to get us?" I questioned my pallid brother taking into note that he wore the same boxers and t-shirt as I.

  "Well Isaac we've gone and done it!" The deviant doppelganger stood up from his chair and quickly grabbed my shoulders with a tight grip. His hands where cold like ice and as hard as stone, “I’m so proud of us! We finally did something we'll be remembered for! We should celebrate!"

  He began shaking me back and forth effortlessly, his grip too powerful for me to fight off. “Leave me alone! Why can't you just go awa
y! I hate you! I always have!" I screamed out while kicking back at my sickly, death-like imitation.

  “I’ll always be stronger than you silly boy! You ridiculous boy!" His cackling embedded a look of complete terror on my face as he continued to shake my body. The murky, black darkness formed horrifically morbid faces as it whirl-winded around my bed, closing in on me. My screams were being drowned out by the pallid creatures' roaring laughter that was now being joined by thousands of contorted expressions trapped in this smoggy whirlwind. Lost in blackness, my senses became violated by images of deformed and distorted countenances. My ears echoed with pin pricks of pain from the sounds of crying women, children and unintelligible screams of anger from men. But above all else was his laughter. Abruptly I lost all sense of up and down; I became weightless and then there was silence.

  Journal Entry One

  I awaken suddenly in a cold sweat. A dream? Yes, a dream. Thank god, it was only that. Night after night since I was a child I have had these dreams. The only thing that they have in common is that pale, white skinned double of mine. This dream has me more troubled than any of the others, but what really has me troubled now are my surroundings. I seem to be in my family’s excessively large and beautiful vacation home. I haven’t been here since my teenage years. How did I get here and why can’t recall a single thing? The last thing I can remember was talking on the phone with an old friend back in Chicago but it’s all so fuzzy. Even more disturbing is the fact that the room in which I sit is the very same room from my horrid little dream. In fact as I write in this journal I seem to be sitting at the very oak desk from the dream. I inspected the ornate drawers of this red oak, Victorian era desk and found a large notebook filled with paper and a few pens. I sit here dictating my thoughts only to make sense of them. I have so many questions that need to be answered and this is the best way I can ensure that. My hands are shaking, my body is tired and sore but I can’t remember why and it’s maddening. I swear I will not leave until I make sense of it all.

  After a long moment of pondering I decided to inspect the room, my room. I quickly realized that the room in which I awoke was the same room I stayed in as a child. My old posters of long forgotten bands were curled and tacked to the walls near my old four poster bed. I hated this house as a kid. It was so extravagant; the Victorian architecture didn’t match its modern interior. My parents always wanted to buy the biggest and best even if they barely used it. This towering three story home had seven rooms, four closets, two kitchens, a spacious wine cellar and four bathrooms. Mom and Dad were always about luxury. They bought this monstrous place as a summer home. I hated how unnecessarily large this place was for only the three of us. Yet, with all of our money not once did we ever hire any maids or caretakers to help us with cleaning, cooking or repairs. Not even when mother got sick. After I turned eighteen I ran away to Chicago and stopped talking to them. They hated how I decided to become a writer rather than a lawyer or doctor. I guess I was the only thing they couldn’t control or buy. I especially ran away because of my father. He was an awful bitter man who swallowed more alcohol than air. Every time the man was drunk he would wail on me and he was always drunk. Oh well, Mom is dead and Dad is surely on his way to reunite with her, it’s all very sad but that’s life. I do regret not talking to Mom one last time though but C'est la vie.

  Upon further inspection I found a duffel bag. It was obviously mine, one of my many conglomerate bought commodities. It contained nothing but toiletries and a few days worth of clothing; nothing of interest. My bag wasn’t hiding any deep dark secrets or clues that led to any wonderful conclusions to how I got here. I quickly changed my clothes and decided to freshen up a bit before exploring the rest of the house.

  I casually walked out of my room at the end of the long hallway and down towards the bathroom. I noticed that a rug was missing from the wood floor but then again it had been years since I’d been here. (Maybe it was tossed aside or moved downstairs?) I walked slowly down the hall noticing small differences in the corridor, how the walls were now painted a dark red with a cream colored trim rather than the dark and light blue hues with the white trim it had once been. I actually kind of liked it better this way; it gave the paintings on the wall a more alluring charm. The soft yellow bulbs gave the hallway a relaxing feel to it.

  I looked out of the windows leading towards the bathroom and realized that, although the inside of this home has changed the outside was still the same. Large oak trees, old fountains and the circular, gravel-peppered driveway that was directly in front of the house. How old was this house? Come to think of it, I guess I never cared. But I must admit it seemed like this vacation home was growing on me. Maybe because it didn’t resemble the ugly monster it had been in my childhood. I stood in front of the large, curtained window for a long while just day-dreaming and staring out into the forest. I noticed that there were several cars in the driveway. “So I’m not alone,” I muttered to myself hoping that someone could explain why I was here.

  I tore myself away from the window and entered the spacious bathroom with its large mirror, marbled counter-tops and its giant bath tub. My boots made soft squeaking noises on the marble-tiled floor as I approached the mirror. I just stood there staring at my reflection. I looked terrible. My olive green eyes had deep, purple hued bags under them; dirt smudges were all across my face, which was pale in color. My thin lips were cracked and dry and my shaggy auburn hair was matted across my forehead. I looked fifty years old rather than thirty. I must have had a great night. Immediately I approached the sink and washed my face with hot water, scrubbing the dirt off of my cheeks and forehead.

  After throwing some water in my hair, I wiped away the fog on the mirror and was utterly shocked by my reflection. The terrifying white skinned man in my dreams was staring back at me. He looked almost exactly like me but he had a cruel, unforgiving look in his eyes. I frantically rubbed my eyes and wiped away at the mirror in a panic. When I looked back at my reflection the illusion was gone, it was my own image once more. That ghastly face had left me trembling. “It’s all in your head, this house just has you spooked is all,” I said trying to reclaim my composure. After having a dream as lucid as last nights, who can blame me for being so frightened? (Other than myself of course.)

  Journal Entry Two

  I finished grooming myself and tossed the toiletries back into my room. I decided to take the house apart piece by piece until I found whatever I was looking for. But what the hell am I looking for? Is there a mystery or am I just going mad? Surely that is the reason why I am dictating all of this in such great pointless detail. I would feel moronic if all of my worries amounted to nothing but a night of heavy drinking with old friends.

  I pulled myself out of thought long enough to account for five doors. If I remember correctly two of those doors only lead to closets. Walking briskly and impatiently I move down the mellow hallway and approached the first door. It was slightly ajar. I peeked into the room and suddenly heard movement. I promptly pushed the door open to find nothing. It was merely an open window, the wind lazily tossing the curtains about. The room had a twin bed and a dresser with a large, empty frame where a mirror used to be.

  I closed the window and headed to the next four doors finding two linen closets and two more plain rooms both with empty frames where mirrors used to be. One of the rooms had obviously been recently used. The bed was a mess and several of the dresser drawers were pulled open. Whoever was in this room had left in a big hurry or was extremely sloppy. I felt like a detective standing here scribbling all of my findings and thoughts inside of this cheap journal. I only had two more floors to investigate, the upstairs and the ground level. Hopefully I find something soon before I become bored of all of this and just leave.

  Then my prayers and wishful thinking were answered. I found a dusty bottle of scotch on the oak night stand next to the disheveled bed. I picked it up and grinned as I wiped off the dust and took a big gulp. “UGH!” I loudly grunted as I forced
myself to swallow the extremely cheap liquor. I cleared my throat as the liquid fire seared my esophagus and then warmed my chest. Better than nothing, I figured. And what kind of writer would I be without a lovely drinking habit? Oh, the irony, being the son of a terrible alcoholic only to become a writer whose main inspiration is the bottle. Why couldn’t I pick up a more interesting habit? Like a heroin addiction or a problem with prostitutes? At least then I would have much better things to write about instead of fantasy stories based on my angst ridden past.

  I found the old wooden stair case that lead to the top floor and immediately realized that the large Oriental rug was missing from these stairs as well. A rectangular square of dust was the only clue to its existence. It is very odd indeed. I continued my way upstairs and found a much smaller hallway with only two bedrooms and a bathroom. I walked near the first room, stopping quickly and looked through the giant bay windows across from the two rooms. The windows gave me a great view of the property, including the gardens and the giant pool that had a slide and a small, stone waterfall. I gazed out the window with a glassy look in my eyes, noticing how the entire property was drowning in fog. It seemed to have a life of its own – hiding in the woods watching, waiting from a distance to drag me into the abyss kicking and screaming.

  Taking a small gulp of my engine degreaser, I was suddenly struck with an old childhood memory. I remembered how much this top floor made my skin crawl, how I hated this place. Late at night, I would come up these stairs to see my father staring out of the windows, drunk and muttering to himself. One night he had seen me spying on his drunken ramblings and had started yelling at me, telling me how my mothers' inevitable death was my fault. What father says things like that to his children? I took a large terrible gulp of the scotch and realized I was whining to an audience of one, myself. Why am I writing of such memories? What can I say? You give a writer a pen and they won’t stop writing until the bottle runs dry.