Page 150 of Devil Inside

All I can do is listen to myself, the machines connected to me, keeping me alive. This constant ache resonates through the rest of my body. I keep occupied by trying to pinpoint the pain.

Here’s a new game: Where is eachparticular discomfortcoming from?

That throbbing in my leg... Is it rooted in my tibia? Or fibula? Which broke?

That sting in my shoulder... Is that the clavicle? Or did the acromion snap?

See? So much fun. The options are endless.

That dull throb in my lower back? Is that—

Wait. Someone is standing behind the open door. I see the vague outline of their silhouette. Their head leans over by about an inch, maybe even less, peering out.

They’re looking right at me. Staring. All I see is one eye.

It’s red.

Sothis is a dream. Of course. I know it straight away. Nothing but a nightmare. Glad we got that out of the way. The best coping technique for bad dreams, I’ve found, is rationalization. I don’t live on ElmStreet,therefore I don’t have to fret over Freddy. Today is not Friday the 13th, so I won’t worry about Jason. This has been my defensive mechanism ever since I was a kid and I watchedThe Exorcistfor the very first time. Way too young.

You identify the hallmarks of the scary movie, compare them, pinpoint the differences between you and the film’s victims, and see how you differ.

Easy. Safe. Rationalization. Case closed.

Now I don’t have to be afraid.

The rules still apply as an adult. So... now that I know I’m just dreaming, I don’t have to worry so much about the shadow man behind the door, peering out at me with his one red eye. I even look away from him at some point. See? I’m not afraid. My attention simply drifts away from him, traveling over the ceiling above my hospital bed. He doesn’t scare me.

I don’t have to keep my eyes on him, this swarthy silhouette with the one red—

Oh. Sorry. Make that two red eyes.

The man just moved. Only by an inch or two. He’s no longer hiding his head behind the door. Now he’s completely peering out, his neck extending from behind the barricade.

That neck of hisactually looksa lot longer than it should. I can’t see where it connects to the rest of his body, whoever he is.

There’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder if he has a body at all. Maybe he’s just a head, all neck, a root of some sort, a stalk of some kind, growing out from the ground.

It’s getting hard to rationalize this man away. I’m running out of coping mechanisms. He’s not saying anything. Just staring back at me. Should I say something? Speak first?

Hello, it says—or, I think it says. I don’t see its lips move. “It.” It’s no longer a “he.” Its voice is all wet gravel, raspy. No inflection of gender. Just rasp. It could be anything, I don’t know anymore. There’s nothing human about it, even if it’s the height of a human being.

“Who are you?” I ask. My voice is dry, cracking. There’s a crust caking the corner of my lips.

You sound thirsty, it says. Again—the voice doesn’t reach across the room as much as resonate from within me, almost as if I’m hearing it speak from deep inside my head.

Would you like me to fetch you some water?

“I want you to tell me who you are.”

Oh. Just a visitor, passing through.

“Visiting hours are over.” There, see? Rationalization. This thing can’t be visiting me because the designated hours for receiving visitors at this hospital have come and gone for the day, obviously, therefore the nurse-on-call would have sent this entity the way it came, wherever it came from, telling it to try again tomorrow during the regular hours of operation.

The brushstroke of my respirator hisses, slides and skids, adding the faintest percussion to our conversation. I’m not one for smooth jazz, but the gauzy effect of the machine pushing its ventilated air through my body, breathing for me for these last few days, gives this moment a slightly sultry soundtrack. Not the exact type of music I would’ve picked for this particularnightmare, butso be it. Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

Wait a minute. Dream logic here... How am I talking if I have a tube down my throat?

The question distracts me. I blink twice, suddenly aware of the sensation of plastic funneling across my esophagus, pressing against my gullet, reaching down deep inside. There’s medical tape adhered to my lips, holding my respirator in place so I won’t spit it out.