Dark Planet: Imps

Jenise, a New Mexico native, teaches science in Boston and is a graduate of Clarion 1995.

Alan slid his card through the reader and pushed past the turnstile. He shrugged the collar of his coat closer to his neck and tried to decide whether he would be warmer pacing back and forth along the platform or huddling on the bench out of the wind. He decided on the bench. Selecting what looked like a well-sheltered corner, he settled himself, carefully to avoid tearing what remained of the lining to his coat. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement. He leaned forward, staring hopefully down the tracks, but there was no sign of a train. Sighing, he pulled his collar closer to his cheeks and sat back to wait.

Why couldn't I have found a job next to an indoor T-station? he wondered. The wind sweeping off the Charles River was persistently icy and found every hole and strained seam in his coat. His unprotected head was pink from the cold, and cold air seeped through his socks to chill his feet. He began listing off the things he would buy with his Christmas bonus: new coat, new socks, new shoes. He chuckled aloud to himself, listened to it echo in the empty station. New job, new wife, new apartment, new life. He started. There it was again, a faint shadow sliding beyond the range of his peripheral vision. He tried to follow it and failed. It had disappeared before he could turn his head.

Mice, he decided. Must be mice. Maybe they're spraying pesticide or, God forbid, cleaning the tracks at Park Street. The mice are coming out from there. He settled back into his huddle. There, another one, just registering at the edge of his vision as a small, fuzzy blob. It vanished as he turned his head to the tracks again. The bridge began to rattle and creak as the train crept over it and pulled into the station. Alan hopped through the doors as soon as they opened and dropped into a seat.

He caught one last glimpse of movement before the doors closed, and he surrendered himself to the rhythm of his ride home.

Alan got off at South Station and walked the few blocks to his apartment. Shadows followed him along the street. Fucking rats. He turned to kick a can at them, but they had already scurried out of view. He climbed the steps to the front door of t he duplex and shoved the door open. The lock hadn't worked in years. The door to his apartment was scarred and graffitied. He rattled the key in its lock and cajoled the door open, slamming it shut after him and sliding the dead bolt home. Passing the door to the room he kept in case his son ever wanted to visit, he shuffled down the short hallway to the kitchen.

The fridge was nearly empty. Alan settled for a bologna and mustard sandwich and a beer. He was rummaging through the silverware drawer for a butter knife when he saw motion off beside the fridge.

Fucking mice in my house, now, he thought. He grabbed the broom and jabbed behind the refrigerator, trying to drive the mouse out, but nothing appeared. Must've gone through a hole in the wall. He put the broom back in its corner. I'll get traps tomorrow.

He couldn't get to sleep. All night, he kept imagining mice in his kitchen, rats in his bedroom, small rodent feet creeping up his sheets to gnaw at his toes. He finally gave up trying to sleep around six and stumbled into the shower. He nearly trippe d getting out -- a mouse-shadow had slipped under the sink, distracting him. He dressed in a clean uniform, slid the gun into its holster, the stick in its ring, and went searching for his hat. An hour later, he was late for work, and he still couldn't find the damned hat. He went to work bare headed and cold.

"Hey, Alan, you're late," Holly called to him over the ER desk.

"Couldn't find my hat," Alan said.

"Well, here it is," she said, pointing at the coat rack. His hat hung there, mocking him. "You must've forgotten it last night."

"Yeah," he said, putting it on. "I guess I did."

"Jesus, you look like shit, Alan," Holly said, typing. Her red hair bobbed as she smiled up at him. Alan thought he could see a mouse sneaking around behind her desk.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he told her. He punched his time card. "Take it easy," he said, and headed for the emergency room lobby. All night, as the accident victims and the overdoses and the battered children poured through the doors, he saw mice sneaking in with them.

Holly was gone by the time his shift was over. He wished her replacement, Miranda, a good night as he punched out. Alan walked up the street towards the river and climbed the overpass to the T-station. He kept flinching away from rat shadows. He could hear them rustling through the frozen autumn leaves.

A woman with greasy brown hair and a tattered overcoat stood near the center of the platform. She leaned on one leg, then the other, watching him push through the turnstile, then darting her eyes about. As Alan sat down in his corner again, she seemed to come to a decision and walked up to him.

"You see them, too, don't you," she said in a low, quiet voice.

"What?" Alan said, surprised.

"I can tell by the way you look. You can see them." She began alternating feet again.

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Dora," she said, rocking from side to side. "I saw you in the emergency room. Looking in the corners and under the chairs in the lobby."

Alan remembered her. She had come in with a severe knife wound to her hand. Cut herself making dinner, she had said. "I remember," he told her.

"Do you see them?" she asked. "The imps?"

"Imps? No, I haven't seen any imps."

"Yes, you have," she insisted. "You can never quite see them. They're off behind you before you can turn around. All you can get is a glimpse, like a fuzzy shadow, right at the corner of your eye." She gestured around her, her left hand wound with ba ndages.. "They're all over, it's just they're too sneaky for most folks to see. 'Cept people like you and me."

Alan had begun to sweat. "I thought they were mice." He twitched as another one ran under the bench.

"They look kinda like mice, but they're not," Dora said, sitting next to him. "They follow you everywhere, trying to drive you crazy. They steal things and move things around so you can't find them."

"There ain't no such thing as imps," Alan said loudly.

"Yes, there are," she said. "You watch and see."

The train came, and they both got on, not speaking. The mice got on, too. Dora got off at Park Street, leaving Alan alone to try to catch sight of the mice under the seats, to see if they were imps.

When he got home, he couldn't find his keys. He had to wake up the landlord to get into his apartment. He was sure he had forgetten them at work, but in the back of his mind, he could hear Dora whispering They took them. They're trying to drive you crazy. You'll see. He didn't bother eating. There were mice in the fridge, too. That night, he dropped into an exhausted sleep. He dreamt that Dora had captured an imp. She carried it triumphantly into the emergency room, but it bit deep into her hand and escaped.

The next morning, Alan couldn't find his keys. He had to ask his landlord to lock his door for him. His landlord grumbled a lot, leaving Alan in a bad mood. He got to the hospital and immediately plunged into the worst gang war in recent Boston history. Of the twenty-three kids who came in on stretchers, six were already dead, and four more died on the operating tables. A few of them were girls, not even out of their teens. Throughout the nightmare of helping carry stretchers, keeping the hall way clear, controlling angry brothers and aunts and cousins, the mice came strolling in, and the rats danced around the legs of the chairs.

When Alan ended his shift, he discovered that he had forgotten to punch in. Miranda set the clock back for him, and then handed him his keys. Someone had found them in the men's room. He could not remember leaving them. Before he left, he made an appo intment to see one of the resident doctors, just to be safe. When he got to the T-Station, Dora was there, waiting.

"You've seen them, haven't you," she said. Alan nodded, and she smiled. "I knew it. What'd they do? Burn your toast? Steal one of your socks?"

"They stole my keys," he said. "I looked like a fool. My landlord was so pissed."

"It gets worse," she said, stepping up to him. "They trip you out of spite, make you slip up on your work. They'll distract you so you forget things."

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "Yeah, I forgot to punch in today."

"You see! You see!" Dora danced a little, then lowered her voice. "They won't believe you."

"Who?"

"People. Just because they can't see the imps, they don't believe they're there."

Alan said, "I wouldn't have believed you if I hadn't seen them."

"They might even try to lock you away. That's what the imps want." She shook her limp hair. "They want to drive you crazy."

"What can we do?" Alan asked.

"Watch them. Follow them." Dora's voice became insistent. "If you can catch one, you can prove they exist. Then people will do something about them."

Alan nodded. The train came, and they rode in conspiratorial silence.

That night, Alan dreamed that the mice had broken his windows, and the rats had gnawed through the door. They assembled in a ring around his bed, staring up at him with their red, beady eyes, judging him, planning: how will we get him? How will we driv e him insane?

Alan overslept and came in to work flushed from running.

"Where's your tie?" Holly asked him as he punched in. Alan looked down. His usual black tie was conspicuously absent.

"I overslept," he told her. "I guess I must have forgotten." He punched in.

"Hey," Holly said, "you punched in twice."

"Oh, sorry," Alan said. "I'm just not with it yet, you know?"

"Yeah, well, the weekend's almost here," Holly said soothingly. "Don't worry about the card. I'll write a note on it for the morons in accounting."

"Thanks," Alan told her, and began his patrol of the emergency room lobby.

The mice were everywhere. They peeked out of ladies' handbags. They hid behind shoes and trash cans. They slunk in and out through the shadows of the emergency entrance doorway. The drunks and the victims drifted in one by one, but the rats swarmed in mobs. Finally, Alan couldn't stand it any more. He began stalking a mouse towards the corner opposite the entrance. As he got closer, he pulled out his stick. He'd show people these imps were real.

"Alan?"

Alan turned. "Yes, Doctor Meyer?" he said.

"You made an appointment to see me, and I have a few minutes free. Want to come in?" Dr. Meyer looked at him curiously.

"Sure." Alan put his stick away and followed the doctor into his small office next to the reception desk.

"Sit down," the doctor said, closing the door.

Alan sat.

"All right," the doctor said, seating himself. "What's the problem? I've noticed that you've been sort of preoccupied lately."

"I haven't been sleeping well," Alan said, fidgeting.

"Yes, I see that," Meyer told him. "I'm a little concerned."

"You think I might be sick?" Alan said, relieved.

"Do you?" the doctor said. "Roll up your sleeve, please."

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know." Alan realized he was shaking. "I keep seeing mice."

"When?" The doctor wrapped a pressure cuff around Alan's arm and began pumping.

"All the time. Everywhere."

"You've been a little forgetful, lately, too." He checked the gauge. "You're a little high, Alan, but not bad." He took the cuff off.

"Then, I'm okay?" Alan asked.

"I'm not sure," Dr. Meyer said. "When did you start having problems?"

Alan thought back. "Tuesday night."

"Tuesday," the doctor repeated. "Oh, yes. That was the night we got the rat-bite victim."

"The what?" Alan asked.

"Don't you remember?" the doctor asked. "It was a little boy, about seven years old. Evan, I think. A rat had gotten into his bed and gave him some pretty vicious bites. You held him and told him stories while we gave him the rabies shots."

Alan shook his head. "I don't remember."

"You said he reminded you of your son." At Alan's blank face, the doctor sighed. "I'd like to run some blood tests."

"What for?" Alan asked.

"I just want to check a few things," Dr. Meyer told him as he prepared a syringe. "Oh, and leave me a urine sample, too."

Alan started. "You testing me for drugs? I don't take no drugs, Doc. I'm clean."

Dr. Meyer came over to him. "I know, Alan, and I don't think you're on drugs. I just want to check for certain diseases."

"What kinda diseases?"

"Don't worry. It's just routine." Dr. Meyer probed Alan's elbow and shoved the needle home.

"So?" Alan asked through gritted teeth. "When do I find out?"

Dr. Meyer pulled out the needle and taped some gauze over the cut. "I'll let you know when the results come back."

A nurse opened the door and stuck her head in. "Emergency, Dave," she said, breathless. "Toxic shock."

"Coming," Dr. Meyer said. "I'll talk to you again in a week, Alan." He pushed his way out the door, pulling on gloves as he went.

Alan started to follow him, but a mouse had made its way onto the doctor's desk. He very carefully sidled over, not looking at it, but when he turned to grab the mouse, it was gone. An open folder lay on the desk labeled STRICKLAND, ALAN. He picked it up and glanced over the barely readable notes.

"Behavior and Observations: Mr. Strickland has exhibited increased distraction and nervousness over the past two months. He frequently forgets small personal items or recent instructions. He is easily frustrated and often scrubs at his eyes when frustrated. He has been noticed glancing over his shoulder and twitching as if in response to unseen stimulus.

"Mood/Emotional State: Mr. Strickland exhibits nervousness bordering on paranoia. He shows symptoms of depression and anxiety."

Below that, underlined, Alan read, "Alzheimer's? Patient in correct age group. Blood test may verify."

Alan nodded, but he was thinking They will try to drive you crazy, they will try to drive you crazy. He set the folder down and left the office. He was sure mice were swarming over it before the door shut.

After his shift, he waited at the station for Dora. He let three trains go by, but she never came. The mice played around him, weaving between his frozen feet, skidding down the ice coating the shelter roof. Mocking him. Alan gave up and took the next train home. That night, Alan dreamed that Curtis had come home for a visit. As his son slept, the rats swarmed into his bedroom. They turned into tiny men with long fingers and pointed hats who lifted up the bed, carrying Curtis out of the apartment and away from Alan forever. He woke up screaming.

The next day, before he left, he made certain he had everything: hat, gloves, tie, keys, everything. He concentrated hard on ignoring the mice shadows all the way to the train station and all the way to the Charles stop and all the way to the hospital. When he came in, Miranda was sitting in Holly's place.

"Hey, Miranda," he said, reaching for his card. "Is Holly sick today or something?"

Miranda stared at him. "Alan, what're you doing here? It's Saturday, your day off and Holly's, too."

Alan looked at his time card. Miranda was right. He had last punched out on Friday. The punchholes looked like tiny teeth marks. "Geez," he told her. "I guess I just lost track."

Miranda smiled at him. "I did that, once," she said. "Well, since you're up so bright and early, why don't you go get some Christmas shopping done?"

He had forgotten about Christmas.

"Thanks," he told her. "I think I'll do that." He put the card back in its slot. "See ya later, Miranda," he said and left the hospital. The mice left him alone all the way to the hospital, but they were waiting for him at the train station with Dora.

For once, the station wasn't empty. At that early hour, holiday shoppers were out braving the cold. Dora wove her way through them, darting little looks over her shoulder now and then. As she came up to Alan, he could see red scratch marks under her eyes.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "I knew it. They tried to kill me last night." She ran her hands over her face. Alan saw blood under her fingernails. "See? They tried to take my eyes out so I couldn't find them anymore."

Alan looked at her. There was a mouse in her matted hair, he was sure of it, but he tried to ignore it. In a low voice, he said, "No, Dora. There ain't no imps."

"What?" she said, startled.

"I'm sick, Dora," he told her. "I've got Alzheimer's. That's why I keep seeing mice. I'm sick."

A mouse appeared over her left ear. It must have bitten her because she jerked back, away from him.

"Traitor," she whispered. Then she flung her head back, jerking the mouse out of sight. "Traitor!" she screamed, her voice high and shrill. Shoppers turned to stare at them. "I should have known you'd betray me. Doctor's spy! They got you, Alan. The imps got you."

He repeated, "There ain't no imps. There ain't, and you know it."

Dora turned and ran from him. He dashed after her, but the mice had come out. They darted between the other commuters' legs, trying to trick him into tripping. Alan felt confused, and he hated the stares people kept giving him. Dora pushed through the turnstile and darted away. He hesitated, wondering if he should go after her. There ain't no imps. He turned back to the platform. The train was coming in.

In the morning, Alan searched for his uniform, but he couldn't find it. He thought he might have left it at the cleaners, but he couldn't find his hat either, and his club and pistol were missing, too. Mice had been there in the night, he could tell. The living room had clothing and empty food wrappers strewn all over it. As usual, the mice had eaten everything in the refrigerator. Alan chose clothes that looked most like his uniform and put them on. He wore a battered baseball cap and hoped it woul d do. He couldn't find his keys, so he left his front door open and headed out to South Station.

Not two steps out the door, a mouse bit his foot. He took another step and felt another bite. Angry, he shook his feet, trying to shoo them away, and fell on the ice into a snowbank. The snow was higher than he remembered. Must've had a storm last night, he thought. He picked himself up and started walking again. The mice came swarming out of the snow, nipping and gnawing at his feet. He kicked at them occasionally, fell two more times, and finally made it to the station.

He couldn't find his pass, so he dug change out of his pocket and paid for a token. The other passengers stared at him as he shuffled down the platform. A train pulled in, and he got on. The mice were waiting on the seats. He brushed some off and sat down. They bit his toes occasionally. He ignored them.

The train pulled up at the Charles stop, and Alan stumbled off. The mice greeted him there even more viciously, biting deeply. He walked as quickly as he could to the hospital, falling only once. He adjusted his cap carefully before walking through the emergency room doors.

He went up to Holly and said, "Hey, Holly. I'm sorry I'm late. I couldn't find my uniform." He looked for his time card, but it was missing. Mice nipped his heels.

Slowly, Holly said, "Alan, you don't work here anymore. You haven't worked here for two months." Then she looked down at his feet. "Oh, Jesus. Stretcher!" she cried.

Alan looked down. His feet were purple and bleeding in several places. He realized that shoes would have protected his feet from the mice. He started to explain, but by then, nurses had come up and bundled him onto a stretcher. He knew their names, but he couldn't remember them.

Two days later, Dr. Meyer walked into his hospital room. "Hello, Alan," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, Dr. Meyer." Alan tried to wiggle his toes, but he couldn't feel them anymore. "I'm sure I'll be able to go back to work in a few days."

Dr. Meyer smiled. "That's okay, Alan. There's no hurry. You've got a visitor, though."

"Is it Dora?" Alan asked.

"No," said Dr. Meyer, frowning. "Your son, Curtis, just arrived today."

Alan sat up. "Curtis, here?" He broke into a grin. "Where is he?"

The doctor turned to the door. "Curtis, you can come in now."

A tall young man walked in. "Hi, Dad," he said. "How're you doing?"

"What is this?" said Alan. "Where's Curtis?"

The stranger frowned. "Dad, I'm right here."

"You ain't Curtis!" Alan yelled. Mice rustled in his bedsheets. "My son's just twelve years old. Where's my son? Bring me my son!"

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