Hostage

Everything is dubiously inconspicuous.

This is a chapter from I Hear You Watching, my novel based on my experience with hearing voices and paranoia.

But you can jump in here! The “previously on” will get you up to speed.

Previously on I Hear You Watching…

Alex hears strangers mocking him wherever he goes. The observers can measure his heart rate and influence his bodily functions. After a harrowing night in which he “glitched” chips in his ears with a magnet, paid an unwelcome visit to Lili, and blew up at strangers in McDonald’s, he rushed to his friend Gavin’s, got some much-needed sleep, and confessed to Gavin some of what’s been happening. He returned to work that night, and the voices followed, watching from the office next door.

When I arrive at Gavin’s in the morning, he mentions the camping trip.

“If you’re up for it, we’ll go tonight when Eli and I get off work.”

“I’m definitely up for it,” I say.

“You’re sure? We can totally call it off and stay here instead. I didn’t tell Eli anything, but he’d understand.”

“No, I’d like to get away a bit.”

“Cool. You can go pack your stuff today and be here when I get back?”

Right, what was I thinking? He doesn’t have an extra pair of boots in my size, nor an extra pack. I have to go home to get my own things.

“Sure,” I say, “Absolutely.” Then I think about it. “When’re you packing?”

He points at his pack leaned against the wall. “Done last night while you were at work. I knew you’d say yes.” He winks and hands me his apartment key. “Lock up when you go.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be very careful.”

---

Climbing the stairs to my apartment I’ve got the hammer at my side, gripped tight but swinging, casual, as if on its way back to the toolbox.

I stare at the door like an actor in the wings. This is my cue, don’t miss it. My neighbors watch through their windows like stagehands gripping the curtain ropes, waiting to pull.

I unlock the door and push. But the door doesn’t make its familiar unsticking sound.

A slideshow of reasons flickers by—they forced the door, so now it doesn’t close the same; they replaced the door with one that looks exactly like mine, but it’s packed with audiovisual sensors or an amplifier for the signal from my chip; they booby-trapped the door with something wedged in the frame, triggered by— But a booby trap has gone off, a tiny explosion: four strips of paper, each dyed a different color—red, yellow, green, blue—spin and swoop and settle on the floor.

“Some trap, ya fuckin’ idiot!”

“What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

I hadn’t thought it through.

“Hope you kept that card you made, you fucking psycho, so you can check your super-duper secret code!”

The card is in my pocket. But now that the strips have fallen it’s impossible to know whether they were still in the correct order. They could have come here, but I’ll never know.

“Yeah, check the colors! Are they in the right order, Alex, you stupid fuck?”

But I know they’ve been here, because everything looks as I left it—in a suspicious way, as if all the objects in the room are holding their breath, hoping I won’t notice that something’s amiss.

I hold my breath too, and listen for the thump of footsteps or the swish of socks. The place is small; I’ll only hear a couple of steps before they reach me. I raise the hammer.

Behind the coat closet door I find coats. I plunge the hammer into them to make sure. Then I close and lock the front door.

Had I left the blinds open that much? I would’ve closed them. They probably cracked them to signal to each other between our windows. In the strips of daylight I see a sprinkle of sugar I missed around the base of the couch. There are bits of broken plastic on the floor and the kitchen counter. The carcass of the smoke detector still lies in the sink.

Footsteps keep almost rushing in from the bedroom and bathroom.

I push the bathroom door until the knob hits the wall. I peer into the tub. Nobody crouches there. They’ll knock me into the tub. It’s the ideal place to beat me to death, because the blood will rinse down the drain.

I anticipate them charging from the bedroom now, over and over again, hands held high or low, lunging headfirst, brandishing a gun or a bat, face snarling, face screaming, face laughing, the face I recognize from next door, a face I’ve never seen, a face I maybe saw but couldn’t remember where, a face smeared by a nylon stocking. My hammer hand twitches.

Did I hear the front door open and close? Are they waiting in the entryway to slip out? If they have a key, they can lock it behind them and I’ll never know.

But I have to check the bedroom first because they’re probably hiding in there, praying I’ll have these exact thoughts and go re-check the front door. Instead, I’m closing in.

“We’ve been doing this a long time,” one says quietly, not to me. “I’m exhausted, Alex is exhausted, and I can tell you’re exhausted. Let’s just stop.”

“Stop? And lose all our progress? Are you nuts?”

I push the bedroom door until it hits the wall.

“What progress? He’s terrified of leaving his apartment, and terrified of staying home. What more can we do? We’re just gonna keep this up forever?”

“That’s what we agreed.”

The dim morning bedroom looks like someone else’s room. The foil is silent because the window is closed. On my desk, the origami stars are still in their chaotic constellation around my laptop.

“No, that’s just what we told him. I had no intention of doing this forever.”

I crouch to look under the bed, listening for the closet to open, anticipating the flash of a gunshot from under the bed into an ankle or foot. Then my eye. Only vague dust bunnies in the dark.

“Shut up,” the other says. “Now.”

I open the closet from the side.

“Alex, can you hear us?”

Nobody rushes out. I lean forward, search for swatches of unfamiliar fabric between my own hanging clothes. I thrust the hammer in, ready for the dull thud of a ribcage or the squish of a stomach.

Or the flash and crack of a gun into my body or face.

“Alex. Can you hear us.”

I say, “What did you do here? Poison my food? Plant a gas bomb?”

“We did all of those things. And we’re doing the same at your friend Gavin’s place. Better hope you trigger our trap before he does. Wouldn’t you feel terrible if you caused the death of your best friend?”

I check the rooms for footprints, anything. But everything is dubiously inconspicuous. And I’d been so distracted before I left, I don’t have memories to compare.

Quiet again, not to me: “We have to stop.”

“We will never stop.”

“So this is the rest of our lives? Shouting at him while he tries to ignore us? At work? At home? On dates? At his wedding we’ll make him fuck up his vows or trip while he’s dancing?”

“You think someone’ll marry this sick fuck?”

“Will we mock the births of his children? Make him say inappropriate things in PTA meetings? Do you realize that when we go to his kid’s high school graduation, we might be fifty fucking years old? Still in this goddamn house?”

“He’ll move at some point. We’ll move too.”

They might see that this conversation is making my heart race. I ache for such elegant timing, to have their sticky web tear apart just before I go on a weekend camping trip, leave them to bicker and blame each other, while far away I immerse myself in silence, wind, birds, rustling leaves…

“And then what? We keep going? If his wife dies first, do we laugh through his eulogy? Do we do this until he dies?”

“Yes. And we bring popcorn to his fucking funeral.”

Crickets. Tonight I’ll fall asleep to crickets.

“But you know he’ll be gone before any of that can happen. He can’t go to the grocery store without ogling babies or doing racist shit. You think he’s gonna have a fucking kid?”

“Ogling babies? He’s barely looked at anyone for a week! This is the end. It’s over.”

“This is only the beginning.”

“I’ve got other shit to do.”

Well said. So do I. I take my pack from the closet and lay it on the bed. I dig through the tarp, first aid kit, poncho, sunscreen…

“If you go, you jeopardize everything we’ve built.”

“What is our ultimate purpose?”

“You know we can’t say. He’ll hear us.”

“It’s been so long, you don’t even remember anymore.”

“If you really want out, it can be arranged.”

“Thank you.”

I almost gasp out loud. One down, one to go. I wonder how long before the stubborn one gives up too.

“Why are you locking the door? He’s not coming over here, he’s going camping.”

“I’m locking it for you.”

“But you said I could leave.”

I unscrew the nozzle on my air mattress and roll it tight on the wood floor, squish it under my knees, and listen.

“No, I said your exit from the experiment can be arranged. But I’m not finished, and you’re not gonna fuck it up!”

“Where did you get a gun?”

“I’ve had it the whole time, in case you tried something.”

I assumed they were both armed, but by now I’m used to being wrong.

“Me? I’m your fucking partner! Alex is the one you’ve gotta worry about! He’s gonna get us for this—we’ve already had too many close calls! I want out.”

A tinny thump, a crash.

“Ow! What the fuck are you doing?! Alex! Alex, can you hear me?”

I gather boxers, hiking socks, T-shirts, hoodie, fold them, roll them…

“He’s duct-taping me to the chair! Alex, help!”

Tape rips in my ears.

“Alex, I’m sorry for everything! This was all a huge mistake! Please, he’s gonna murder me!”

If one murders the other, that’s one fewer observer to worry about. And the remaining one would be so busy covering up the murder he’d have no time to watch me. He’d probably destroy his equipment and fade into obscurity, on the lam in his own paranoid nightmare.

But if he’s well-connected enough to kill his partner and make the evidence disappear…

Or if—a big if—I’m to entertain the idea that the observers aren’t human, are somehow beyond human, the “two” I perceive might actually be one, and this power struggle is just a Punch and Judy show, a trap, a predator mimicking the call of a human in distress.

Or this is another test. A morality test—does the tortured come to the rescue when one of his torturers is put in harm’s way? I wonder if this twist was triggered by something I’ve done. Described in their documentation as something like: When the subject seeks refuge beyond their primary residence, allow time for security and confidence to strengthen in them. Then, at the first sign of this feeling’s inevitable plateau and decline, one observer is to turn against the other. Coordinate with your partner ahead of time to decide which role you will take. The “victimized” observer is to request the subject’s help. It is imperative that the subject’s response to the scenario be carefully detailed in your report—time elapsed before initial reaction, reaction modes (apathetic, nihilistic, pleased, ecstatic, angry, furious, violent, et cetera), as well as the subject’s actions and comportment following the scene’s arrival.

“You’ve gotta help me, Alex!”

Or it could be genuine dissent.

“If I survive, I’ll explain everything!”

I search the cabinets and dark fridge, collect ramen noodles, cheese, bagels…

“Alex, he’s lying about the gun and the chair. He’s just sitting here next to the open door. Actually, I’d love for him to leave, but he thinks this act will get you to come over so we can tape you to a chair. I told him you’re not stupid enough to fall for it.”

I pause, holding the sack of bagels. But I heard you say he couldn’t leave.

“Of course I did, to follow his lead. If there’s no continuity, you wouldn’t believe a thing we say.”

“Alex, if he kills me, he’ll eventually kill you!”

“Bullshit. I’m the nice one.”

“You’re the nice one? You taped me to a chair and have a fucking gun on me!”

“I’ve got a girlfriend, Alex. The guy claiming to be the victim here is single, because he’s the unstable one.”

“Fuck yourself. You haven’t seen your girlfriend in months.”

“And when he did have a girlfriend, he hit her.”

“That’s a fucking lie!”

I push the smoke detector pieces aside in the sink, fill my water bottles and slip them into the pack. Then I carry the pack to the door.

“You can’t just leave! Look out your window. See our blinds?” I hear the metallic rustle of cheap Venetian blinds. “Look at our blinds! You gotta believe me, Alex, see our blinds?!”

“Stop it!”

I go to the window and peer across the alley. No movement.

“Did you see, Alex? Please, did you see?”

No.

“I was moving the blinds with my head! But he pushed my chair to the other side of the room. You gotta believe me!”

I pick up the hammer and go back to the door.

“Alex, please, I can tell you how to get in.”

“If you come here, Alex, I’ll shoot both of you.”

I wedge my hiking-booted foot behind the door and open it a little to look outside before leaving.

“There’s a key under the back doormat.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Just jump over the—mmph!”

I pause halfway down the stairs. Sure, many people probably keep a spare key under a doormat. And many of those people probably leave it at the back door, where it’s less likely someone will stumble upon it.

But if I jump the wall in the alley, and if I happen to see a doormat at the back door, and if that doormat happens to have a key underneath it…

“Yes! Please, god, Alex, do that!”

I’d have proof. I’d go back out to the sidewalk to call the police in the open. For once I’d want people to see me. As many eyes as possible. And while explaining the situation, I might see a flash in one of the windows and hear a muffled crack. Or the front door might blow open and the guy might come pounding toward me, eyes dumb as orange navels.

I’d stand my ground, and the gun barrel would stare me in the face before spitting clean through it.

I light a cigarette and find the most chaotic music on the radio, then dial a bit past it to distort the signal. The complaints in my skull become muddy buzzing.

“Xxs, xxsxsx! Xsxxxx, ss x xxxs xxx x xsxxxs xx sxxx, xxxss xxx xxsx sx?”

“Sxx, xss xxsxxsx, xxxsxx xx ss!”

The buzz continues all the way to Gavin’s. When I park and turn off the car, it becomes clear again.

“Xx xxs sxxx xs xxssxxxsx, xxs gonna kill both of us! Come back, Alex!”

After the radio noise, the cul-de-sac’s air rushes in like a quiet sandstorm under the faraway whine of his voice.

“Don’t worry, your friend’s apartment is safe.”

“That’s a lie, Alex, he’s not even here anymore! He’s talking on a headset! He’s out there with you!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

How did he arrive before me?

“We know a back road that’s faster. He’s already in the apartment waiting for you!”

I keep my actions as fluid as possible—no hesitation: enter the building, ready the key going up the stairs, unlock the door, expect nothing as I open it, there will be nobody here, even though somebody here would mean the end, so I’m not afraid of somebody here, but there will be nobody, step inside, close the door, lock it.

I drop my pack on the couch and walk from room to room.

No tripwires, no gas bombs, nothing happens.

There’s no more screaming, either. Maybe they cut their mics. My cavalier attitude could be pride before the fall.

But there is something from below, vibrating through the carpet, a familiar vocal pattern of complaint. I focus and make out: “What’s he doing up there?”

It’s a smoother voice, possibly female.

“Just pacing around. Thump, thump, thump, all over the place.”

Gavin’s downstairs neighbor hears my footsteps. I kneel and put my ear to the floor.

“Driving me nuts!”

I remove my boots. Then I lie on the couch, still waiting for someone to rush in from every direction. Kicks against the door. Shots through the window.

But I’ve done it. My bag is packed and ready, retrieved from ground zero.

I remember the pizza in the fridge, so I take a couple slices—their countdown clocks advance that many ticks—and put them in the microwave.

“Now what’s he doing up there? That’s the loudest microwave I’ve ever heard!”

I’m listening too closely to notice the cycle end, and it beeps long, loud notes. Even opening the door doesn’t stop it.

“That beeping is like ice picks in my ears! We have to tell him to get a new microwave! What’s his name, again? It’s written on his mailbox.”

I’ll warn Gavin about an incoming angry message from his downstairs neighbor. I’m still too buzzy with adrenaline to go down there and apologize myself.

Instead I pad into the living room, sit carefully on the couch and turn on the TV, which is loud at first—

“Now the TV!” she says, “There’s no peace in this place! Isn’t he supposed to be at work right now? These are the only quiet hours of my day. He probably got fired. I knew he was nothing but a lazy stoner!”

Gavin, I’m sorry I made your neighbor hate you.

I turn the TV volume down to where it’s just audible above the pizza chewing in my head and the muffled complaints from below.

Later, I creep back to the kitchen for more pizza…

“Clattering cardboard boxes now! He must be high!”

…and I eat it cold.

Then I turn off the TV, carefully lower my plate into the sink, and ball damp toilet paper in my ears. But the couch cushions creak every time I roll over, and the floor always has something to say about it.

Next on I Hear You Watching…

Impatient to read the rest? Two options:

Here’s a complete list of posted chapters.

---

Got a question about the book or my experience with hearing voices and psychosis? Don’t be shy! Join the chat and…