The Spirit of Madness

By Kevin Hillman

Fletcher curled in the corner of the room, staring at the smiling man who watched him.

"You're not real," Fletcher said, waving a hand at the man. "Go away."

"I am real," the man said, still smiling. "I think you may be, too."

"No. Only one of us is real. Only me." Fletcher turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes. "Go away."

"I can't go away, I have to stay here. So do you."

Even with his eyes closed, Fletcher could hear the smile in the man's voice.

"Why do you make me stay here?" he said.

"If I'm not real, I couldn't make you stay. If you're not real, you wouldn't be here anyway," the smiling man said. "Don't you agree?"

Fletcher opened his eyes, his brow creased in a frown. The man had a point, after all. His fingers picked at the fabric of the wall as thoughts bounced around the bones of his skull. There were things dimly remembered, things he felt he should know, things which eluded him the more he tried to concentrate on them. Thoughts move fast, and can be hard to catch.

How had he come to this place? How long had he been here? How long had he been in this room with the smiling man? There were others, other smiling men before this one, he felt sure. He couldn't remember their faces, their
voices, anything they had said. He was sure, though. This wasn't the first one to visit him in this room.

Fletcher looked up at the smiling man, who sat on the edge of the small single bed. "Who are you?" he said.

"I'm Thomas," the smiling man said. "Who are you?"

"Fletcher. My name is Fletcher. Why are you here?"

"To talk to you."

"What about?"

The smile became a grin. "Anything you like."

Fletcher climbed to his feet, using the soft wall for support. "I didn't ask you to come," he said, wondering if maybe he had, but had forgotten. That was possible, he forgot many things these days.

"No, you didn't," Thomas said. "I came anyway."

"Are you here to help me? To help me remember?"

Thomas' smile seemed to be a permanent fixture. "If you like," he said. "What do you want to remember?"

"Everything!"

"Well, that depends on whether you knew everything in the first place. If you didn't, you can hardly remember it, can you?"

Fletcher scowled. "You know what I mean," he said. "Everything I've forgotten, which is most things." He hung his head to hide the tremble in his lip.

"Hmm," Thomas said. "Well, I don't know everything you've forgotten, so it's hard for me to help. Tell you what though, I could tell you everything I can remember and you can see if any of it makes you remember things."

Fletcher raised his head. "It may work," he said. "It's worth a try." Even if the man turned out to be imaginary after all, it was still worth a try.

"Right," Thomas said, his face creasing in concentration and losing its smile for a moment. Only a moment. He opened his mouth to speak.

The door opened.

Both men turned to face it, Fletcher frowning at the interruption, Thomas smiling.

Three men entered; one in a dark suit, the others in overalls. They looked at Thomas.

"It's time, Thomas," said the suited man.

"So soon?" Thomas said, smiling. "I was talking to my new friend." He gestured towards Fletcher.

"Hi," Fletcher said.

"That's nice," said the suited man. "What's your friend's name?"

"My name is Fletcher," Fletcher said, feeling irritation blossom within him.

"His name is Fletcher," Thomas said, smiling.

"I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself," Fletcher said, feeling his face grow hot and his fists clench.

The suited man stiffened. "Can you see him now?"

"Of course." Thomas smiled at Fletcher. The suited man turned to look, his eyes passing over Fletcher as they roamed the corner of the room.

"Of course he can see me, idiot," Fletcher said, his voice a roar.

The suited man motioned to one of the others. "Take Thomas for his treatment," he said. "We'll follow."

"Can Fletcher come too? He can't remember things." Thomas said, smiling.

"No, Thomas, the treatment is just for you."

"Okay, Doctor. See you later, Fletcher." Thomas waved as he was guided from the room.

Fletcher shook his head in confusion.

"Are you alright, Doctor?" the remaining overalled man said. Fletcher noticed that the suited man - the one called 'Doctor' - seemed very pale.

"It was before your time, George" the doctor said. "There was a patient - Fletcher Doran - who occupied this room. Died in it, in fact."

Fletcher moved closer. The antics of his imaginary people were fascinating.

"Paranoid schizophrenic, with a memory disorder on top. He couldn't remember what happened five minutes ago. The only thing he could remember was his name."

"Wow," George said. "Must be a coincidence, then."

"What?" Fletcher said.

"What?" the doctor said.

"Thomas," George said. "Him having an imaginary friend with the same name."

"Coincidence." Fletcher nodded. He also had the same name as the dead lunatic. But then, this was only to be expected. He could only imagine so many names at one time.

"Coincidence." The doctor said. "I wonder. It's not the first time, you know. Other patients in this room have said that name." He shivered. "Let's get going. Thomas is waiting for us."

Both men left, closing the door.

"That's better," Fletcher said. "Peace and quiet." He sat in his corner, watching his thoughts fly by, indistinct, too fast too catch. "I'll wait here until what's-his-name comes back."

What was his name? The smiling man? Timothy? Terry? Something like that. There was something they were going to talk about. It seemed to have been important. What was it he was going to talk about? There was someone he was speaking to, someone who smiled all the time. Fletcher shook his head. No, he couldn't remember. He sat, his lower lip jutted in concentration. He was alone. Nothing else was real, nothing but his room. Sometimes his mind played tricks, sometimes it tried to tease him. He knew that the things it showed him weren't real. He wasn't going to be fooled.

The door opened. A man came in and sat on the bed, looking at him. The man was smiling. Fletcher stared at him.

"You're not real," Fletcher said, waving a hand at the man. "Go away."

About the Author
The author has also written for AlienSkin, Nocturnal Ooze, Quietus and 31 Eyes webzines and has too many novels half-written, none finished. One day....

- Back to Fiction for the Month of January