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Night Slaves
Night Slaves
Night Slaves
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Night Slaves

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It was too nightmarish to be real... All of them, the whole town, wordlessly climbing into trucks in the middle of the night and going off—where? And now, his own wife had joined them, and she seemed not to hear when he screamed his pleas for her to come back. None of them heard.

It had to be a dream.

He closed his eyes. I'm in bed. In a moment I will wake up and Marjorie will be beside me.

It didn't work. He was alone. Alone in a ghost town.

And even if he could find anyone to tell, they would think he was crazy.

He stopped short, the word sticking in his mind. CRAZY. Is that what I am? The accident, the operations, the eyes that watched him, waiting for—what? For this? Was this delusion the end product? Had he truly gone over the edge?

Read NIGHT SLAVES — the novel behind the movie.

"Jerry Sohl undoubtedly possesses one of the most imaginative minds of our day."
—Houston Post

Jerry Sohl is the acclaimed writer for Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and scores more scripts and novels.

Read NIGHT SLAVES today and find out why you feel so sleepy during the day!

LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 23, 2016
ISBN9781370323975
Night Slaves
Author

Jerry Sohl

Jerry Sohl is best known for the numerous scripts he wrote for Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, etc. He wrote over two dozen books, mostly, science fiction and horror but spanning all genres, including several acclaimed mainstream novels (e.g. THE LEMON EATERS), romance, and humor books such as UNDERHANDED CHESS.

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    Book preview

    Night Slaves - Jerry Sohl

    It was too nightmarish to be real... All of them, the whole town, wordlessly climbing into trucks in the middle of the night and going off—where? And now, his own wife had joined them, and she seemed not to hear when he screamed his pleas for her to come back. None of them heard.

    It had to be a dream.

    He closed his eyes. I’m in bed. In a moment I will wake up and Marjorie will be beside me.

    It didn't work. He was alone. Alone in a ghost town.

    And even if he could find anyone to tell, they would think he was crazy.

    He stopped short, the word sticking in his mind. CRAZY. Is that what I am? The accident, the operations, the eyes that watched him, waiting for—what? For this? Was this delusion the end product? Had he truly gone over the edge?

    NIGHT SLAVES

    by

    JERRY SOHL

    Produced by ReAnimus Press

    Other books by Jerry Sohl:

    Costigan s Needle

    The Mars Monopoly

    One Against Herculum

    The Time Dissolver

    The Transcendent Man

    I, Aleppo

    The Altered Ego

    The Anomaly

    Death Sleep

    The Odious Ones

    Point Ultimate

    The Haploids

    Prelude to Peril

    The Resurrection of Frank Borchard

    The Lemon Eaters

    The Spun Sugar Hole

    Underhanded Chess

    Underhanded Bridge

    Night Wind

    Black Thunder

    Dr. Josh

    Blowdry

    Mamelle

    Kaheesh

    © 2012, 1965 by Jerry Sohl. All rights reserved.

    http://ReAnimus.com/authors/jerrysohl

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    ~~~

    Table of Contents

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    ABOUT THE AUTHOR

    1

    Matt

    It was when Dr. Matthew Cassel first saw Marjorie Howard that he realized he’d been bored for a long time. Weariness and dissatisfaction are, of course, familiar byproducts of the satiety and confinement suffered by those unfortunate enough to choose psychotherapy for a life’s work, but Mrs. Howard was an acute reminder of the world of the sane, the normal, the diverting, and Matt felt suddenly overripe for change.

    She was, he decided, what was meant by a raven-haired beauty, for her hair was black and shiny, giving off a violet electric glint when it was struck by harsh light. Her eyes were a deep blue, her face pale and pert, her neck long, like a model’s, and her figure was what he would have ordered for her if he’d been God. Or so she appeared to a man dulled and grown restless by words, wearisome recitations of conflicts, imagined and sometimes not-so-imagined emotional troubles, a pallid, monotonous sameness of the symptoms, the discontents, the guilt and punishment that had so chafed the inner man.

    Oh, there had been signs of ennui, the occupational hazard most mentioned in training. There was, for example, his moving out to the patio off the doctors’ lounge, to take his coffee leisurely and to speak with others, never mentioning anything connected with any of his cases—quite a change from the near-frenetic man of five years before who could not down his coffee quickly enough, and who assailed every available ear with symptoms, queries, suggestions and opinions. Lately there were his strolls about the hilltop four acres where the four-story hospital and clinic had been built, to look off to the hills where the fog from the sea rolled in early in the afternoon, feeling a vague discontent and unease. He remembered wondering why Ernest Montclair Downes had willed the area to medical science, thinking that it would be amusing if the dedication had been guilt-born, and thinking other cynical thoughts, wrapping them around him, a fine insulation between him and the emotional storms to which he was a professional listener.

    And now here was Marjorie Howard to bring him back, out of himself, away from rationalizations and self-delusion, down out of the ivory tower. It was a hell of a note what a woman could do to a man by simply existing.

    It was worse, considering that she was Mrs. Howard. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, add to that the fact that he would be ministering to her husband, Clay Howard, who, at the moment, was on the second floor in a catatonic state.

    He should not have taken the case for a number of reasons, the chief one being that he wanted no emotional involvements—he’d been spared that so far in his career, though he knew he’d eventually marry (he preferred calling it settling up rather than down)—and he particularly did not want to get embroiled with a married woman. But Dr. Willis Ansel, a friend of his for many years, who had treated Mr. Howard after his accident near Los Angeles, had sent Mrs. Howard to him, telling her he was as good a psychiatrist as she’d likely find in the whole Bay area, and that he was sure Dr. Matthew Cassel would be glad to see what he could do as a personal favor to him.

    There simply was no way out of it. He knew before he started he could never achieve the clinical objectivity the case demanded, so he decided not to fight it. He liked Marjorie Howard, before too long she was going to realize it, and perhaps, if the husband came out of it, he might know it, too. But there was no sense hiding it. The world was too full of inhibition as it was. It was even possible the husband might profit by his interest in the case, which was the ultimate rationalization.

    Mrs. Howard could have been merely an empty vessel highly ornamented. With her physical attributes, the odds were all in favor of her being a vacuous, superficial person. Matt found her to be quite the opposite. From the first he was impressed by her candor, her patience, her ability to recall things without emotional coloring. As the story of what happened to her came out, he was moved to more than sympathy; he respected her. He could not give her a higher accolade.

    She had moved into a motel near Bayshore where she would stay, she said, until something definite was decided about her husband. Matt did not have the heart to discourage her. He did not tell her psychiatrists are not miracle men, that it might be a year or two before her husband made any noticeable progress, that he might never know who she was again. Instead, he complimented her by telling her he was sure she would be of real use in the treatment of her husband, and that he hoped they’d be working together successfully.

    The facts in the case of Clay Howard were simple. He and his wife lived in Encino, one of the many communities contiguous to the freeway that feeds Los Angeles. Mr. Howard taught English and industrial arts at a junior high school. Mrs. Howard, who could have taught primary grades, preferred being a secretary in a savings and loan office. On January 5th, barely six months before, Clay had been the driver in an accident in which five persons were killed and he was seriously injured, having suffered a fractured skull. It was Dr. Ansel who put him back together again. Ensuing tests proved Mr. Howard had recovered completely. He was released from the hospital, and shortly thereafter, he and his wife decided to take a vacation, motoring north to a small town where, Mrs. Howard recounted, her husband began to exhibit strange symptoms which she reported to Dr. Ansel.

    The symptoms described by Mrs. Howard confirmed what Matt had discovered when he examined her husband. Clay Howard had evolved an elaborate classical delusional system of quite some detail and, as in many cases, the system itself became the reality, and life the fantasy, the schism widening to a deep depression and, as now, a mute state, not quite a vegetable yet, but progressing toward it.

    Matt should not have held out any hopes, but Mrs. Howard was so believing, so hopeful, and so trusting, he found himself unable to tell her he did not think he could do much for her husband. In fact, he could have told her, he thought the cracked skull was responsible for the state he was in, for if ever there was a case for organic causation, this was it, Dr. Ansel notwithstanding. And so it was only to give Mrs. Howard something to hang onto that he ordered a thorough going-over for her husband—a complete neurological examination, including electroencephalogram; air-injection engrams; X-ray studies of his cranium, including the stainless-steel mesh and plates and array of wires that held temporal lobes to occipital, or at least seemed to; an intense survey by an endocrinologist; and a detailed study by a physical anthropologist, neither of the last two being needed at all, but helping to round out the whole picture, along with the more routine analyses: blood, urine, spinal fluid, stool, sputum, bone marrow, skin conduction, metabolism, and others.

    He was startled to find that Clay Howard was in excellent physical condition. The usual blood abnormalities associated with schizophrenia were completely absent. No dysrhythmia or strange Spitzengruppe on the EEG. Neurological responses good. All reflexes in great shape. It was as if the man were thumbing his nose at him. And so Matt Cassel took a second look. Could the man be malingering? If he was faking it, then why was he? Matt could not help thinking of Mrs. Howard. Why would a man do such a thing if he had a wife like Marjorie? But of course Clay’s logic need not be logical at all; no one could ascribe normal causes and effects to a patient like this. The more Matt thought about it, the more interested he became. He tried to tell himself it was not just Mrs. Howard, and he had himself pretty well convinced of it when he called her in to see him.

    She entered the office bright-eyed and alert, her eyes jumping from the reports on his desk to his eyes, wetting her lips a little nervously as she took the chair he offered her beside the desk, saying nothing as she unbuttoned her coat, settled herself and looked at him expectantly.

    Matt saw the color in her cheeks, the trust in her eyes, the good humor in her face, and found himself saying rather inanely, You seem to be holding up all right.

    Thank you, Doctor.

    Matt took his chair, picked up the reports, considered how to say what he had in mind. After examining the reports for a few moments without actually seeing them, he said, A very strange thing, Mrs. Howard... It seems we can’t find anything wrong with your husband.

    She looked first startled, then concerned. You mean—physically.

    Well, yes. His difficulty is obviously functional. He wished he could tell her how he felt about him. We haven’t been able to reach him at all.

    I’m sorry to hear that.

    We’ve tried.

    She stared at him in dismay. Does that mean you’re giving up?

    Matt laughed. Giving up? No, I’d say we’ve hardly begun. Did I sound as if we were giving up? I didn’t mean to. He saw her features relax a little, so he went on, As a matter of fact, we want to try pentothal, and I’d like you to be there when we do. Would that be all right with you?

    Of course. But when?

    This morning.

    So soon?

    I think it will save us all time and effort.

    Is there—any danger?

    Danger? She had put it an odd way; just what did she mean? To her or to him? Matt could not decide, so he went on, There’s always danger, Mrs. Howard, even in breathing, but if you mean will it hurt him, I don’t think it will. It is one way of extracting the truth, which is what we need right now. If it works, I mean.

    She blinked, considering it, looking puzzled. I don’t know what you mean by the truth.

    Has it ever occurred to you that he might be pretending?

    She was affronted. Pretending! You mean you think Clay is putting on an act?

    Matt shrugged. I don’t mean to say so, no. I think it is possible, that’s all. But even if he is, that in itself isn’t normal so he’s still in trouble.

    Marjorie shook her head. He’s not pretending, Doctor. I know my husband. He is not capable of it.

    You seem very sure of him, Mrs. Howard.

    She sighed, leaned back in the chair and said bleakly, Since January I have been with him in all his waking moments. If I didn’t know him before, I certainly do now having seen this thing grow on him little by little. She closed her eyes, and Matt wondered what part of the hideous experience she must be thinking of. She opened them and went on: I don’t know if you realize how it is, having someone so close to you change a little each day, shutting down areas of his mind where you were compatible, as if he were closing doors, pulling down the shades, locking everything up, becoming an utter stranger to you. She turned to look away unhappily. Until that final moment when he looks at you... and doesn’t recognize you at all. Then he is safely away, secure in his world, the one he’s created, the place where you cannot go even if you want to, and the telephone lines have been cut, so you can’t even talk any more.

    Matt said, You describe it very well.

    She turned to him. Can you bring him back? she said, her eyes bright with challenge.

    We can try. He would be trying harder than he should, he knew, driven by those eyes, but as he got to his feet he said, I can’t make promises, and knew at once it was a silly thing to say. Why was it necessary to insure her good opinion of him? He watched her as she rose from the chair, a head shorter than he, moving in a way that reached him deep inside. He thought: I could study for ten thousand years and never find the answer to the cause and effect going on in this room right now.

    She said, I don’t expect a miracle.

    He found himself wishing he could provide one.

    2

    Clay

    From where he sat on the second floor of the Downes Clinic he could look out the tinted wide glass windows and see San Francisco—not all of it, but enough pastel-colored cracker boxes stuck together by mortar paste and riding the graceful hills to have made it a fair guess. The span of the Golden Gate, the blue looming hulk of what had been Alcatraz, and the scudding wisps of spindrift fog made it a certainty.

    But Clay Howard saw none of it. The view struck his eyes, but they stared with only blank incomprehension. The scene meant nothing; what was important was the warmth of the room. It reminded him of something, but he could not for the moment recall what it was. The relaxing heat spread over him like fingers, like wires of an electric blanket. There was a low whisper that was forced air; to Clay it was sun-warmed air washing through pine so recently visited... and that was strange! When he thought about pines something happened.

    He closed his eyes. What was it? What thought was it that made his heart lurch? What was he thinking? Oh, yes, how warm it was. Wasn’t that it? He sighed and settled back against the cushions. Yes, it was nice to be so warm.

    The scenes began, as they always did, slowly at first, full of shifting colors, then whirling, shining rockets, all bright and lopsided, jiggling, coruscating, a chiaroscurist’s nightmare of flashing incandescences and blackness, flickering with maddening intensity before his closed eyes.

    He opened his eyes, residual colors pulsating briefly, then dying out. He was glad he did not scream this time. When he could open his eyes, the pictures, the horrible, revolting pictures, would stop. It wasn’t bad now. It was bad only when they came when his eyes were open, and that hadn’t happened for a long time. As long as he remained quiet and didn’t move, it was all right. He looked out the window. Everything outside was twisted into a blur of colors. Real colors, though. Not like the ones in his dream. And from somewhere... a faint piping, a thin, beckoning wail. He had been hearing that sound for a long time. Where did it come from? It was a pretty sound, very musical, and not at all connected with the pictures. He heard it sometimes even when he was in the middle of the whirling colors that made him sick.

    Mr. Howard.

    The harsh voice grated on his ear, and jagged edges of pictures began dancing before his eyes. He wished he knew how to seal off the pictures, close up the source of the waves of nausea, the sad waves.

    Mr. Howard.

    The colors receded a little. He felt the presence of someone. Why was he being disturbed? He had done nothing. Why couldn’t they leave him to himself, let him be?

    Clay.

    A different voice, a voice that seemed to belong to the pictures, for they danced merrily for a change, and he was forced to smile. They didn’t dance happily like that very often.

    Strong arms lifted him. The pictures flopped around like fish in a boat. Then they were gone. It was dark. There were gray shapes around him. He squinted, trying to see through the haze who they were, where he was, but he didn’t see anything or anybody clearly.

    Matt steadied Clay, and then, as Miss Bascomb slipped an arm around him, he led the way out of the preparation room, holding the door open for Miss Bascomb, who conducted Clay through the entranceway without incident, Marjorie following. They moved wordlessly down the corridor, Matt’s steps brisk and businesslike, his eyes flicking this way and that, nodding curtly to faces. Miss Bascomb was mostly impassive, but now and then she shot a glance of disapproval at those who looked as if they were about to say something to the doctor. Clay’s eyes blinked unseeingly; his face was empty, slack. Marjorie moved a little ahead to look at Clay sidewise, worriedly.

    They

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