The Familiar Man

I saw him again, Mom. Dead, wispy hair. Small, frail body with a definitive crook in the neck that makes him seem perpetually curious. He stands there in the darkness, staring at… me. And those eyes. They remind me of Aunt Susie’s demon chihuahua. Big, black pupils drowning out the whites. Infinite space without a single star. If I look at them long enough, I swear, they look familiar. But if I look at them long enough, a sick feeling bubbles up in my stomach, like a thousand screams trying to escape my throat.

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I wake every night to only one scream. My own. The sheets are heavy with sweat. I’m out of laundry quarters so I just lay there in a moist tangle, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, trying to pretend I don’t see two dark pupils burning through it.

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I get why you drank so much coffee now. I’m up every morning before the sun, swaying in front of the coffee machine, hoping the little drip-drip-drips of caffeine will be enough to keep my eyelids from fluttering shut. It won’t be. Not always. But I can’t bear to see his face again. I know you get that, Mom. I just hope I find a solution before the Familiar Man devours me too.

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I went on the Dark Web. I know, I know. But coffee isn’t cutting it. And before you hit me with a classic “I’m not mad, just disappointed” lecture, it’s not as bad as you think. If you ignore the inappropriate images and hitmen requests, it’s like a big Internet forum.

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I asked for something to help stay awake and a nice man named LilReefer42069 answered. He works at a lab developing some kind of experimental anti-sleep drug. It’s all natural, he said. Just caffeine and ancient plants. And before you say anything, I’ll remind you of the time you tried a very exotic kind of “herbal” tea at a wellness retreat, then proceeded to text me a long paragraph about how goats are the Gods of our universe. So give my ancient plant supplement a chance.

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I’m meeting LilReefer42069 today at that diner on 5th and 1st, the one we always went to for our Sunday girls’ brunch.

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I order coffee and scrambled eggs while I wait. The smell alone makes me want to vomit. I haven’t been eating well. Every time I lift a fork, my stomach twists like wrung laundry. It’s him. The Familiar Man.

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I see him when I blink. I swear he’s getting closer. I regret all the nights you woke me up screaming and I told you to go back to sleep, he wasn’t real. Because he is real, isn’t he, Mom? The edges of his body aren’t quite as… hazy as dream people. Like he might leap off the back of my eyelids and plant his feet in the real world.

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The door jingles and a man walks in. He’s my age, 20-something, brown hair slicked back by either grease or an absurd amount of gel. His hands are shoved into the pockets of an oversized trench coat. He scans the room with a bored expression, then his eyes fall on me. He stalks over, a goofy grin splitting his face. “AspringInsomniac23?”

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“LilReefer42069?”

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He bows, then slides into the booth seat opposite me.

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“How’d you know it was me?”

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“Because you look like shit.” He picks at a piece of my scrambled egg and plops it in his mouth. “The people who buy from me always look like shit.”

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“Thanks.” I glance over my shoulder. “So should we…”

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“Yes, we shall. Waiter!”

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He orders chocolate pancakes with extra whipped cream and a tall glass of frothy milk. I press my palms against my coffee mug to stay awake. The warmth seems to melt my bones, holding me in a soft, calming embrace. I feel my eyelids pinching shut…

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“So whatchya need ‘em for?” the guy asks. “Valedictorian trying to cram in more study hours?”

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I blink, chasing the last dregs of melatonin from my brain. “No, I’m not in school. I mean, not anymore.”

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“Burnout? Got the best of me too.”

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“No just… family stuff.”

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“Leave of absence then,” he clacks his tongue. “Hard to come back from that.”

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The waiter brings over some certainly frothy milk and a tower of brown pancakes. The guy makes quick work of it, digging through the stack like a vulture attacking a carcass.

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I know it shouldn’t bug me. But who is this guy, this drug dealer dropout, to tell me my future looks grim? Agitation churns my blood, it’s felt so close to the surface recently, and this is enough to send it boiling over. “It’s not my fault.”

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“Yeah?” he says through a mouthful of syrup.

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“Yeah. It’s this… guy.”

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“I’ve heard this one before.”

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“Not like that. This guy in my dreams. Nightmares. Staring at me. Waiting for me. I don’t know him but he seems so familiar.”

I guess this is why you never liked talking about him with the psychiatrists. As soon as the words leave my lips, a shiver runs down my spine. Like fingers, cold, slender fingers, tracing the vertebrae, claiming them as his own.

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And when I blink he’s there, right there, dry lips pulled into a victorious smile, soulless eyes just inches from mine, pulling me in, consuming me.

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I shriek. All at once the spell is broken.

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I’m back at the diner, surrounded by bacon grease and chatty diners, although the chatting has stopped considerably as almost every head is turned to me. My head is slumped. I’ve nodded off again.

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“Spider in her drink,” my lunch date says, waving his fork at the other diners.

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He swallows his pancake. His eyes seem sharper now. More interested.

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I start to apologize but he holds up his hand. “I’ve seen it all before.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small baggie. Inside are five pink pills. They could be strawberry Tic Tacs. “These are a temporary fix.”

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I nod and pull out my money. I can still feel the cold fingers caressing my spine.

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He pockets it and stands. Wipes pancake crumbs from the collar of his jacket. He turns to the door, then hesitates. Leans into me. “You know, I heard you can’t make up people in your dreams. Like, every person is someone you’ve seen before. If I were you, I’d find the guy and...” He curls his syrup-spotted hand into a fist. Pounds it against his open palm. “But that’s just me.”

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I haven’t slept in seven days, eleven hours, and thirteen minutes. I feel fantastic. I mean sure, I trip over my feet on the way to the bathroom. And I can’t remember what I had for breakfast most days. And I’ve snapped at enough slow walkers that I’ve decided it’s best to just hole myself up in my apartment. But I haven’t seen him. When I blink, it’s only darkness. I don’t feel his gaze on the back of my head. My skin doesn’t prickle. This is everything you wanted, Mom. I’m beating him. We’re winning.

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And LilReefer assures me it’s all safe. I’ve called him back a few times for refills.

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“Nobody knows why people sleep anyway,” he says, leaning against my door frame as he counts the little pink pills into my hand. “So it can’t be that important, right?” He drops the last pill into my palm. “That makes twelve. Should last you six days or so.”

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“Two.” I tilt a pill into my mouth and swallow it dry. “I take them every four hours.”

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“You only need two a day.”

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“Make more effective drugs then. See you Sunday?”

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I shut the door before the look of protest crosses his face. I know the whole circus act by now. I lived through it, through you. The pitiful stares. The unhelpful suggestions.

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“Have you tried meditating?”

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“Do you think they told John Lennon to meditate when his psychopath stalker came knocking at the door?”

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I remember you hurling that one at Aunt Susie on a number of occasions.

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There’s a knock at my own door. My heart lurches. I imagine long, cold fingers on the other side, creaking it open. But no. The pills work. It’s probably my Internet friend wanting to charge more. I heave the door open, readying all kinds of insults though I know I’ll pay whatever price he names.

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The hallway is empty. The moon-less sky stares back at me through the window across the hall.

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I shut the door softly and turn back into the apartment. Something is… off. The TV is murmuring, but I can’t focus on it. I can’t focus on anything. The whole room feels hazy. Even my own hands feel like someone else’s. I am lost. A wisp of a thing floating on an imaginary rock in space. And there’s only one thing to grasp onto. The cold tickle at the back of my neck.

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I turn around, slowly, to face my kitchen. There, standing underneath the buzzing, yellow light, is the only real thing in this entire world. The Familiar Man leans over the counter. Opens his horrible void of a mouth. Says, with a big, plastic grin,“I’ll get you next.”

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It’s lucky so many people despise sleep because LilReefer has loads of connections. He tells me about this woman who buys from him, Joan Hartwood. I think I’ve seen her on TV before, one of those channels we usually skipped past. She hosts a talk show connecting guests with missing people from their past. It’s the perfect place to find our stalker.

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“Don’t worry,” LilReefer assures me. Our relationship has moved from doorway to couch status. He’s doing me a favor, so I ignore his shoes up on the sofa cushions. “Joan’s found missing husbands from a swath of chest hair. Even if your guy’s some kind of dream-crawling Satanist, she’ll find him. As long as you’re sure he’s…”

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“He’s real,” I answer, not bothering to look at him. I’m staring out the window of my apartment watching snow fall on the sea of umbrellas below. He could be there, tucked safely under any one of those umbrellas, planning his next attack. But not for much longer.

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“…AspiringInsomniac!” LilReefer whistles.

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“Don’t whistle at me. I’m not a dog.”

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“Yeah, a dog would’ve responded the first twenty-five times I said their name.”

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I blink. “You didn’t…” But I shake my head. Time has been skipping lately. Just a few moments, here and there. The pills will fix it.

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I sit down next to LilReefer and grab the baggie off the table. There’s only four pills left. “Need a refill, doc.”

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“About that… I don’t know how many more I can get. I think work’s started to notice. They moved me off the night shift. I can’t lose this job too. There aren’t exactly an abundance of custodian jobs these days.”

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“You’re not a scientist?” I can suddenly feel the pills churning in my stomach. Foreign bodies feeding on my receptors. Have I traded one unwelcome parasite for another?

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LilReefer rests his hands on mine, and it’s only then I realize they’re shaking. “Hey. Joan will have you on her show. She’ll find your guy. Then, after, I know this fantastic psychiatrist-”

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I tear my hands from his. “We’re not-”

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“-crazy?”

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I squint against blinding fluorescent lights. I was speaking, wasn’t I? But the last word didn’t come out of my mouth. The seat beneath me is cold. It smells of expensive perfume. There are voices out there, somewhere, beyond the bright light.

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I turn and find myself a foot away from a poison pink smile. The face is caked in powdery makeup that hugs her delicate crow’s feet. She repeats, “Don’t you find this whole thing crazy, darling? Uniting with someone you’ve never met?”

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There’s a cough from beyond the lights. My eyes adjust enough to see a few darkened faces staring back at me. I look down and realize I’m on a stage. Three insect-like cameras stare at me. The audience stares at me. Joan Hartwood stares at me. Somebody else stares at me too.

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I scratch the back of my neck. “How did I get here?”

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Joan laughs me off and turns to her audience. “Hazel reached out because she wants to meet the man of her dreams. And would you believe we found him just ten blocks from here! A sweet waiter at the local diner.”

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The audience coos and the sound runs through me like a knife.

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“Speak up, hun.”

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It’s you. I turn, expecting to see you looking back at me. But there’s just a cold, empty camera lens. It pulls me in. A black, soulless eye. “He’s evil. He’s stalking my dreams.”

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“That’s not very gentlemanly,” Joan says. The audience laughs. It echoes like the voices of a many-headed beast. I look out at them. They’re him. They’re all him.

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“I need…” Words become hard to speak. My neck bends. The air cradles my head like a pillow. “No!” I force myself upright. Fumble in my pocket. My heart lurches when my shaky fingers close around a baggie. I pull it out.

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“Not here, darling,” Joan whispers.

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The bag is empty.

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“Let’s bring out our mystery man, shall we?”

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“He’s here?” My head snaps towards Joan.

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But the plastic-y woman has been replaced with a man’s round face. Big, tired eyes. The Familiar Man grins. “I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

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I blink and I’m kneeling on the studio floor. I blink and the Familiar Man is beneath me. I feel my fists sinking into his stomach. Flesh. Real flesh. Real man. But he’s not looking at me anymore. Hands over his face. Trembling. He’s terrified.

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Of me.

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I’m sitting in the diner on 5th and 1st. You’re across from me. It’s our Sunday brunch day. We hold big, sticky menus. He approaches our table, the Familiar Man. Only he’s not so familiar yet. He wears a dirty apron with a crooked name tag, Steve. His dark eyes are shadowed. He’s tired. But he smiles politely.

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“What can I get you?” he asks, his gaze meeting mine.

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Staring.

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Waiting.

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I falter. The words are knotted in my stomach.

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“Speak up, hun,” you say across the table.

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My lips tremble.

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“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll get you next.”

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You point to the scrambled egg special.

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Steve scribbles down your order. He turns back to me. Smiles. “I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

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The man crying beneath my fists is not the Familiar Man. The Familiar Man wears Steve’s face, but that’s just skin.

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You can’t make up people in your dreams.

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The Familiar Man has been with me all along, just two closed eyes away. My eyelashes dance together. My head falls against my chest. My muscles slacken against the many hands now pulling me off Steve.

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I will never escape myself.

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I fall asleep.