Facing It
by Bill Wilson

"What’s that?" Norton Smathers asked himself when he first felt the bump. It wasn’t a pimple, but it was definitely some sort of growth. And it hurt when he ran the comb over it.

"Ouch!" he said. "That stings!" He felt the bump on the back of his head, underneath the layers of dark, dandruff-infested hair. It was too big to be a zit. Better put some alcohol on it, he figured. The liquid stung when he applied it, more than it should have, he thought. He smoothed his hair and finished dressing. No time to worry about it then, he had to go to work.

Norton tied his tie, grabbed his briefcase and stepped outside to catch the train. He caught the 7:15 every morning, which put him at the front door of the Atlanta accounting firm where he worked at ten minutes till eight. While riding the train he carefully polished his thick, plastic-framed glasses and examined the shine on his shoes. His heart skipped a beat when he thought he saw a scuff mark, then he sighed with relief when he saw he was mistaken. He opened his copy of the Journal-Constitution and turned to the business page, where he read the stock reports.He closed the paper just in time to get off the train.

Norton smiled as he walked to his cubicle. Ignoring his co-workers, he went straight to his desk. He looked forward to another long day of dealing with numbers and specialized data, his only companion a computer. He was happy in the isle of solitude he had carved out for himself in the busy office.

Norton was a nerd.

He worked steadily until noon, his lunch hour. He logged out of his computer and opened his briefcase, retrieving the bag lunch her kept therein. Norton always ate at his desk. He munched hungrily on a PB and J while he scanned the headlines. Nothing much seemed to be going on in the world. Terrorism in the Middle East, the President was optimistic about the economy, the weather was unusually hot. In nearby midtown a woman was assaulted the other night, and was still in critical condition. Such a tragic world, he thought, feeling glad that he was insulated from it in the neat, orderly universe he had created for himself.

Then pain shot through his skull, causing him to wince. "Darn it!" he cried out, not so loud that anyone else could hear him, but loud indeed for him. He felt the back of his head. The bump was larger, and was very sore to the touch. He reached into his briefcase to retrieve the bottle of aspirin he carried. Be prepared, his dear mother had once told him. He had lived by those words ever since.

He frowned as he glanced in his cup and saw he was out of drink. He would have to refill it to take the aspirin, which would mean leaving his cubicle to go to the water cooler. Grimacing, he got up and walked across the office to the fountain. There were two women standing nearby, talking. Norton knew one of them. She always said very unkind things to him, which he didn’t like, but generally ignored.

"Well," said his coworker when she saw him. "Leaving your desk, Nortie? Hold on to me, honey, I think the world stopped turning around!" She glanced at her friend and laughed. The friend covered her mouth with her hand, while her head shook slightly. Norton knew she was laughing too.

He looked at them, trying to think of what he had heard people call a "witty retort." His mouth fumbled as he struggled to form some words. "I - I’m too thirsty to talk," he finally managed to force out of his quivering lips. "The bump hurts. It’s not a pimple."

The ladies stared at him for a second or two, trying to comprehend what he was talking about. Finally the one who had spoke to him replied, "Ooookay then, Nortie." She and her friend stepped away, but kept glancing at him as they walked towards their desks. Norton heard them giggling.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Norton left his desk at five PM and caught the train home. By 5:45 he was sitting in his easy chair reading Accounting Weekly. The lead article fascinated him. It was about a new software system for estimating the cost of concrete foundation work.

As he read he rubbed the back of his head. The bump was just a little bigger now, and still hurt like hell. The aspirin did not help. By nine PM he was in bed. He thought briefly of what the woman at work had said to him, and felt himself become angry just before he fell asleep.

The next day the supervisor came by his cubicle. "Got some bad news, Norton," his superior said. "Janice Crowe died last night. The police believe she was murdered." Norton glanced up at him, wondering who he was talking about. Then he remembered. It was the woman who had spoken to him the day before. As the boss walked away, the sharp, stabbing pain shot through his skull again. This time it was worse. He felt the bump. It was even larger. He left work early that day to seek medical attention.

"To be honest, I’m not sure what it is," said the doctor. He was examining the back of Norton’s head. "It’s obviously some sort of growth, but I’ll need to run some tests on the tissue sample I scraped off."

Norton winced, suspecting that the tests the doctor mentioned would be expensive. His insurance would cover it, but he was worried about the effect the costs may have on the overall profitability of his HMO. "Can’t you just give me a salve or something, Dr. Wells?" he queried. The healer shook his head. "Sorry, Norton," he replied. "Until we know what this is, I would have no idea what to give you. I’ll write a prescription for the pain, though." He opened his pad and scribbled some illegible scrawl across a sheet.

He addressed his patient again, a tone of concern in his voice. "Look, Norton," he began, "I ve been treating you for years. You are not only a patient; I consider you a friend." Norton blinked in surprise. The word "friend" was one he rarely heard.

"I’m not worried about your physical health so much as your emotional well-being. I know you have no real life outside your job. Why don’t you change that, find a hobby, or even some friends? You’re still a young man. You ought to enjoy life more."

The withdrawn accountant thought briefly about what his physician said. Part of him knew that what he had just heard was true, but another part was afraid to consider it. "Yes sir," he replied. "I will chat on the Internet with other financial professionals. And maybe watch television tonight."

The doctor’s expression soured, and he spoke. "That’s not really what I meant. What I mean is" - then he caught himself, knowing he was championing a lost cause. "Never mind. Take care of yourself, Norton," he said, handing his patient the prescription. Norton left the clinic.

That evening he stared at the television screen, but could not concentrate on the show. He felt oddly unsettled, and his mind wandered back to what the doctor had said. Maybe he should meet some people, he wondered. He did get lonesome at times.

The medicine he took eased the pain in his head, but also made him quite tired. He turned in early, before eight PM. About midnight he was jolted from a deep sleep. His head was throbbing. He sat up, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. His heart raced with fear as well as pain. Was he having an aneurysm? He fumbled for the bedside phone to call 911.

But then the discomfort stopped. He felt the back of his head. There were more bumps, above the original one and below it as well. The first one was huge. He felt it carefully. There was a pair of holes in the bottom of it.

"Man, he must’ve finally freaked out," the office workers mumbled to each other the next day when they saw Norton. They always avoided him, but today they gave him a wider berth than normal. You could not blame them. After all, a man dressed in a suit and wearing a stocking cap while working at his desk is an unusual sight. Norton’s cap was pulled low, almost covering his eyes and concealing the back of his head entirely.

It was the only solution, he told himself. The bumps were so large now they were sticking past his hair. The only alternative was to miss work, and he had never been absent a day in his life.

Sweat ran down his face on the afternoon train, and people glanced at him nervously, wondering why anyone would wear a winter hat on a sultry day in July. Norton kept his eyes focused on his paper. The front page story was about a woman who had been killed the night before, not far from his home.

The phone kept ringing, and he grew nervous. Why didn’t she answer? He was calling his mom, the only person who truly understood him. She had always protected and supported him. And now he needed to hear her voice. He sighed with relief when she picked up the receiver and said hello. "Mother?" he asked. "This is Norton." If anyone could always cheer him up, it was she. He had called her the moment he got home.

Her own voice came back over the line. "Well, well, if it isn’t my son, the treacherous prick who put me in this hellhole." Norton’s mother lived in an assisted living care facility.

His smile evaporated when he heard her response. He knew what it meant: the Alzheimer’s was affecting her personality, just as he was told it eventually would. Still, he pressed on. "Mother, you don’t understand," he countered. "I am having some problems, I need to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" she replied. "Look here, you worthless little shit! You’re the biggest disappointment of my life! Because of you, I have no friends, no man, no home, and no grandchildren! I devoted myself to you, and all I got in return was misery!"

"Mom," he interrupted, his tone pleading with her. "Shut up!" she exclaimed. "Why didn’t you die in infancy? I could have smothered the life from you right after I brought you back from the hospital. Just a pillow held over your face, and I would have been free! Damn you, damn you to Hell!"

Norton slammed the phone down. Then he ripped it out of the wall and tossed it across the living room. He screamed in rage and frustration, and started to destroy the apartment, throwing books and overturning furniture. He punched a wall and pain shot through his hand. He cradled his injured member. Hot, salty tears poured down his face.

Then the headache came back, stronger than ever. He grabbed his head between his hands and screamed, collapsing on the floor. Consciousness left him as he slipped into shock.

He came to three hours later, shortly before eleven PM. The pain was gone. Even his hand no longer hurt. He got to his feet and collapsed on the couch, turning on the television with the remote. He felt like he had touched an electric fence, his nerves were so frayed. Maybe a good show would help him relax.

A few minutes later the news came on. The lead story was about another woman being killed. Police discovered her body in a trash can behind a restaurant. Her head was missing. They believed that she had been murdered very recently.

Norton shook his head slowly. "Who could be so evil?" he asked himself.

"You could," came the reply from behind him.

He spun around, his hands balling into fists. But there was no one there. "It’s me, Norton, the other you," he heard someone say. The voice was coming from his rear, and he turned around again, but the apartment was empty except for him.

He reached behind his head to feel the bumps, and shook violently when he realized what had happened. A full set of facial features had grown on the back of his head, and the mouth was addressing him.

"Don’t be frightened, Norton. You have spent your entire life being afraid, and it is time for that to stop. You have to understand why this has happened. I am the side of you that you have always repressed, the outgoing, positive side, the one that can give you a real life. You always pushed me back. You were afraid to let me show. But you can’t do that anymore. You have gone too far."

Norton tried to speak, but could form no words. It was as if someone else had control of his vocal cords. Slowly, painfully, he found the ability able to talk. "W-w-what do youu mmean, gone tooo far?" he asked.

He felt his throat lock up as the face began to speak again. "Those women, Norton. You killed them, you know. It was the rage you have always felt towards our mother. It finally came out. You were sleep walking, you didn’t know what was happening. But your anger took over, made you stalk them, kill them"

"NO!" cried Norton loudly, tearing control of his voice from the thing on the back of his head. "No!! That’s a lie! I could never do something like that!" He tried to reach backwards, grab the face, rip it from him. But it fought him for mastery of his body, and he could only struggle in vain against its hold.

"It’s important that you trust me," the thing said. "You must believe me for the transformation to take place. Go to the freezer, see what you did earlier tonight." Norton felt his body relax, and he again had control over his limbs. For a moment he contemplated attacking the face, maybe getting a knife and hacking at it, but an inner urging drove him to do as it said.

The basement steps creaked loudly as he walked down them. The old freezer whirred softly in the corner. He switched on the solitary light bulb overhead. As he approached the appliance his hands trembled violently, and his steps were unsure. "Go on Norton," the face urged. "You must see! Go on, open it!" His hands touched the handle, then he jerked them away. "No, no, I don’t want to!" He turned to leave the cellar, but the thing took control of his body. His limbs jerking, Norton turned back towards the freezer, and his fingers closed over the handle.

The door opened, and the frigid air assaulted his body as his nostrils filled with the scent of freon. The machine was an upright, and on the top shelf rested something wrapped tightly in aluminum foil, about the size and shape of a large bowling ball. Norton’s stomach twisted with fear, and he tried to close the door and turn away. But the thing had control of him.

Slowly he unwrapped the foil, and as he did he saw the matted hair, and the flesh, and then the features. At last the bloody stump was revealed, caked in coagulated and frozen blood. He knew it was the woman who had been beheaded earlier that night.

Norton fell to his knees and retched, his abominable souvenir falling to the floor beside him. He wept and wailed. All of the pent-up sadness and anger within him came to the surface, and flowed freely through his mind like a river of sorrow.

After several minutes the face spoke again. "It’s not your fault, Norton. Mom was always so protective of you, she smothered you. She smothered us. You see, I am the real you, the person you were meant to be. Let me take over. We will be happy from now on. And there will be no more deaths."

Silence fell over the basement as Norton tried to gather his thoughts. "What do I need to do?" he finally said. "Nothing," was the calm response. "Just let me emerge. I promise you, there will be no pain, no fear. Only joy for both of us."

Norton stood and took several deep breaths, readying himself. "All right," he declared, relaxing his mind and body as best he could. "Go ahead."

His neck started hurting, blazing in pain as it twisted. His face began to shrink into his head. And then an explosion of pain tore through his skull as he sank into a dark, dark place.

"Impressive resume, Mr. Powers," said the finance manager to the handsome young man sitting across from him. "When could you start?" "Immediately," was the reply. "I’m anxious to begin work." The older man smiled broadly as he stood up and extended his hand. "Welcome to the team," he offered. The applicant stood as well and gave his new boss a hearty shake. "Glad to be with you, sir."

"You can begin tomorrow, then. You will be taking over a position vacated a month ago by your predecessor, Norton Smathers. He was a great fellow, but always a bit odd. Was with us ten years, then stopped coming in one day. Have no idea what happened to him. His home burned down mysteriously one evening, but no sign of his body was ever found." "Sorry to hear that," the new employee, who identified himself as Michael Powers, offered. "I‘ll do my best to fill his shoes." "I am sure you will, son, I am sure you will."

Michael stepped out of the supervisor’s office and stood silently, surveying his new workplace. A pretty young receptionist walked past him, but stopped to introduce herself. She smelled of sweet perfume, and there was a sparkle in her eye that indicated interest. He smiled warmly and said he looked forward to getting to know her.

As she walked away, he stared at her neck, and his heart pounded with excitement.

Poor, naïve Norton, he thought, as he got into his sports car and drove to his fashionable apartment on the north side of town. He actually believed that it was him who had killed those women, never suspecting that something else controlled him while he slept. Wonder where he is now? Ah well, it doesn’t matter, he assured himself. It was he who had the body now.

Michael popped open his briefcase with his left hand while he drove with his right. He gently stroked his new souvenir, the forearm of a woman who had disappeared two nights ago. He laughed loudly as he looked forward to his new job. The hunting would be very good, very good indeed.

©2002 Bill Wilson

Bill Wilson is 36 years old, call Athens GA his home, and has had fiction published in various electronic and print pubs, including The Murder Hole, The Nocturnal Lyric, The Haunted, The Blue Lady, and two stories will be in the Halloween issue of the print mag Black Petals. His non-fiction book, Build a Catapult in Your Backyard, was published last year by Loompanics Unlimited (www.loompanics.com). Besides books and writing, Bill enjoys camping, working on old cars, intelligent conversation and Jazz.