Snakes! They were crawling all over him, twining around his legs and arms, slithering and sliding over his body while he lay helpless. Little ones, big ones, all colors, endlessly covering him with their slippery-dry, squirming presence. One of the loathsome creatures was coiling itself about his neck, slipping across his face, darting its terrible, forked tongue —
+++++Richard Trent woke up screaming, his body slick with sweat, a dryness in his mouth and throat choking him, and his heart pounding frantically. For a long while he lay staring at the ceiling, holding his eyes open to prevent slipping back into the terrible sleep. Stay awake, he told himself softly, stay awake and you’re okay. They can’t get you if you’re awake. Stay awake!
+++++He slipped off the bare mattress that he slept on—which rested directly on the floor. The thought of a raised bed under which who knows what might be lurking was out of the question. Morning sun streamed in through the uncurtained bedroom windows of his second-floor apartment.

***

Finding his trousers, he shook them violently, balled them up, and squeezed them searchingly. Convinced they were safe, he pulled them on quickly. Next, his stockings. Laying them on his dresser top and pressing them cautiously with his hands. Safe. Put them on. Finally, shoes. Trent peered suspiciously into the openings of his brown suede loafers and laid them on the floor, then methodically trampled them, starting from the toes and working to the heels. Safe. Put them on.
+++++Not bothering with a shirt, Trent carefully made his way out into the living room where all the furniture, with the exception of one straight-backed chair, was pushed tightly against the walls. The lone chair stood in the center of the room. On the floor beside the chair, a large plastic mat held a package of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ashtray. This arrangement had been devised because Trent could no longer sit at a table with his legs and feet out of sight, even during daylight hours, without breaking into a cold, panicky sweat. Slipping down onto the chair wearily, he lit a cigarette with a soft sigh of relief and watched the liquid flickering flame of the lighter.
+++++Trent had always felt a revulsion towards snakes. Even as a child, when the other boys played with the scaly monsters, Trent hated them. Watching his playmates coil the terrible things around their arms or necks had sickened him. But now, at nearly forty years old, it had turned much worse after the event in the national park. The fear had grown, and now it ruled his life.
+++++ His memory of what had happened was incomplete—nonexistent, really. Dissociative Amnesia, his doctor called it. He’d gone out for a hike through the forest as he had often done, only this time he awoke in a hospital bed with no memory of what had transpired between the time he’d left his car in the National Forest Preserve parking lot and then awoke in a hospital room.
+++++He was told that some other park visitors had found him lying unconscious in a shallow gully beside the hiking trail, roughly half a mile from the trailhead. He had superficial injuries on his hands, arms, and face—probably the result of passing out and falling into the gully—and a head injury that the doctors told him appeared to be a severe traumatic brain injury, based on his having remained unconscious for nearly two days. There had been suspicion from the park rangers that he may have been attacked, but his phone, watch, and wallet were still with him.
+++++Trent recovered quickly and was able to return to his job as an architectural drafter within a week. And then the dreams began. At first, they came a few days apart. Dreams of being in a formless void, terrified and surrounded by a swirling dark menace. He would wake drenched in sweat, his heart racing, unable to remember any detail except the overwhelming fear that stayed with him into wakefulness. The frequency increased, became nightly, and then repetitious through the night. The idea of sleep became a horror, and his waking hours were little better with the nameless fear wracking his mind.
+++++Trent contacted the doctor who’d treated him in the hospital. A CT scan, blood analysis, and even a spinal tap were done, but uncovered no abnormalities. The doctor suggested a psychiatrist and referred him to a practitioner named Foster Reynolds. Trent immediately took to Reynolds; he was sympathetic, listened carefully to Trent and prescribed a regimen of Prazosin as a way of providing some immediate relief. He also had Trent begin keeping a sleep log, and during several therapy sessions sought to discover events in Trent’s past that could surface now to create post-traumatic stress—but there seemed to be nothing of significance.
+++++The drugs began to help after a few days, but the nightmares continued, even if not as frequent and intense. Reynolds began a course of hypnotherapy, trying to discover what it was that might be hiding within the dark, twisting mental episodes.
+++++And then the dreams changed. Gone was the nebulous, surreal, living darkness, replaced by a vivid, tactile phantasmagoria filled with snakes…. In the dreams he could feel the weight of them sliding across his body, coiling around his arms and legs, their musky scent filling his nostrils; hear their hissing; see their evil forked tongues flicking at him, their lidless staring eyes appraising him as if looking for a way to slither right inside of him.
+++++Nothing that the doctor tried helped. Trent’s wife, Lydia, had been sympathetic—at first. But at last, his obsession became too much for her, and they separated, Trent moving into the tiny apartment he presently inhabited. Now he lived in constant fear not only of real snakes, but of the very possibility of there being snakes near him, hiding and waiting, then when he slept, crawling out of their hiding places to torment him.
+++++He even had trouble touching anything that in any way reminded him of a snake. He had to sit on his chair in the middle of a room and pray that serpents wouldn’t completely take over his daytime hours too. Pray that they wouldn’t come slithering out from under his couch and the overstuffed chairs to get to him.
+++++He drew on his cigarette and watched the smoke float upward in a thin, spiraling stream. Coiling, winding, climbing upward like a smooth, slithering —
+++++Trent slammed the cigarette to the floor in disgust and leaped up to stamp it dead in a wild frenzy. He then delicately picked up the flattened cigarette and dropped it into the ashtray. Suddenly, across the room, he saw one. Large, multicolored, somehow slithering out from the furniture lined up against the wall, then rearing up, staring at him, tongue flicking the air.
+++++“No!” Trent screamed, instinctively jumping backward. And then it was gone. But it was there! Had been there! He was gasping, unable to get enough air into his lungs. He turned slowly, eyes searching the room, and froze. There! On top of the table by the window, coiled as if ready to strike.
+++++“Go away!” Trent yelled.
+++++He snatched up his phone, which also rested on the floor well away from any furniture, yanked out the charging cord with a feeling of revulsion, and pushed the speed dial entry for Dr. Reynolds. After the first metallic buzz, there was a faraway click, and then a cold, sterile, female voice. “Doctor Reynolds’ office,” the voice announced.
+++++“I’ve got to talk to Dr. Reynolds right away!”
+++++“I’m sorry,” the voice shot back rapidly, “the doctor’s with a patient at the moment. If you would like—”
+++++Damn you! Trent wanted to scream but forced himself to say: “This is Richard Trent. Please get me Dr. Reynolds. I’ve got to talk to him now!”
+++++“Oh! Mr. Trent,” the voice said. “Just a moment please, I’ll see if I can get the doctor.”
+++++“Hurry, please,” Trent told the voice urgently and then fidgeted impatiently until Dr. Reynolds’ firm, self-assured tones came through the phone to him.
+++++“Hello Richard, is there a problem?”
+++++“Yes!” Trent hissed, suppressing a scream. Then, regaining control, he softened his tone. “Yes doctor, it’s terrible, it’s getting worse all the time. I can’t sleep or eat or anything. They’re following me all the time. Everywhere—everywhere I go. Even in the daytime now!” Trent’s voice rose steadily as he spoke.
+++++“Following you, Richard? The… snakes?”
+++++“Doctor, you’ve got to help me! Oh God, you have to help me quickly! I can’t stand it any longer!” At the end, his voice broke as though he was about to begin sobbing.
+++++“Richard, Richard,” the doctor said softly, “take some deep breaths—do the exercise we worked on. I’ll come over there right away.”
+++++Trent felt relief flood through his body. “I can see you now?” he asked eagerly, and continued quickly, “No, no, don’t come over here. They’re all over this place. I’ll come to your office. It’s safe there.” He sighed deeply. “Lord, it’s the only safe place left.”
+++++“I can send a car—”
+++++“No! God no! I’ll get there—I just can’t do it in a car.”
+++++“As you wish, Richard,” the doctor replied. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
+++++In a frantic rush, Trent grabbed his keys and fled the apartment. Bounding carelessly down the stairs, he dashed out of the building and across the parking lot to where his Vespa scooter was parked. He had neglected to put on a shirt or coat and was naked to the waist, but this did not even register in Trent’s mind.
+++++After traveling less than four blocks, Trent became aware of his trouser legs flapping in the wind. He abruptly swerved his scooter to the curb.
+++++They had followed! They were with him, wriggling in his clothes.
+++++Trent leaped off the scooter and, oblivious to the stares and comments of passersby, proceeded to tear off his shoes, socks, slacks, and shorts. He left the clothing in a small heap on the street and climbed back onto his scooter. Completely naked and immensely relieved, he continued on his way.
+++++At the river that divided the city, he once again pulled to the curb. To get to Dr. Reynolds’ office, he had to cross the river. Doubt and uncertainty overwhelmed him. He could either take the bridge or the tunnel—either choice held unspeakable terror for him.
+++++The bridge with its horrible, snake-like cables overhead was fearsome, but the tunnel was dark and shadowy. He recalled its serpentine twists and turns, its rounded, seemingly ribbed walls, and he shivered uncontrollably. It had to be the bridge. Anyway, he told himself, the bridge will be less crowded and much faster. And at that moment speed was of paramount importance. Swinging his scooter back out into traffic, he drove on in the direction of the bridge.
+++++Richard Trent did not know it, but he could not have taken the tunnel under the river even if he had wanted to. The tunnel was closed because its ventilation system had failed, and now traffic on the bridge was unusually heavy. To his amazement, Trent found himself trapped, halfway across the bridge, in a hopeless snarl of automobiles.
+++++As he maneuvered around the slowly moving cars, oblivious to the honking horns and shouts from astounded motorists, Trent began to panic again. What if Dr. Reynolds didn’t wait for him? What if he went somewhere to visit another patient? But these notions dissolved quickly. Doctor Reynolds loved him—he would wait for him and help him.
+++++Traffic was still barely moving. A few horns blared displeasure intermittently, but most drivers had abandoned that feeble form of protest and merely sat back waiting, staring at their cell phones, paying no attention to the naked man on the motor scooter.
+++++Stalled there, staring ahead, he mentally tried to will the cars in front of him to begin moving, then he did see movement. But it wasn’t the cars… it was the suspension cables hanging down, now beginning to writhe. Trent was twisting his head frantically back and forth, desperately seeking salvation. On each side of him the river stretched off, blue and crinkly in the sun. As Trent stared at the beautiful, crisp water, he suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of peace and security. He was startled by the simplicity of it all. The lovely, soft blue river would protect him. It was the answer! He could even hear it calling, come to me, I’ll keep you safe.
+++++Richard Trent got off his scooter, letting it fall to the street. Moving like an automaton, he made his way between the other cars. He lost awareness of his surroundings. The fact that he had found a solution to his terrible curse was all that registered in his mind.
+++++“I’m coming,” he said softly as he made his way toward the side of the bridge. A quick jump took him over the low retaining wall and onto the pedestrian walkway. People were shouting as he climbed onto the bridge railing and poised himself over the water, hearing nothing but the gentle, persuasive murmuring of the river.
+++++“I’m coming,” he repeated. Then, bending slightly at the knees, he sprang up and away from the bridge just as a large man made a desperate lunge for his legs—and missed.
+++++The instant Trent’s feet left the railing, something changed. Suddenly the river was a twisting, writhing thing pushing up to meet him. The inviting blue waters turned shiny black, the rippled surface a scaly skin. The murmuring turned to a terrible hissing that filled his ears, and Richard Trent fell, screaming all the while.

***

Lydia Trent stopped by a bench just off the walkway in the riverside park. Looking down the river, she could see the span of the bridge where it had happened. Fitting, she thought, and slowly sat down on the bench, still gazing at the bridge in the distance. It was only a few minutes before Dr. Reynolds arrived, walking at a purposeful but unhurried pace, and stopped before her. He wasn’t a tall man, somewhat pudgy, slightly balding, an unremarkable face ornamented with a neatly trimmed Van Dyke.
+++++“Hello, Lydia,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.
+++++“Doctor,” she replied with a slight nod. He sat down beside her on the bench.
+++++“How are you doing?
+++++Lydia shrugged and turned back toward the bridge. “I’d like to know the full story,” she said.
+++++Reynolds cleared his throat, paused a moment looking into her eyes, then said, “Well, when I began the hypnotherapy sessions with Richard, it was apparent to me that those dark, unsettling dreams he was having were a mask for whatever it was that caused his amnesia and it simply became a matter of discovering what that was.
+++++“Richard loved you very much, Lydia. You might even call it obsession. Extreme emotional dependence, at any rate, so strong that he couldn’t admit to himself the fact that you tried to kill him out there in the forest. Thus, the amnesia and the dreams to prevent that memory from breaking through.” Reynolds looked away across the river for a moment, studying the bridge, then turned back.
+++++“After our conversation—when you… brought me into your confidence—I decided the solution was to redirect that trauma. I found the fear of snakes he harbored—a minor ophidiophobia—and… enhanced it. Then it was only a matter of time.”
+++++“Snakes…” she said.
+++++Reynolds shrugged. “It could have been anything, but that was there. And it made the whole scenario plausible.”
+++++Lydia nodded, opened her purse, extracted a white business-size envelope, and handed it to him. He accepted the envelope and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
+++++“Not even going to count it?” she asked with a humorless smile.
+++++“I trust you, Lydia,” Reynolds replied mildly. “I think we have to trust each other now, don’t we?” He paused, then asked, “No trouble with the insurance company, I take it?”
+++++Lydia shook her head. “He’d had the policy for several years; it was well beyond the suicide exclusion period.”
+++++Reynolds nodded his head, stood, took a step away, then turned back. “I’m sure this has put a lot of stress on you,” he said in a kindly tone. “If you ever feel the need to talk—to work it out—I’d be happy to help.”
+++++Lydia’s eyes widened and her lips parted, then she shook her head. His lips were turned slightly in a smile, but his dark, close-set eyes held a chill, obsidian glitter. A shudder ran through her body.
+++++“Doctor, I’d sooner cut my throat.”

[Image Credit : Photo by Luke Jones on Unsplash]

Skip Senneka

Skip lives in the state of Minnesota in the USA, and he’s been a storyteller from childhood on—sometimes to his parents’ chagrin. For the better part of his life he also enjoyed writing down those stories and his love of putting words together in interesting ways has also led him to writing poetry. Recently his fiction has appeared in the magazines Killer Nashville, and Everyday Fiction, his poetry in Harrow House and Space & Time Magazine. He is a voracious reader, and when he’s been asked to name a favorite teacher he responds: “Most of the thousands of authors I’ve read over the years.”