The Withering Man

Albert Schofield shuffles down a hall towards Ted Ellison who’s fidgeting with his new Polaroid, a 180 model from last year. He sees Ted fumble with the viewfinder by the interview room.

Ted’s got a soft smile, sports a ‘Hey pal, cheer up’ face. Albert catches that look as he gets closer.

“Polaroid! Nice.” Albert cheers.

“Britney can’t stand it.”

“It was your anniversary gift!”

Ted chuckles, “She’s kicking herself now. She quiets down when I frame pictures of the kids though.” He tenses his thick brow. “Christ, you’ve lost weight!”

Albert pauses. “Diet, exercise. Long hours at the bureau.” He says shakily.

Ted replies, “Yeah, well I just get fatter after long hours. I don’t see you at the gym though.”

“Jog in the neighbourhood.” Albert almost spits out his answer, feigning confidence, hoping the jitter in his jaw was less visible than it felt.

Ted must be a poker champ; Albert can’t read belief or suspicion on him.

“Share your diet with me later, let’s get started. Get in here, Gandhi.” Albert feels Ted’s wide hand gently nudge him into the room. He trudges in with a small laugh and notices guards in the corners.

“You boys haven’t got a dessert rack to escort to the cafeteria?” Albert jokes.

Nametag on the left, Walter, jokes back, “It died in transit.” Walter chuckles, tapping his belly.

“Formality. If they’re any good at their jobs, we won’t notice ‘em while we talk.” Ted shoots a half-serious glance at them as he sits at the center table. They salute in unison and laughter breaks out. Albert lends his meek giggle to the chorus as he takes a seat, his back facing the guards, Ted towering across from him. Albert watches Ted lower the camera onto the table, overshadowed by a Sony tape recorder. The recorder’s reel-to-reel face looks down at the poor thing. Albert pities it.

“That recorder isn't big enough.” Albert cracks.

“Tell me about it.” Ted grunts.

The tape rolls.

—————

CONFIDENTIAL TRANSCRIPT: OBSERVATIONS OF SUBJECT AARON HOPPER.
CASE NAME/NUMBER: THE WITHERING MAN. NO. 010066
DATE: SEPTEMBER 16TH, 1966.
INTERVIEWER: TED ELLISON (T.E.), DIRECTOR OF THE UNCANNY ACTIVITIES BUREAU (UAB).
RESPONDENT: ALFRED SCHOFIELD (A.S.), CHIEF RESEARCHER FOR UAB.

T.E.: I won’t waste time with introductions, this is for my reference. I want your observations; we’ll get to the photos in a bit.

A.S.: Right. Aaron Hopper, thirty-seven, was brought in from Mount Sinai on September twelfth. He’d been in hospital since last Friday. Hopper had all the symptoms of blood loss, but no wounds. Huge dip in blood pressure, his heart was almost hammering through his ribcage, nurses said he almost jumped out of bed with every beat.

T.E.: Internal bleeding?

A.S.: None. Wasn’t until Saturday when bruises on his neck appeared. You ever had a hickey? Suction bruises, both sides. What rung our bells, though, was when he’d dropped ninety-four pounds… Ted? What’s with the look?

T.E.: Nothing. Fast forward, what’s his condition like under our roof?

A.S.: Ted, he’s got no blood. He should be dead, but he’s still mumbling to himself, always apologizing.

T.E.: Apologizing, let’s talk about that. Investigations got back to me about his storage lock-up. Nothing special but a photo of him with his kids. Al? You alright?

A.S.: Yeah, yeah.

T.E.: Well, we learned Hopper’s kids died in a house fire. Could be that’s what he’s sorry for. Now, the photos research took…

A.S.: Before that, we swabbed his body. We found hirudin, a chemical that prevents blood clotting. Leeches secrete it to feed. The pictures, well… To the naked eye, they’re invisible, but in pictures, we can see two toddler-sized leeches hooked to Hopper’s neck. They’re still latched on, even though Hopper’s dry. His skin’s marble, his temperature could make a corpse sweat.

T.E.: So, wha- Albert.

A.S.: What?

T.E.: Your neck. Bruises.

A.S.: Seriously?

T.E.: Walter, bring some water. Take this.

A.S.: What’s with the note? I’m fine!

T.E.: Easy. Note’s just where I keep the spare key to my office. Fetch us some bottles from there, quicker than going to the cafeteria. Look, Al, humour me, will ya? You’re divorced, right?

A.S.: Yes.

T.E.: Nineteen-sixty-four, September eighth, your son.

A.S.: Fuck, Ted.

T.E.: Car accident?

A.S.: I didn’t-

T.E.: I’m not bringing this up to make you feel bad, but you see what I’m getting at. Even if it’s just a theory I’ve gotta consider it.

A.S.: Ted, I’m fine, seriously! It’s just long hours. What? Walter?

T.E.: I’m sorry.

A.S.: Let go of me! Walter! What are you doing? Ted! Don’t take my picture! No!

END OF TRANSCRIPT

—————

FROM THE JOURNAL OF TED ELLISON, FATHER OF TWO

December 1st, 1966

A hundred ‘withering men’ as of today. (Bureau ought to rethink its naming conventions.) No space for them, they’re spread between the observation and medical wings. Endless rows. All of them shivering. Some are from the bureau. Al, God help him, is still pleading. His faded eyes search for hope when he sees me, like he’s anticipating good news. His skin’s saggy, just sits flat on bed and bones. Someone’s gotta make sure his drooping lips don’t drape down his throat and choke him.

The worst part – yeah, it gets worse - is the sound. Their metal beds rattle nonstop because of their convulsions. Walter’s down there too. Sat down to listen to him once, not sure why. “I should’ve locked it up, it’s not a toy. I should’ve locked it up, it’s not a toy.” Over and over. Man wants to defend his home; gun takes the kid’s life. Times that by a hundred, a choir of grief on repeat.

Then there’s the suckling. You couldn’t make it out when it was just Hopper but get enough of these guys together, you can actually hear the ‘leeches’. A litany of tongues circling your ears. We’ve issued soundproof earmuffs to block it out but it’s no help. People at the bureau won’t eat, anyone who dares to have an appetite has to eat privately, the sound of chewing now makes us irritable and sick. Just the other day a girl flinched when she heard me swallow spit a little loudly. We’re losing weight. When someone points it out, people get defensive, even the women, who haven’t withered yet.

There’s this sweaty, meaty iron stink that’s soaked into everything. It’s strongest when you’re with the withering men but it clings to everything now, brush against a wall at the bureau and you’ll coat yourself in some grease. When I settle into my chair at work this stink wafts upwards, the metallic updraft floods my nose. It sits in my hair and my clothes feel like they get wetter as the day goes by.

At some point I stopped noticing it, but it’s when I brought all this home that makes me so fucking sick. My family holds their noses around me, the kids tease me, and my wife can’t get the stink out no matter what. The first night I slept in our bed with the smell on me, we woke up to a ‘Ted-shaped’ grease stain. We had to get rid of the old sheets, even had to flip the mattress over. Now she has me sleeping on the old couch in the garage and even that’s starting to feel like sleeping in butter.

Stomach’s turning just thinking about it. Need to stop. I’m Sorry, Al.

Almost Christmas. Need to get my kids gifts.

Ted E.