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particle board lined the walls – the kind that was
in style in the early 70’s. The blanket that covered him was more
like a quilt; hand sewn, old, and foul smelling. The musty scent of
the room combined with his pounding hangover was nauseating.

    A single window next to the
bed provided the only source of light in the room. There were no
overhead light bulbs and no lamps – only a few half-used candles on
a nightstand. Geoffrey peeled back the thin brown curtains and
looked outside. What the hell? Wheat fields for as far as the eye could
see.

    He sat up, grabbed his jacket and slid it
on, his head pounding as if it had been repeatedly bashed with a
hammer. He struggled to his feet and staggered - the dizzying
after-effects of the booze knocking him off center. The weight of
his feet creaked the floorboards beneath him. The noise was as loud
as firecrackers in the stillness of the room. He cautiously paced
towards the only door.

    Creeeeeak – Creeeeeak –
Creeeeeak .

    Once painted white but now a dull gray, the
rickety door seemed as if it would fall off its hinges at any
moment. Flakes of cracked paint littered the floor beneath it. He
walked slowly, gingerly towards the door. For some reason that
could only be chalked up as instinct, he tried in vain to minimize
the sound of his footsteps.

    Creeeeeak – Creeeeeak –
Creeeeeak . Each step impossibly
loud.

    He reached for the handle of the door; a
somber looking metal handle that was cold to the touch. He turned
it slowly and, like the floorboards, the decrepit door groaned and
screeched as he pulled it open, seemingly announcing his presence
to everyone within a quarter mile.

    His pulse quickened and he
could actually hear his heart beating - Boom – Boom –
Boom . The deafening silence, the
dilapidated room, the not knowing where he was; it was as if he
were stuck in a bad dream. As the door opened it slowly revealed
another room – a kitchen. Geoffrey racked his brain, desperately
trying to figure out where he was, wildly scanning his surroundings
in hopes of finding some shred of a clue. Faintly, he could hear
someone talking. And a laugh track - a laugh track from an old
television show.

    He warily entered the kitchen, its
floorboards creaking even more profoundly than in the bedroom.
Geoffrey searched for the source of the laugh track and found it on
the far wall on the left-hand side of the room. An old
black-and-white television sat on a shabby card table that
supported its weight with buckling legs. The television’s rabbit’s
ears antenna extended in a V-shape into the air. Parked in front of
the small t.v. was a frail man, wisps of white hair projecting in
every direction from his balding head. He wore a grungy white
sleeveless undershirt – a “wife beater” as Geoffrey called them.
The man chuckled heartily at the television as he spooned in a
mouthful of oatmeal.

    The man was…familiar. Geoffrey searched the
fog of his memory for the face and just before he placed it, the
creaking of the floor behind him spun him on his heels. An elderly
woman stood next to the bed he had just vacated; staring at him
with wild eyes.

    “Chuckie? There you are,” she said. Her
voice was shaky, desperate, disturbing. “You’ll catch your death of
cold, dearie. She held out her hands, as if holding an imaginary
coat, and approached. “Put this on, sweetie.”

    She was hunched over, her back folded over
at forty-five degrees as she stepped closer and closer. Geoffrey
swallowed and backed away; retreating with each step the old woman
took. His mind scrambled.

    Who the hell are you?
    How did you get into the bedroom without me
seeing you?
    This woman is fucking crazy.

    “Good morning, Mr. Winters!” said the old
man from behind him. Geoffrey spun to face him. “Don’t mind my
Bessie. She means no harm.”

    Geoffrey positioned himself against the wall
so that he could keep both of them in his sight – and so that no
one else could sneak up behind