Free Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren

under hypnosis, it seemed like
the fear returned at this moment.”
    “It did. The voice told me that they had to do some tests,
and that they were necessary. And the devices on the ceiling began to move
toward me.”
    “Could you communicate? Did the presence listen to your
thoughts or sense your fear?”
    “If it heard me, it did nothing to help me. I felt a
pressure on the sides of my head, and I heard a very high-pitched sound, like a
dentist’s drill. And I felt them doing things to various parts of my body.”
    “Was any of it painful?”
    “I sensed that it should have been, but I didn’t feel any
actual pain. Still, I begged them to stop in my thoughts.”
    “How long did this go on?”
    “It’s impossible to say. Minutes? Hours? I remember feeling
relief when the machines lifted away. And then I woke up in my own bed.”
    “Now, you didn’t realize right away what had happened.”
    “I woke up exhausted, but at first I had no memory of the
event. Then I began to have nightmares, these terrible images in my head. These
recurring feelings were so powerful that I was sure that something had happened
to me.”
    “And that’s when you discovered regressive-hypnosis therapy
and Dr. Yeardley?”
    “I’d never heard about it before, but I did some research
online and called her. After only a few sessions, she helped me remember
clearly what happened that night, and also to recall that I’d been taken many
times, as young as eight years old.”
    “Incredible. Incredible. When we come back we’ll hear more
of Carrie’s story. And joining us later will be Dr. Marsha Yeardley, a
psychotherapist and noted expert on alien abduction. And we’ll ask Carrie the
question, ‘Why her?’ Stay tuned, Waker Nation. This is Lee Danvers. And you’re
Beyond Insomnia.”
     
    ~ * * * ~
     
    “Who’s this idiot?” Martin asked himself. A car was
approaching in his lane, passing a semi, and rapidly running out of space on
this two-lane road. Martin backed off the cruise control, but it wasn’t going
to be enough. He hit the brakes. Too close for comfort, the car swerved back
into its lane. A familiar Lincoln Town Car flashed by.
    “Jeffrey,” Martin cursed. The semi roared by, clearly
annoyed, if Martin cared to anthropomorphize.
    Martin’s phone warbled. He let it ring as he got the cruise
control back up to speed. “Nice driving, Candy Man,” he said when he finally
answered.
    “Don’t give me that. I moved over in plenty of time,” said
Jeffrey. Martin pictured him, reclined, a single wrist on the steering wheel,
his irritating Bluetooth glowing in his ear.
    “What do you want?” Martin asked.
    “Long time no see. How’s the job hunt going?”
    “Poorly,” said Martin.
    “Well’s dry, man. No one’s hiring. And no one’s quitting.
Someone’s going to have to die for you to get an opening.”
    “Keep driving like that and I can have your job,” said
Martin.
    “Funny. And speaking of funny, I heard something else
hilarious,” said Jeffrey.
    “What’s that?” Martin asked, bracing himself.
    “Heard you got lucky in Brixton a couple weeks ago.”
    “I did not ‘get lucky.’ And please don’t be spreading that
around.”
    “So what did happen?” asked Jeffrey.
    “Her car broke down. I stopped to help. She had me over to
dinner to thank me.”
    “And that’s all? Everyone in Brixton’s got their own theory
of the evening’s events,” said Jeffrey.
    “That’s because they don’t have anything better to do,” said
Martin.
    “Everyone’s talking about the two hours you spent at her
place without her stepfather around. Inquiring minds want to know,” said
Jeffrey.
    “We had dessert,” said Martin. “And we talked.”
    “Uh-huh. What did you have for dessert?”
    “She baked a rhubarb pie,” said Martin.
    “She did what?”
    “She baked a pie,” said Martin. “Everyone told me she’s a
lousy cook, but it was really good.”
    “I’m sure it was,” said Jeffrey.