Free Shivers by William Schoell

helpless, not knowing where to go. He realized he’d been crying without even being aware of it. He sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. He sobbed, suddenly hating his pathetic little apartment, feeling tragically hemmed in by the very walls, locked away with useless pieces of furniture that would dare to exist when his dismal life was over. He looked up again. It was all so clear, so pathetically clear.
    He got up and switched on the television, turning the volume up higher than usual. He needed to hear other voices, see other people. He knelt down in front of the set, staring so hard into the picture tube that his eyes began to squint. It took a moment for the picture to come in. He felt a chill, reminded of something—but it dissipated as soon as he could make out the images on the screen. An old western. Lots of noise. Shooting, hollering. He made the volume louder. He relished it, not really paying attention to the action or the dialogue. Just losing himself in the noises and images. Lots of images. Sane, familiar images. Comforting. Like blue.
    He had no idea how long he’d been in front of the set like that when he heard someone in the next apartment banging on the wall. It snapped him out of his condition. He quickly lowered the sound. The banging stopped. He continued to look at the screen for another ten minutes, but by then was back to normal, able to face reality again. He shut the TV off. He hated westerns.
    Eric got up and stood there awhile rubbing the bridge of his nose. What a trip! He must have gone crazy, all because of that trance he’d been subjected to. He’d have to get himself together, be prepared to deal with any other psychic attacks that might occur. He had tapped into a conscious force so powerful that it had twisted his emotions, causing him to dive into a fit of depression that was senseless and unnecessary. Worse, it had been draining. He seemed to ache all over.
    He was all right now. He went into the bathroom without pause. He splashed water all over his face and looked in the mirror. His normally rosy complexion was cadaverously pale. He looked like he’d been through the wars. His thick, mussed-up black hair and thin black mustache stood out startlingly against the pallid flesh. He looked much older than thirty-seven. The heavy eyes from lack of sleep. Cheeks too fleshy; someday they’d be jowls. Not handsome. Not ugly. He had a professional face. Competent. Almost mousy—until he opened his mouth and spoke to you. His authoritative voice always made it clear that he knew what he was talking about, that no one could push him around.
    He was a small man, thin-boned. He would never have a weight problem. He would have had a nice body had he worked at it. He was divorced. Sometimes lonely. Mostly not—due to a large collection of friends and acquaintances that he’d acquired over the years. Fascinating people. Many of them in his own line of work.
    He drank two more glasses of water, then went back into the bathroom to urinate. He kept watching the door as he did so— why? he asked himself—almost splashing his piss on the floor. He felt quite tired now, reasonably sure that the worst was over and that he could sleep a normal sleep. He brought his pillow and blanket into the living room, and slept on the couch with the lights on. First thing in the morning he would talk to someone about his experience.
    For now, he was content not to think about it at all.
     
    Detective John Albright sat in the kitchen of his house stirring a cup of reheated coffee. He poured in some sugar—too much sugar—from a box on the table. He took a sip, cursed under his breath, then downed half the cup in one thirsty gulp. He heard a rustling noise behind him, turned, and saw his wife coming down the hall from their bedroom.
    “It’s three o’clock, dear,” she said softly. “Is something the matter?”
    John sighed heavily and sat back in the chair. “Just couldn’t get to