Strangers by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

it was in total control of him.
    Abruptly he was aware of all the
weight
of that enormous darkness, and it seemed to be sliding inexorably in upon him, sliding and sliding, incalculably high walls of heavy darkness, collapsing, pressing down, squeezing the breath out of him—
    He screamed and threw himself back from the window.
    He fell to his knees as the drapes dropped into place with a soft rustle. The window was hidden again. The darkness was concealed. All around him was light, blessed light. He hung his head, shuddered, and took great gulps of air.
    He crawled to the bed and hoisted himself onto the mattress, where he lay for a long time, listening to his heartbeat, which was like footfalls, sprinting then running then just walking fast inside him. Instead of solving his problem, bold confrontation had made it worse.
    “What’s happening here?” he said aloud, staring at the ceiling. “What’s wrong with me? Dear God, what’s
wrong
with me?”
    It was November 22.
    4
    Laguna Beach, California
    Saturday, in desperate reaction to yet another troubling episode of somnambulism, Dom Corvaisis thoroughly, methodically exhausted himself. By nightfall, he intended to be so wrung out that he’d sleep as still as a stone locked immemorially in the bosom of the earth. At seven o’clock in the morning, with the night’s cool mist lingering in the canyons and bearding the trees, he performed half an hour of vigorous calisthenics on the patio overlooking the ocean, then put on his running shoes and did seven arduous miles on Laguna’s sloped streets. He spent the next five hours doing heavy gardening. Then, because it was a warm day, he put on his swimsuit, put towels in his Firebird, and went to the beach. Hesunbathed a little and swam a lot. After dinner at Picasso’s, he walked for another hour along shop-lined streets sparsely populated by off-season tourists. At last he drove home.
    Undressing in his bedroom, Dom felt as if he were in the land of Lilliput, where a thousand tiny people were pulling him down with grappling lines. He rarely drank, but now he tossed back a shot of Rémy Martin. In bed, he fell asleep even as he clicked off the lamp.
    •
    The incidents of somnambulism were growing more frequent, and the problem was now the central issue of his life. It was interfering with his work. The new book, which had been going well—it contained the best writing he had ever done—was stalled. In the past two weeks, he had awakened in a closet on nine occasions, four times in the last four nights. The affliction had ceased to be amusing and intriguing. He was afraid to go to sleep because, asleep, he was not in control of himself.
    Yesterday, Friday, he had finally gone to his physician, Dr. Paul Cobletz, in Newport Beach. Haltingly, he told Cobletz all about his sleepwalking, but he found himself unwilling and unable to express the true depth and seriousness of his concern. Dom had always been a very private person, made so by a childhood spent in a dozen foster homes and under the care of surrogate parents, some of whom were indifferent or even hostile, all of whom were dismayingly temporary presences in his life. He was reluctant to share his most important and personal thoughts except through the mouths of imaginary characters in his fiction.
    As a result, Cobletz was not unduly worried. After a full physical examination, he pronounced Dom exceptionally fit. He attributed the somnambulism to stress, to the upcoming publication of the novel.
    “You don’t think we should do any tests?” Dom asked.
    Cobletz said, “You’re a writer, so of course your imagination is running away with you. Brain tumor, you’re thinking. Am I right?”
    “Well…yes.”
    “Any headaches? Dizziness? Blurred vision?”
    “No.”
    “I’ve examined your eyes. There’s no change in your retinas, no indication of intracranial pressure. Any inexplicable vomiting?”
    “No. Nothing like that.”
    “Giddy spells? Giggling or