The Territorial

When he came home from his first appointment, Harold felt lighter than he had in months. “I think I’m going to get along well with her,” he told his wife, kicking off his shoes at the door. “She’s funny, in a strange sort of way.”

His wife, Anne, smiled over her shoulder as she stirred a pot on the stove. “That’s good, Harold. You’ve needed someone who could make you laugh again.”

“She’s sharp,” he said. “I told her I didn’t understand where all the stupid crap I say comes from. And you know what she said?”

Anne chuckled. “What?”

“She said, ‘Probably your brain. If not, I can schedule you for surgery and have your throat cut so we can look down at the other end.’”

They both laughed, though Anne’s laughter faltered when she noticed the way Harold’s face lingered.

He grinned, but it wasn’t the easy grin she knew. It looked rehearsed. “She’s got a dark sense of humor.”

“Sounds like it,” Anne said, stirring again. “You didn’t take her seriously, did you?”

“Of course not,” he said, but the words sounded like a question.

That night, Harold dreamt he was sitting in her office again. The fluorescent light hummed above them, steadily pulsing like a heartbeat.

The walls seemed to breathe, swelling with each intake of air, exhaling softly through the vents. Dr. Malin sat across from him, her thin hands folded on the desk, glasses reflecting no light; eyes a pool of still darkness.

“You still don’t understand,” she said.

“Understand what?” he asked.

“Where it all comes from.”

She tilted her head, and the motion was too smooth, like the hinge of a machine rather than the movement of bone and tendon.

“The words that aren’t yours. The things that bubble up when you speak. Do you think they belong to you?”

He wanted to answer, but couldn’t, as his throat felt tight, swollen. The room smelled like antiseptic.

“Maybe,” she whispered, leaning forward, “it isn’t your brain after all.”

She reached across the desk and touched his neck, just below his jawline. Her fingers were cold and slick, like the skin of a deep-sea creature. “Maybe it’s coming from somewhere deeper.”

Harold woke with a jolt, gasping for air.

His neck ached, and when he touched it, he found faint impressions, as though fingers had pressed there. He told himself it was a dream, but the ache persisted throughout the day.

When he saw Dr. Malin again the following week, her office was different. The walls were darker, and the corners less defined.

He tried to shake it off as anxiety, but she noticed his distraction.

“Something on your mind?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I had a dream about you.”

She smiled slightly. “That’s common in therapy. The mind projects.”

“In the dream, you said the words that come out of my mouth might not be mine.”

Her expression didn’t change. “And do you believe that?”

He wanted to laugh it off, but her eyes pinned him in place. “Sometimes, I say things I don’t remember thinking. Like someone else pushed them through me.”

Dr. Malin nodded slowly, as if confirming something. “Would you like to find out where they come from?”

He blinked. “You mean what, hypnosis?”

“Something like that,” she said, rising. “Lie back on the couch. Relax your throat. Let’s take a look.”

He laughed nervously. “You’re joking again.”

But she wasn’t smiling.

The next thing he remembered was a light, bright, and sterile. He was lying down, staring up at a ceiling that seemed to stretch on forever.

His throat burned, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth.

“Don’t speak yet,” Dr. Malin said softly. Her voice echoed strangely, as if she were speaking through a tunnel. “You’re all right.”

He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t move. Only his eyes darted, wide and panicked.

“I didn’t cut deep,” she said. “Just enough to let it breathe.”

She turned to a tray beside her. Something squirmed on it, a slick, writhing mass the size of a child’s hand, pulsing faintly with veins of light.

“This,” she said, lifting it with tongs, “is where your words were coming from.”

The thing made a faint clicking noise, like teeth chattering in the cold.

“I’ve seen many like it,” she continued. “They root themselves in the host’s throat and whisper up into the brain. Most people never know they have one. But you,” she smiled, almost proud, “you listened.”

Harold tried to scream, but no sound came. His throat felt hollow, a void stretching into something vast and cold.

Dr. Malin leaned close, her eyes black and endless. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “The defective one is gone, and we have another to replace it.”

Her mouth opened wider than any human’s should. The thing in her tongs twitched, then leapt, and he felt it wetly slide down his throat, wriggling into place.

Darkness bloomed in his vision, and he felt himself sinking, not falling, but descending, as if pulled down by invisible threads.

Anne found him the next morning sitting at the kitchen table. He smiled when she entered, although his eyes seemed glassy, unfocused.

“Morning,” she said softly. “Rough night?”

He blinked once, slowly. “No,” he said, his voice lower than usual, almost two voices overlapping. “I think I understand where the words come from now.”

Then he smiled again, and something deep within that smile twitched.