Aileen and the Aliens

Crime Fiction by Hillary Lyon

“I woke to the sound of dresser drawers opening. Someone was in the far corner of our dark bedroom, riffling through drawers. You were in bed next to me, sound asleep.

“Who are you,” I said aloud, sitting up on my elbows. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“In answer, this tall, slim man turned towards me, opening the palm of his right hand as if he was showing me something. And he was: In the center of his palm there was a tiny blue-white light, like a distant star seen on a clear, moonless night.

“I reached over to my bedside lamp and pulled the chain, but the light wouldn’t come on. I slipped out of bed and took the few steps to flick the wall switch. Again, no light.

“I looked at this shadow person across the room; he hadn’t moved but I knew he was watching me. I could feel my heart beating hard—I wondered if he could hear it. In his palm the star light twinkled.

“The lamp on my dresser, next to the bedroom door—I’d try that light. Moving like a mouse avoiding a big cat, turned toward my dresser, reached out my right hand to touch the lamp, and—

“My body lifted, slowly, smoothly until I was horizontal in the air about five feet from the floor, with my right arm still outstretched. The dresser lamp, I saw, was not a lamp at all but a glowing, pulsating red splotch, with black flecks floating inside.

“And the splotch was pulling me toward it.

“No!” I said, but the word came out an anguished moan. I’ve never been so afraid. Was this Death, come for me now, like a thief in the middle of the night? I’m not ready; there was still so much I want to do in this life. Projects to finish. Someday grandchildren to see.

“I awoke abruptly at 4:30 in the morning, with you and our little dog both still sleeping next to me in our bed.”

***

Over the first coffee of the morning, Aileen related this dream to her husband Mark. She always talked about her dreams, as if their interpretation would lend some meaning to her life, like she was reading tea leaves or tarot cards. He blew on his hot coffee and said, “Doesn’t sound like a visit from the Grim Reaper.” He took a sip. “No, it’s not about your fear of death,” he continued sternly. He’d learned a while back that if you say something with conviction, people will believe you. “It’s about you being abducted by aliens.”

Aileen put down her coffee without taking a sip. Part of her was relived at this interpretation; at least it wasn’t Death come to snatch her from this life. But there was a part of her that was more troubled by the interpretation. She’d often scoffed at people’s claims of abduction. How ridiculous! She’d snarked as she watched TV interviews. Why would a visitor from another galaxy be interested in a nobody like you?

And now she included herself in that ever-growing group of nobodies.

* * *

By the middle of the next week, Aileen was telling her friends, neighbors, family, and pretty much anyone else who’d listen that she was a victim of alien abduction. Most rolled their eyes. Last year she was a victim of Morgellons disease, and the year before that she was a victim of dysphonia, and the year before that…well, she’s always a victim of something.

Over their usual dinner out on Thursday night, Mark decided to have some fun with her. “Aileen, do you realize the spelling of your name is awfully close to the word ‘alien’?

She stopped in mid-chew and stared at him.

“And isn’t your name Irish for ‘bright and shining’ or something like that?”

Aileen swallowed hard and took a slug of her red wine.

“What a coincidence!” Mark laughed. “It’s like your parents named you ‘bright and shining alien’!”

She threw her napkin down on her plate of half-eaten spaghetti. Mark, who’d worked in food service before they met, hated it when people did that. It’s such a rude mess for the kitchen staff to clean up.

“I want to go home,” Aileen whined. “Now!”

* * *

Over the weekend, Mark encouraged her to join a local support group, so she could commiserate with other abductees. On the surface it looked like a caring gesture, pushing her towards this group, but in reality he was hoping it would get her out of the house—and his hair—a couple of nights a week.

A nearby Episcopal church hosted such a group every Tuesday and Thursday night, from five to seven. She became a regular.

* * *

Aileen blew in through the front door, startling both her husband and their little Bichon Frisé, Pepe, who was asleep in Mark’s lap.

“Oh, Markie!” She began breathlessly. He hated that nickname. “It was awesome! They believed me!” Her eyes glistened with tears. “They believed me!”

“That’s great,” Mark replied. He snapped off the TV; he’d finish watching Fire in the Sky when she was away at her next meeting. “It’s good to hear the group was productive.”

“And the session leader, Tim, he’s going to meet with me—one on one—to help me work out what really happened that night.” She sighed. “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”

 “I’m exhausted,” Aileen dramatically announced before he could reply. “I’m going to bed.” She didn’t ask how his evening was, if the dog had been fed, what he had planned for tomorrow.

Not for the first time, Mark berated himself for marrying her after only knowing her for six weeks. He was a handsome waiter with aspirations of being an actor; she was an orphaned trust-fund baby looking for stability. He swept her off her feet.

After their sex life fizzled out, they had little in common. Besides spending her money.

* * *

Aileen’s lunch with Tim turned into a three hour gab fest. Mark didn’t mind; her absence was relaxing. He took the time to take a swim in their backyard pool.

He floated out to the middle, exhaled his breath to empty his lungs, and sank to the bottom of the pool. Mark imaged he was an astronaut drifting away from his capsule. Keeping his eyes shut, surrounded by silence, he did his best thinking this way.

How am I going to get out of this marriage? He wondered as he drifted down. When they wed, he was more than happy to sign a pre-nup which stipulated if they divorced he’d receive a stipend for the rest of his days. At the time, the amount seemed generous; now he’d come to realize the amount was paltry. Insulting, even.

Aileen used the money like a leash on him; it’s what kept him in her backyard.

He hoped she’d fall in love with this Tim guy, have an affair. Then he could play the wounded, wronged husband. If they divorced under those conditions, maybe she’d feel guilty and be generous with the alimony. Nah, he argued with himself, her lawyers would get involved and I’d be screwed.

There had to be another way. And there was. Mark opened his eyes and swam up to the surface.

* * *

Aileen stumbled in from lunch cheerful, dreamy, and reeking of wine. Her blouse was missing a button, her hair was tousled, and her lips were a bit swollen. Mark recognized the signs; he knew immediately what she’d been up to.

Without saying hello, she began regaling Mark with praise for Tim. “He listens to me! I mean really listens! He says he can lead me through this trauma. He knows how. My God!” she cried. “I’m so lucky to have met him!” Aileen turned to Mark. “Thank you for encouraging me to go to that AA meeting! It’s the best thing that ever happened to me!”

Not meeting me, not marrying me, not our honeymoon in Hawaii, but going to a kooky Alien Abductees therapy group…That was the best thing that ever happened to you,  Mark groused silently. Thanks a lot.

“So,” he said, without a trace of resentment in his voice, “when do you have lunch with him again?”

 “Oh, next week sometime,” she answered as she examined her manicure to avoid making eye contact. “But—and this is awesome!—Tim’s made an appointment for me to meet with an actual alien abductee investigator this coming Monday morning. Dr. Cornelius Mantis. A real professional. He’s written several books on the subject, and has even hosted a couple of documentaries. Tim says we can find these docs on any streaming service.”

“And how much will this session with Dr. Mantis cost?” He’d research this guy when he had the chance, as he suspected Mantis was a grifter. Mark worried that Aileen was about to fall prey to a charlatan, that she was about to throw all their money away on this scam. He was not about to let that happen.

Aileen ignored his question, saying instead, “And the coolest part is—Tim thinks Dr. Mantis will want to use my case as the basis for his next documentary!” She blushed. Blushed! Mark hated the way Tim was feeding her ego; she’d be impossible to live with if this all came to pass.

“Again,” Mark prodded, “how much will this cost?” He learned early in their marriage that somebody had to watch their finances. And that somebody was him. Her accountants gave her anything she wanted; they were worthless parasites.

“Money, money money!” She teared up. “What does it matter how much if this helps me?”

“Aw, come here,” Mark said, taking her in his arms. He could smell Tim’s cologne on her. He ran his hand though her hair and pulled back abruptly.

“Aileen,” he said in his most serious tone, “there’s a small knot—or node—of some sort under your hair at the base of your skull…”

Wide-eyed, she gasped and moved her hand to the spot. She found it. “I think that’s a scar from an infected bug bite I got as a kid…”

“Is it?” Mark asked, knitting his eyebrows together in a pantomime of concern. He knew this story, but now he wanted to have some fun picking at her paranoia. After she fucked Tim, it was the least he could do. “You sure it’s not…an implanted tracker…or beacon of some sort?”

Aileen bit her lower lip. “I have to contact Tim,” she said as she headed for their home office. “Right away.”

“Maybe they’ve been tracking you all these years…maybe this is not the first time they’ve taken you…” He said, following her into the office. Planting seeds along the way.

He knew she’d send an email including his pronounced suspicions, which had now become hers. That meant a digital trail. Mark smiled.

* * *

Monday morning Mark sat at breakfast breaking off bits of toast for Pepe. He sipped his coffee as he read the news on his tablet, occasionally taking a bite of his scrambled eggs. The doorbell rang, as he expected it would. He put his plate on the floor, giving the remainder of his breakfast to his little dog.

He opened the front door to find a youngish man standing before him.

“Uh, hey, I’m Tim—Aileen’s Alien Abduction group host,” the man began. Ah, so this is Tim, Mark thought. Tim, who looked like a central-casting surfer dude: blonde, sun-tanned, buff, and effortlessly cool. Little wonder Aileen jumped into the sack with him.

“Nice to met you,” Mark replied wearing his best puzzled expression. He knew what was coming, but he wanted to hear Tim say it. “What can I do for you?”

“Aileen was supposed to meet me this morning, so I could take her to our appointment with Doc Mantis,” Tim said, shuffling his sneaker-clad feet. Expensive, designer sneakers. Mark suspected Aileen wasn’t Tim’s first poor-little-rich girl. “She didn’t show, didn’t call, hasn’t answered my texts…”

“I remember she said she had this appointment. She was gone went I got up this morning; I assumed she’d already left,” Mark shrugged. “I know she was excited to show Dr. Mantis the implant she’d found at the base of her skull.”

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “She thinks that node is a tracking device.” Tim pointed to Pepe the dog, who’d come to the door to see who was disturbing his breakfast. “Like the implants they put in dogs these days, in case they get lost.”

Mark leaned in close to Tim. “Do you think they,” here he rolled his eyes up to the sky, “were tracking her?”

“Oh man, I don’t know…”

“Do you think they came for her while I was dead asleep, and…” Mark said as he saw Tim’s eye widen, “TOOK her?”

Tim swallowed hard. “I gotta go talk to Doc Mantis,” he said walking backwards, away from Mark. He turned on his heel and sprinted towards his car, a sapphire blue vintage Trans Am, complete with Firebird logo on the hood. Because of course that’s the kind of car Tim would drive, Mark sniggered to himself.

“Please do!” Mark shouted after him. “And let me know what he says. Oh, I’m so worried!” He wasn’t, really, but Tim would remember he said that.

Mark closed and locked the front door as Tim sped away. He looked down at Pepe and smiled. Dogs were so affectionate, so obedient, so loyal. So unlike Aileen. “Come along, Peppers.”

The dog did a happy dance on hearing his nickname, because that was usually followed by treats or toys. Pepe followed Mark as he walked to the garden shed in the backyard to grab a shovel and a hack-saw. “I’ll soon have a new bone for you to chew. An ulna, I think.”

He took the saw, and the shovel leaning against the wall among the other gardening tools. The dog trotted beside him as they walked to the recently tilled flowerbed situated right along the edge of their expansive flagstone patio. The patio where he would soon set up his very expensive catadioptric telescope. I’ll need it to watch the skies! To search for Aileen! He laughed out loud at that thought.

Mark smiled at the pots of star-gazer lilies lined up for planting in that new flowerbed; what a clever choice in flowers he’d made! “Well, we have work to do,” Mark said as he flexed his fingers and scratched Pepe on the top of his furry head. “That body isn’t going to bury itself.”

---

Bio: Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.

Cover photo by The Author

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