In the twilight of the 20th century, humanity was at the
peak of its arrogance. The atom had been smashed, a flag left on
the moon, and the deepest oceans had been mapped. Oh, there were
those who watched the year 2000 approach with dread, fearing an
Apocalypse of Biblical or environmental origin. They were
considered, at best, to be misguided. For the most part, the
human race looked toward the future and saw only prosperity; they
never realized that the seeds to their destruction had been sewn
long ago, and now were bearing fruit...
June 6, 1998
�Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy
Birthday dear Laura, Happy Birthday to you!� The small crowd in
the Bell�s living room clapped and cheered as Laura blew out the
eighteen pink candles on her cake. She laughed and began plucking
the candles from the gooey white icing. Roland Bell, Laura�s
father divided the cake into six neat slices, and soon all of the
small gathering were munching happily on the birthday cake. Laura
took a bite, and relished the sweet taste of chocolate on her
tongue. She grinned at her new boyfriend, David Landon, as she
nibbled delicately on a frosting rose. He smiled back, his
true-brown eyes glittering with the humor that had attracted her
to him in the first place. He leaned forward and whispered, �You
sure do know how to show a guy a good time. Dare I hope we�ll
have our own private celebration tonight?� She giggled and
fluttered her eyelids at him playfully.
�Why, whatever do you mean?� She whispered back, in her best
�Scarlet O� Hara� voice.
�Humph. You know very well what I mean.� David tried for a
stern expression, holding it for a moment before he grinned back
at her. Only to realize she wasn�t looking at him.
Without warning, Laura yelled, �Look out!� and snatched the
pitcher of soda off the table. She flung the contents of the
container in a high arc towards the kitchen, soaking her parents
and sister Sara. Everyone stared at her, stunned. Laura blinked,
and looked at David. �The kitchen... it was on fire.� The family
traded bemused looks.
�Are you alright, sweetheart?� Her mother spoke carefully,
as if to a madman. Laura shook her head and walked over to the
counter, and traced a finger along the smooth, unmarked surface.
�It was. The counter was burning, and the stove.� Her eyes
begged the family to believe her. �It was. I saw it!� She shook
her head again, trying to clear the memory of the hungry flames
and the cracked, blackened surface of the counter from her mind.
She closed her eyes, one hand gently massaging her forehead. �It
was there,�, she whispered, �It was real.� Her father came behind
her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He stood silently,
looking at his wife with worried blue eyes. Deborah Bell shrugged
helplessly, as she wiped a rivulet of soda from her face.
Laura sighed, and said, �It�s alright. I�m okay...it must
have just been...something.� She straightened her shoulders and
her father removed his hand. �Thank you,...� She had turned to
look at her father, and stopped. Where her father should be
standing was only a skeleton. The blood roared through her ears,
and she whimpered slightly, drawing away from the yellowed, bony
hand the thing offered her. Behind the first skeleton, the walls
of their apartment were in ruins, and she could see the
devastated skyline of Chicago.
�What�s wrong?� The skeleton asked, its jawbone waggling
obscenely. It has my father�s voice, she thought in horror, it
has his voice! She screamed and backed away. It pursued her,
shouting something she couldn�t understand. She clapped her hands
over her ears and screamed, again and again. Her back ran into
the wall of the kitchen, and Laura slid to the floor closing her
eyes as great shrieks tore themselves from her throat.
�We�ve had to sedate Laura rather heavily, I fear. She
appears to be totally divorced from reality.� And, Dr. Soames
added mentally, wherever she is, it isn�t pleasant. He looked at
the four people seated in the waiting room. The two women were
sobbing quietly, and the younger man had tears running down his
cheeks. Soames doubted he even realized it.
�Will she be okay?� David asked. The psychiatrist hesitated
before answering,
�I hope so. Hopefully, it�s simply an allergic reaction, to
something in the food, or a drug she may have been taking. In
that case, recovery should be rather rapid.�
�And if it isn�t...?� Laura�s father pinned the doctor with
his eyes. Soames sighed heavily.
�If it isn�t, then we could be looking at schizophrenia.
Which will be much more difficult to cure, assuming we can cure
it. The best we can hope for in that scenario is to lessen the
symptoms.� He looked down at the floor. �I�m sorry. I hope the
toxicology screen shows something different.� Mr. Bell nodded.
�So do I, Doctor. So do I.� The family stood, Roland
supporting his wife, and David supporting ten-year-old Sara.
Soames solemnly shook hands with the father, saying as they
opened the door,
�I�ll call you when we know anything.� And I hope to God
that it�s good news. He thought back to the young woman, the
utter terror on her face as she�d been brought in, the ceaseless
shrieking that had only stopped when she�d been drugged
senseless. Somehow, he had a feeling that it would not be an
allergic reaction.
The car was silent except for the occasional sob or sniff
from Sara. The occupants avoided looking at each other. How were
you supposed to react when a loved one lost her mind before your
eyes? What could you say that could help? They could say nothing.
In the distance, but getting louder, fire-engine alarms whooped
and wailed in the background. As the car turned onto their
street, they could see a yellow-green fire truck, and a small
crowd gathered in front of their building. Small smears of smoke
hovered around, and as they pulled into the driveway, the bitter
smell of charred wood filled their nostrils.
�What�s going on here?� Roland demanded as he climbed out of
the car. An anonymous figure in a fireman�s uniform approached
him.
�Sir, do you live here?� Roland nodded.
�Apartment 32, why.� The fire man beckoned to a nearby police
officer, who trotted over.
�You the people who live in 35?� Roland scowled.
�Yes, I�ve said that already. What�s going on?� The officer
consulted a notepad he held.
�Seems there�s been a fire in your home,� He held up a hand
to stop and questions, and continued, �There doesn�t seem to be
much damage, you had a smoke alarm and it called us pretty fast.
The fire department was able to stop it before it spread beyond
the kitchen.� David and Roland exchanged a look.
�The fire was in the kitchen?� Roland asked sharply. The
officer glanced up at the other man�s tone, and answered,
�Yeah. The Marshall is pretty sure the cause was a short in
the stove. You guys are lucky though, it could�ve burned your
whole place down. Instead, you just lost some silverware and a
counter. You should consider yourselves lucky, if you ask me.�
�My God...�
�She knew, how did she know?� Roland stared at the apartment
building, and wondered.
February 20, 1999.
��DELPHI SYNDROME� CLAIMS 7 MILLION WORLDWIDE!� The New York
Times proclaimed. Dr. James Austin bought a copy and read it as
he walked. The article offered no new information, instead simply
rehashing the symptoms for the few people who hadn�t heard them
yet. The media really enjoyed the fact that each episode was
preceded by a �verifiable precognitive incident� as the Times put
it. It was this feature that had caused the press to name the
disorder after the mythological oracle. The name had stuck,
finally being picked up by the psychiatric community after they
had finally acknowledged it as a separate problem, and not an
atypical offshoot of schizophrenia. Now the race was on to find a
cure.
Delphi Syndrome was unique among mental disorders. It struck
all races, cultures, classes, and sexes equally, and had only one
predetermining factor: everyone who�d contracted it was eighteen.
No one younger, and no one older had ever been touched by Delphi
in its 9 month reign. The disease was also very predictable. One
episode of what appeared to be genuine psychic ability, a brief
period of lucidity, which soon turned into expressions of terror
so great that at least one quarter of those affected attempted
suicide before they could be admitted to a hospital; then the
final stage of total withdrawal into a catatonic trance. So far,
no treatment had affected the course of the disease in the
slightest. Both medical and psychiatric communities were
baffled.
Dr. Austin dumped the paper into a street side trash bin.
The media was as confused as the rest of the world...they just
refused to admit it. He turned and walked up a flight of stairs,
passing a small gold that read: San Antonio Psychiatric Research
Center. In the small, well-appointed foyer, a dark-haired man in
a white lab-coat waited. As Austin entered, the man gave him a
polite, professional smile.
�Dr. Austin?�
�Please, call me James. You must be Dr. Locke.� James extended a
hand, and the other man shook it briefly, but firmly.
�If we�re on first names, then I�m Michael.� He smiled. �I
think we have an interesting case here.� He gestured for James to
walk ahead of him down the hall.
Past the foyer, the hallway became gradually less homey and
more clinical. The carpet stopped, and was replaced by
easy-maintenance white tile. Wood paneling became padded, white
panels. Michael ushered James into a small room, filled with
computers and separated from another room by a large panel of
one-way glass. James looked through the slightly distorted view,
at a young man in restraints. The boy moaned softly as James
watched.
�That�s Larry Blaisdell, he�s in stage two. We�ve got him on
tranquilizers, and expect stage three in about two days.� James
nodded to himself. That meant the boy had been in stage two for
about ten hours.
�What was his stage one manifestation?�, James asked.
�Pretty small. He and a group of buddies were coming out of a
theater, and he saw a woman holding a small infant in a pink
blanket. He complemented the woman on her child, only to have her
tell him that she was only three months along. He was a psych
student, and checked himself in immediately afterwards. They sent
him here while he was still lucid.� James frowned. So far this
case was average.
�So what did you send for me for? Sounds like a
stereotypical progression.�
�Ah, but it�s not!� Michael waved a set of papers in James�
face. �Larry remained lucid for an entire hour into phase two!�
�That isn�t possible.� James replied flatly, �The boy must
have been faking.�
�It is possible. We had him hooked up to the EEG, he was
demonstrating all the manic brain activity of stage two, but
remained lucid enough to tell us what he saw.� James finally
turned from his study of the patient and faced the other doctor.
One bushy, black eyebrow raised, he enquired, �Well? I assume
from your words that stage two involves hallucinations? So what
did the boy see? Bogeymen?� Dr. Locke glared at him.
�Pretty much.�, he snapped. �It is my belief that we aren�t
dealing with hallucinations, but rather with an extended version
of the original Delphi incident.� James� other eyebrow rose to
join its mate, and he opened his mouth. Michael cut him off.
�No, don�t say anything yet. I know it sounds strange, but
listen to this.� He strode across the room to a small shelf, and
grabbed a cassette player and a small unmarked tape. Waving James
to a nearby chair, Michael slipped the tape into the player and
pressed the �play� button. A voice, James assumed it was Larry�s,
filled the small room.
�You�re dead. You�re a skeleton, and you�re talking. This
room... I don�t know what it looks like to you, but to me it�s
decayed and crumbling. Everything, oh God, everyone is dead. I�m
scared to look at myself, please don�t make me look. What if I
look down and all I see is bones? I can�t close my eyes, I see
right through my eyelids. There�s mold on the walls, and your
hand is gone. Please go away, go away, I can�t stand it, I can�t
look at you anymore. You�re dead. You�re DEAD!� The tape broke
down into a man�s hoarse sobbing, and Michael shut it off.
�That was toward the end of his lucidity. Soon after that he
started screaming; throwing himself against the walls, and we
sedated and restrained him. Now, I know what you will say... that
it�s just a hallucination. But, what if it�s precognition to an
incredibly high degree? He and the others may be unable to see
less than three of five hundred years into the future, and the
things they see would terrify anyone.� James was silent,
considering. Finally, he looked up, and nodded.
�Actually, that does appear to be the simplest answer. I
hesitate to share it with our colleagues, however. They, like
myself, have a difficult enough time accepting stage one as a
true extrasensory experience. Besides, as fascinating as the
prospect is, it still doesn�t bring us close to a cure.
Hallucinations, we can prescribe drugs for. But... how are we
supposed to treat psychic ability?� Michael ran a hand through
his head, and sighed.
�I don�t know. But it can�t hurt knowing, can it?� James
snorted, and cast a significant look through the glass.
�For some people, it can hurt a great deal.�
September 24, 1999
Twelve million eighteen-year-olds world-wide now resided in
mental hospital, hospices, and private care facilities. Some of
the stage three sufferers were sent home, since the beds were
needed for the five hundred to a thousand new cases that poured
into institutions every day. The first wave of Delphis had, in
some cases, seen another birthday... but the world�s hope that
another year would bring their children back to reality was
unfounded. Or was it...?
In a small room in the Illinois State Psychiatric Hospital, Laura
Bell opened her eyes.
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