I felt I was being stalked by one of my mental patients, a woman named Ariadne Vasilou who had drugged and tortured her lovers killing two of them.
They called her the Black Widow and the name suited her.
Now, it seemed I had fallen into her web and she was noiselessly and patiently preparing to devour me too.
Somehow she was able to use her psychic powers to remotely view every detail of my life.
I was determined to resist her using any means I could.
That night, in my condo, I deliberately altered my routine. I avoided the stereo and flipped through the TV channels in search of a film.
I found an obscure movie set on a university campus.
A young professor found a way to return to the past and relive moments with his deceased wife.
The complication was, he was falling in love with his beautiful assistant who was also his deceased wife’s best friend.
The wife was a dead ringer for Ariadne—huge dark eyes and Jackie O looks.
The beautiful assistant was a clone of my own deceased wife.
The improbability of this being a coincidence roared through my brain.
I was totally taken aback and shaken. I shut off the TV, drank one too many scotches and fell into bed.
I always believed life demands something of you, whether you can do it or not.
I didn’t want to continue counseling Ariadne, but felt I had committed myself to the task. I couldn’t very well back out and my pride wouldn’t let me. Still, she had managed somehow to cross that boundary between doctor and patient and wrestle control from my hands.
I was determined to take it back.
“You look a little worse for wear, Dr. Logan—didn’t you sleep well last night?”
Ariadne turned her huge dark eyes upon me, causing me a sudden mental chill.
“I’m fine,” I parried.
“You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said—television is bubblegum for the eye—you just mindlessly watch it, and feel your brain shrivel. It can be disturbing, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, it can,” I said off-handedly.
I tried to turn the conversation back to her.
“Do you get to watch TV in here?”
“Yes!” she brightened, “I watched a very romantic film last night about a poor professor who lost his wife—funny, he reminded me of you.”
Her voice rose on a singsong note and she stared at me with her huge dark eyes.
I felt my skin crawl.
“Jung talks about synchronicities,” she went on, her hand fluttering upwards to her throat, “seemingly impossible coincidences—I think he’s much more spiritual than Freud. What do you think, Dr Logan?”
“I think you’re playing games with me.”
“Really? I love games.”
“What games do you like to play?”
“All kinds of games. I especially love I spy. Do you like that game, Dr. Logan?”
Again, she put me on the defensive. “I haven’t played that since I was a child.”
She giggled. “Ooh, not that game, silly! I mean the one where I lay on my cot and see what you’re up to. That’s much more interesting.”
I had to ask. “What types of things do you see?”
“I see you drink too much scotch—you have a beautiful condo with floor-to-ceiling windows and you lie there sometimes watching the bright jumble of lights and wondering why…”
“Stop!” I shouted.
She smiled innocently at me, eyes dark and cavernous, mouth ravenous.
“You want me, just like that professor in the movie wanted his assistant. I don’t see why you don’t admit it.”
I called for the guard. She didn’t argue or protest. She just gave me a pitying smile.