Devil's Playground by D. P. Lyle Page A

night.
    Walter Limpke awoke with a start. At first, he wasn’t sure what had awakened him. The room was dark and quiet. His wife Margo slept beside him, undisturbed. The soft glow of the night-light spilled through the open bathroom door. Nothing seemed out of place.
    Then, a sharp pain exploded behind his left eye. He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple; the pain did not relent, but rather strengthened, throbbing a steady beat. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, attempting to relieve the pressure that steadily mounted within his head, neck, and shoulders. Mercifully, the sharp pain eased, the throbbing receded, but when he opened his eyes, he bolted upright in disbelief.
    The room’s darkness gave way to a pulsating glow, which seemed to emanate from the walls as if the sun had suddenly risen and painted them a luminescent yellow. The radiance intensified, becoming a fiery red-orange, while the ceiling melted into a swirl of green, gold, and red. The walls pulsated and rasped like giant bellows, as if the room was a living breathing entity.
    Walter sat frozen in bed, fearful, fascinated, confused. Bright flashes of silvery light rippled across the walls and ceiling and jumped across the room like giant electric arcs. He drew the blanket around him, tucking it beneath his chin as if it would offer protection.
    Again, he looked at Margo. She slept soundly, seemingly oblivious to the metamorphosis taking place around her. He attempted to call to her, but her name wedged itself in his throat. He extended a tremulous hand toward her, to shake her into wakefulness, but suddenly found himself standing in their walk-in closet, slipping on a shirt, then pants and boots.
    How did he get there? Why was he in the closet? Why was he getting dressed in the middle of the night? Confusion and fear smothered him. His chest constricted and sweat dotted his forehead, ran down his neck. Yet, he continued dressing, unable to elude the compulsion that drove him. 
    As he buttoned his shirt, he turned and peered from the dark enclosure at Margo. She stirred, but did not awaken. Again, he attempted to call to her, but once more his voice died somewhere in his throat.
    The odor of potpourri wafted toward him. One of the little bags of dead flowers Margo tossed around everywhere. He hated them, found them annoying, but now he wanted to hold the aroma, to clutch it to him in the hope it would pull him away from whatever held him. But, it faded and he suddenly was standing in the garage.
    Panic gripped him. What had happened, was happening? Fear wound his gut into a knot.
    His brain screamed at him to retreat into the house, to safety, but he could not make his legs take him there. Then, he was in his car, backing down the driveway, leaving the cul de sac where he lived, turning toward town.
    To anyone else, the night would have appeared dark, cold, quiet, typical for December, but to Walter it exploded into a kaleidoscope of color, swirling, blending, fusing into patterns and hues he couldn’t name.
    The sky, a restless ocean of Dreamsicle orange and purple, dripped onto houses and buildings of lime green, teal, and chocolate and hovered near streets, themselves striated with ribbons of gray and red.
    Awed by the colorful world around him, he lost all connection to place, time, or reality, knowing neither where he was going nor why he must get there. But, he must get there. Soon.
    As he entered the six blocks of downtown Mercer’s Corner, the familiar shops and buildings mutated into splashes of color and flashes of light, which smeared one structure into the next so that distinguishing the bank from the hardware store next door or from the side walk in front was impossible. The street, a lake of shimmering silver, reflected the hues, creating shadows of color upon color, staining the orange sky, which appeared to continually consume the reflections.
    He drove through town and wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the