It was my best friend Luke's idea to form our own detective agency, inspired
by the shows we loved watching together. We lived on Brook Street in a
small town in Oregon, so we called ourselves the brook Street Sleuths. We
advertised our services on the community board in Elmer's Market, which usually cost twenty
five cents a week, but mister Elmer kindly allowed it for free. We
worked on various cases in the space of a month or so over one summer.
Who's been taking the blackberries from Miss Jacob's brambles? Solved almost everyone who
passed by? And lots of chipmunks? What made the small hole in Lowry's
front yard solved a chipmunk? Yeah, we had an abundance of chipmunks in
town, but not all the mysteries involved the little critters. They were clearly
not miss to the adults who hide us. But the best thing about living
in that kind of community was the willingness of our neighbors to contribute to our
idea of fun. Luke and I were rewarded with many sodas and candy bars
for our slothing skills. Despite our success rate, the brook Street Sleuths was
a short lived agency. Our last ever case began with a very real mystery,
where is mister Page's dog? Frank Page was a retired widower then happened
to be my next door neighbor. His dog, Milo, a Yorkie,
was what Frank referred to as a pain in the proverbial. Milo was an
expert escape artist. He was always getting out of the yard and causing mischief
in town, but would usually come back home with his tail wagging after an
hour or two. One evening, we could hear from calling for Milo from
the doorstep. He had escaped as perr, but it had been several hours
and he still hadn't returned. My dad offered to drive around the neighborhood to
look for him, but had no lock. The next morning, I helped
Frank make a missing poster. We stuck a photograph of Milow on a sheet
of paper using a glue stick, and I neatly wrote the details underneath in
black marker, as dictated by Frank. Then we went to Elmer's Market to
use the photocopier and made ten copies. It should have cost us a dollar,
but mister Elmer said there was no charge and wished us luck in finding
him. Frank bought me a Cohler as a thank you. You're a good
kid, Ricky, he said, patting my back. I could hear he
was upset. We'll find him, mister Page, I said, The brook
Street sleuths are on the case. He chuckled. He's a piece of work,
but I'd be lost without him. I'll go knock for Luke just as
soon as we've put up these posters. We left one on the board in
Elmer's, then stuck the remaining posters on telegraph poles earned the two bus shelters
in town. I asked Frank if I could keep hold of the original photograph
of Milo. That way I could show it to the local residents during our
investigation. Before I knocked for Luke, I went back home to tell my
parents. Don't wonder too far, Ricky said, Mom, and stay out
of the woods. I don't like the thought of you boys in there alone.
There was a woodland area that lined the back of town. I absolutely
planned on looking in there. I told my mom I wouldn't though, of
course. I grabbed my bike and rode to Luke's to fill him in on
the details. We rode around town and knocked on doors, asking if they'd
seen Milow. It was mostly unsuccessful, but one lady had some potentially useful
information now that I think about it, she said on a doorstep, I
did see a little dog snifing around the brambles and Maple Road yesterday. Thank
you, ma'am, said Luke. We discussed it as we retrieved our bikes
from the end of the driveway. There are two houses on Maple Road with
brambles in the yard, he said, Miss Jacobs, I said, and
the Deans. Why did it have to be the Deans. The Dean family
were not known for their warm community spirit, especially the oldest son, Tommy.
He was a senior and notorious trouble maker who had caused Luke and I
a lot of grief. The family also had a much bigger, meaner dog
that would probably treat Marlowe as a snack. We'll go to miss Jacob's house
first, said Luke. If we're lucky, we won't have to go to
the Deans at all. We left our bikes on the sidewalk and knocked on
Miss Jacob's door. Well, she said, warmly, if it isn't the
Brook Street sleuths, Hello, Miss Jacobs. We said in unison, what
can I do for you? Boys? We're looking for my neighbor, mister
Page's dog, I said, showing other photo. He went missing yesterday afternoon.
Oh no, she said, I'm familiar. I sometimes see him in
the yard by the brambles, but I haven't seen him for days. Thank
you anyway, Miss Jacobs said, Luke, of course, she said,
I'll keep my eye out. Oh and help yourselves the blackberries. As we
walked down Miss Jacob's pathway, we looked at each other with concern, knowing
we now had to visit the Deans. We took the opportunity to eat a
few of the ripened berries before braving it, then wheeling our bikes to their
house. The yard wasn't as kemp as the others in the neighborhood. It
was overgrown and there were scraps of metal from various vehicles darted around like a
junk yard. We slowly walked up the path. As soon as we knocked
on the door, there came loud barking from inside that made us jump,
followed by shouting. The door flew open and mister Dean was standing there holding
back their monster of a dog by the collar. We just barking at us
like crazy. Shut the hell up, he yelled down at it. It
quietened down but growled under its breath. What do you want, oh,
sir, I stuttered. We're asking around to see if anyone has seen my
neighbor's dog. I took out the photo he went missing yesterday. But what
makes you think I had anything to do with it? He snapped. It's
not like that, Sir, said Luke. We're just asking if you've seen
him, that's all. He sometimes wanders around the neighborhood. Who do you
think you are, he said, Columbo or something. Luke and I turned
to each other like it had been a bad idea. I'm sorry to have
bothered you, Sir, I said, turning to leave. Believe me,
he said, if that rat had been anywhere near here, Cain would have
sorted it out. The dog started barking again, and we hurried back down
the path. I don't want to see you boys on my property again,
he yelled after us. I won't hold him back next time, he laughed
loudly. As we quit rode away, my heart beating hard. We stopped
around the corner to catch our breath. Then we started to laugh uncomfortably.
God, I hate that family, said Luke. We heard the roar of
an engine, and a ross bucket of a car came hurtling around the corner,
its tires screeching on the road. It was Tommy Dean behind the wheel.
When he noticed Luke and I, he gave us the finger and sped
away out of sight. So suspicious, I said, but maybe too obvious?
Luke shrugged. They're assholes. But I think we need to investigate more
first, When it felt like we'd exhausted all avenues in town, I suggested
we look in the woods. Luke was apprehensive, as like me, he
was forbidden from the woods without an adult. But it seemed logical that a
dog would be drawn to the woods, especially with all the chipmunks the chase.
If we do find Milo there, I said, we'll just pretend we
found him some place that won't get us in trouble. We looked round for
an hour or so, shouting Milo's name from time to time. He got
to the point where we figured if Milo was somewhere he could hear us,
he would have made himself known by now. Before we left, we both
confessed to kneading the bathroom badly, so we went in opposite directions to find
a secluded spot to pe. Ricky. I heard Luke scream. After a
few minutes, I quickly finished and retrieved my bike. Where are you,
I yelled, my nerves on edge over here, I saw him standing in
a small clearing and rushed over. What is it? I asked, out
of breath. He didn't answer. Luke had found what look like the sight
of a sacrificial ritual. There were strange symbols drawn onto several tree trunks,
and what appeared to be blood. In the center was a slab of stone
with a chalk drawing of three triangles, all pointing the same way but overlapping
each other. In the center of that was a severed animal paw. It
had the same auburn colored fur as Milo's. Oh my god, I said
quietly. I really want to leave now, said Luke in enormous whisper.
I nodded, YEA, come on. As I went to pick up my
bike, I saw a small satchel sitting by a log I walked over to
it. Luke, spotting it too, leave it, Ricky, He said,
it's evidence. I said, about to pick it up, but then
I remembered not to contaminate it. I used the stick to lift the flap
open and peek inside. There was a pack of cigarettes and some school textbooks
seenior biology and math student. I said. I found a large leaf and
used it to cover my fingertips, opening the first page of the biology book
written in pencil in the top right corner Tommy Dean. A shiver went through
me, as I told Luke, we got on our bikes and rode like
the wind, heading straight to the Sheriff's office. We burst in and both
started yelling whoa fellas, said Deputy Campbell from behind his desk. Calm yourselves,
now, what seems to be the problem. We explained everything. Luke
and I were escorted back to the woods to show the deputy what we had
found. Sweet Mother of Jesus, he said, calling it in. It
was a search conducted at the Dean's house. Inside Tommy's bedroom, they not
only found an ancient book of the occult containing the very symbols found at the
scene, but also Milo's Carla. Apparently, he protested his innocence as they
took him in for questioning. I heard all of this through the walls as
My parents talked about it that night, having been banished to my room.
Poor mister Page was devastated. The disturbing nature of it rocked our sleepy community.
But Luke and I were commended for our help in the investigation. We
both received honorary badges from the Sheriff's department, making us feel like real investigators.
After a couple of days, Miss Jacobs required our services again. My
mom was reluctant for me to carry on playing detective, as she called it,
but my dad talked to her. Around Luke and I went to visit
Miss Jacob's late afternoon and were greeted by a wonderful smell. Take a seat,
boys, she said, I begged you a BlackBerry pie cal let her.
Thank you for your services to the community. Thanks, Miss Jacobs,
we both said together, excitedly, sitting in the dining table, where a
warm pie sat in the center. She cut two slices and plated them up,
handing us one each by an appetite, She smiled, taking a seat
as we started talking into the delicious pie. Well done on your investigation.
That must have been quite a shock discovering such a gruesome scene. Luke nodded,
it was scary. It wasn't it ricky? Yeah, I agreed,
but we handled it like professionals. She chuckled. I'm sure you did.
I always knew that Tommy Dean was a rotten apple. I can't help but
wonder what it was all for, though I sacrifice that little dog. We
looked at each other and shrugged with mouthfuls of pie. And those symbols,
what did they mean? My dad said it was devil worship, said Luke.
I'm sure he's right, She said, to think I'd only seen that
poor dog a few hours before Tommy took him. I can't help but think
I could have done something to help. You couldn't have known, miss Jacobs,
I said, it's not your fault. She patted my hand. Thank
goodness, you heroes found those school box of his had the scene. Imagine
what else he could have done if it weren't for you, I tried to
think. Luke and I looked at each other and smiled with pride. Excuse
me a moment, she said, I'll be right back. We're heroes,
I chuggled. When she'd left the room. We found the villain and saved
the day, Luke giggled. As we kept tucking in, I couldn't help
but feel like something wasn't quite right. Then it hit me, Wait,
didn't Miss Jacob say she hadn't seen Milo for a few days when we were
investigating. He shrugged, Yeah so, but she just said she saw him
a few hours before Tommy took him. His brow furrowed. Oh yeah,
she's an old lady, though, Ricky, my grandma is very forgetful.
I contemplated it, but it still didn't feel right. My eyes widened.
The Sheriff's department didn't release the evidence, I said, quietly, how does
she know about the books? Luke's eyes widened to match mine. As Miss
Jacobs came back into the room, Will you look at that? She said,
you've almost finished your pie. Let me cut you another slice. No,
I said, clearing my throat. It was delicious, but very filling,
very well, she smiled, let me take this dish away. Then
when she lifted the pie dish, Luke and I both stared in horror.
Scratched in the wooden table with three triangles overlapping each other. Oh yes,
she said, there was a mystery for you to solve, A mystery ingredient.
I wonder if you've got the detective skills to work it out. Luke
looked at me like he was about to cry, and I felt exactly the
same. He coughed a little and put his fingers to his mouth, pulling
something out. What is it, Luke, she said. He covered his
mouth like he was about to puke hair clue number one, she said,
and you ricky, I shook my head. We'd like to leave now,
Miss Jacobs, nonsense, she said. She took my plate away and put
the pie dish in front of me. Go on, have a look.
I looked at Luke, who was clearly terrified. My hands were shaking as
I picked up the fork and pulled pieces of pastry away. As I searched
the thick, dark purple filling my fork made a clink sound. I picked
it out with my fingers. I could instantly feel what it was, a
long canine tooth. I threw it across the table and pushed myself back,
grabbing Luke's arm. As you made a run for the door. It slam
shot, and the light that had been coming through the windows dimmed. The
symbol on the table began to glow as if it was drawn in embers.
Luke and I had her arms around each other as we sniveled, not being
able to comprehend what was happening. Miss Jacob smiled from across the room,
her hair flowing as if caught in a breeze. What are your findings,
she asked. The brook Street sleuths must be able to figure it out.
You killed mylow, I shouted, and the thought of it made me sick.
Bravo, she clapped, Make the sacrifice, feed the innocent. But
why, screamed Luke. I am far older than any human should be.
She cackled, that takes a bit of dark magic to maintain. She grabbed
Luke and I tried to pull him away from her, but with a flick
of her hand, I was forced against the wall. She threw him down
onto the symbol, and he screamed out as smoke began to rise around him.
It burns, he screamed in pain. Leave him alone, I cried,
but she turned to me. The features that made her Miss Jacobs faded,
revealing something ancient and decayed. Blue skin hung from visible bones, empty
sockets, wispy strands of hair, teeth surrounded by split, leathery gums.
Your next ricky. She yelled deep and demonic. Her mouth opened wide,
and she took Luke's whole head inside. His arms and legs began to kick
about as I could hear muffled groans coming from inside her. There were snapping
sounds as part of her dislocated like a snake to swallow him whole. Before
long, his shoulders could no longer be seen. She made greedy, guturnal
noises as she forced his body down her throat. I was paralyzed against the
wall, forced to watch as my best friend was eaten alive. I could
feel my mind snapping like her ancient bones. Luke's legs were still kicking as
she reached his knees, and her long bony fingers gripped around his ankles to
push the last bit of him inside. There came a loud bang, something
that startled her as well as me. The doors of the dining room flew
open, and three officers burst into the room, led by Deputy Campbell Jesus.
He yelled, taking aim at what was once Miss Jacobs. She wretched
and Luke's whole body slipped out of her, collapsing on the table in a
cocoon of translucent goo. I fell from the wall and hit the floor hard
as the officers opened fire on her, forcing her back with a multi layered
scream. The window shattered and natural light poured in, making a scream even
louder as if burnt by the rays. I ran to Luke and pulled him
from the table, relieved when he was still breathing. The glowing symbol was
fading, and with a final shriek, the former Miss Jacobs became a cloud
of smoke that was seemingly sucked into the symbol. Then everything when deathly silent
for a few seconds. As it happened, Tommy Dean had managed to convince
the sheriff to investigate Miss Jacobs. He insisted that he had seen her on
his property and that is satchel couldn't be found afterwards. Thank god he did,
because Luke and I would not be here today if it wasn't for him.
We carry the mental scars, but we live. Suffice to say,
the brook Street Sleuths were no more after that day. I never grew out
of my cartoon phase. From an early age, I was drawn into the
colorful characters and upbeat voices. This is what led me to deep dive into
the creative process behind them in my teenage years and pursue it as a career
as an adult. When I landed my first animation job, it was a
dream come true. I knew the hours were long, the time was thankless
compared to the more public names that do the voices and direction, but this
is what I wanted to do. However, as my time went on with
a fresh start up, I started to notice something strange about my co workers.
For starters, the team was small. You would think this would be
a bottleneck for output, but the team was efficient. They'd work late in
the night and be there for days that they weren't scheduled. I never knew
how early they showed up. All I knew was that it was earlier than
me, no matter what time I started. This is often seen as a
negative in the animation industry. Overworked and underpaid is a common sentiment. However,
this wasn't some strong arm move by management. It was completely voluntary.
Whenever I asked any of them what they were working on, they'd be vague
and quickly changed the subject. This kind of evasive behavior was from the whole
team. But the strangest one of all was the company's founder, a man
named mister Jones, who was always in his personal office, door permanently closed
besides his goings in and out working on some exclusive project. No one was
allowed to see, and it seemed it was only me that was curious.
He was a cold and calculating man, dead eyes, but he held himself
in a strong manner. No matter how much I tried to justify this as
him just carrying himself the way a leader should, I always got a strange
feeling about him. As I continued to work with the other members, I
quickly picked up on how talented they were. It was how we got away
with such a small team despite the heavy amount of projects we took on.
They were multi specialists too, colorists doing shading, the sound team picking up
for the animation, tween us pitching in for direction. There was never a
dropped beat in the flow of work, which made me feel pale in comparison,
having only specialized in animation. Despite their chemistry, everyone seemed distant,
almost robotic communication was just one step away from nonverbal. The startup was advertised
as new, but they acted like they'd been working together for a lifetime.
The moment things began to unravel was when I had a meeting with the elusive
mister Jones. I was summoned to his office to discuss a project I was
working on. As I entered, I couldn't help but feel a sense of
a knease. I felt this was all of a sad to discuss my lack
of chemistry with the team. This was the first time I'd seen any one
besides mister Jones enter what was deemed his space, and it was me that
had the honor of crossing the threshold. Mister Jones sat behind his desk,
his eyes cold and calculating as he looked me up and down. He didn't
say a word for several moments, and the silent beats were almost suffocating if
this was some kind of CEO scat tactic he was working. Finally, he
spoke, I've been watching your progress on your project and I must say that
I'm impressed, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Your work
is truly exceptional, and I think you have the potential to be one of
our top animators. I can't help but feel a sense of pride at his
words. All the extra time the others put in yet I was the one
that stood out. It was a boost to my ego, to say the
least. Maybe the others were spread too thin, covering for each other,
and I managed to stand out in my one true field. But I couldn't
shake the feeling that he was hiding something from me. Thank you, mister
Jones, I said, trying to keep my voice steady yet polite. I'm
glad you're pleased with my work. Oh I'm more than pleased, he replied,
his eyes narrowing. In fact, I think that you're ready to take
on a special project for me, a project that will take your skills to
the next level and truly showcase your talent. I was about to ask him
more about the project, but before he could speak, he stood up from
his desk and walked over to me. He placed his hand on my shoulder
and I could his cold clammy fingers gripping me tightly. You will work on
this project, and you will not speak of it to anyone outside this company,
he said, his voice low and menacing. Do you understand, I
nodded, feeling a sense of fear coursing through my veins. I didn't know
what he was planning, and he gave no hints to what was about to
come. Mister Jones didn't make me sign any NDA's but I still felt the
pressure of legal come down if I were to breach this verbal agreement. As
I worked on the special project for mister Jones, I couldn't help but notice
that there was something strange about the entire situation. For one, I was
never allowed to see any other final animations that were created by my new personal
team. Whenever I asked about them, I was met with yet more vague
answers and quickly read a eggs it to another task. I tried to brush
it off as just the way things were done at the company, but as
time went on, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more sinister
at play. I started to notice that the other members outside my team were
acting strange as well. They were even more secretive than usual, and they
always seemed to be on edge around me. I tried to talk to some
of my coworkers about it, but they all shut me down. They told
me that I just needed to focus on my work in a manner that was
the closest human from any of my interactions. I couldn't shake the feeling that
something was off. I knew that I needed to find out what was really
going on, but I didn't know how. I was already making myself a
target with my questions. I was stuck working on these special projects for mister
Jones, and I was afraid of what would happen if I tried to dig
too deep. Something I picked up after a few projects was that I never
knew who the clients were that commissioned the animations or where they were going once
they were finished. Whenever I asked, I was yet again met with more
avoidance. I added it to yet more things I'll never get to know,
But I couldn't shake the growing curiosity behind this company. The questions that true
to the forefront of my thoughts was what were these animations being used for?
One day, while working on a project, I stumbled across a stack of
papers on mister Jones's desk. It was a rare time I was permitted to
enter a space since there were some machines in there that had niche uses,
and was tasked to get one. The papers were all in voices and receipts,
and they were addressed to various government agencies from around the world. I
was stunned. I knew the clients must have been high profile for the boss
to make us churn them out with such urgency, but I didn't know he
went this deep. With this snippet of an answer, A flood of more
questions rushed at me, and it got to w Renchel. When I looked
closer, the specific agencies listed were from branches i'd never heard of, acronyms
that weren't the obvious culprits to common online conspiracy theories, names that sounded like
something from a sci fi movie. I quickly left with the equipment I needed
and hushed up about it, having learned to stop asking questions at the workplace.
When I got home, I searched all the names I could remember online,
but nothing showed. I tried pairing it with the respective countries, and
it still came up blank. I knew they must be real, because the
animations had to be going somewhere, so I tried the most direct answer I
could think of. I made sure to remember a specific branch, one based
in my own country. My plan was to call the public government number and
asked to be put through to the specific branch. I dialed the number,
my heart pounding in my chest. I was nervous as the phone rang,
I waited anxiously for someone to answer. When someone picked up, it was
a polite woman asking how she could help me, and I nervously asked to
be put through. Without a response, I was met with a strange clicking
sound and a high pitched tone. I was terrified, in a panic,
I hung up the phone immediately. I didn't know what was going on,
but I knew that I needed to be careful. I didn't want to put
myself in any real danger. I tried to think of more ideas and left
it for the night. The next day, as soon as I showed up
for work, mister Jones called me into his office. He straightway let me
know that I was fired. He gave some vague reasons about my performance not
being up to par, which I felt couldn't be true. I'd been praised
not too long ago about my outstanding performance, and my workflow hadn't declined since
working the new position. In fact, it might have improved. I immediately
knew it was connected to the phone call i'd made. I was angry and
upset at having lost my first animation job. But I knew there was nothing
I could do. I bagged up my things and left the office, feeling
a sense of dread. As I left, I was watched by the others
in a cold silence, their emotionless stairs piercing through me, though not with
inflictions of embarrassment, but rather a sense of malice. After being let go,
I continued to look for a new job, but I struggled. I
tried to use the old company as a reference, but quickly learned that it
was impossible. When I called the company for a referral, the calls never
went through. I went back to the office, but he was vacated.
Not even a drop of ink was left. I searched online for more information,
but the sites were now blank. It was as if the team never
existed. I didn't know what was going on, so I tried to dig
deeper and look for the clients that I remembered from the papers, but it
was impossible. I tried to do research about my old animation company, trying
to uncover what was really going on, but the more I looked, the
more frustrated I became. They covered their tracks well if I couldn't find anything
out. While working there being this distant made everything much harder. Meanwhile,
I was still on the hunt for a new job. I struggled to explain
the gap in my work history between now and my education. Whenever I mentioned
the company, potential employers would look at me with confusion. I started to
feel like I was going crazy. However, one day, while I was
being interviewed for another fresh animation team, I mentioned them again. The interviewer
looked at me with skepticism and told me he hadn't heard of them before.
I was getting frustrated. I was about to explain further when a worker who
was passing by overheard our conversation and nodded his head. I went on to
bond the interview as usual and left when outside worker quickly rushed over to me
and handed me a slip of paper with his contact information. Please you have
to reach me, the worker said urgently. I used to work there too,
was all he said, as he rushed back inside. Leave me standing
there with the slip of paper in my hand. When I got home,
I stared at the slipper paper that was given to me. It was obvious
he did it all in a rush. As the paper was hastily ripped from
one of the work documents he was carrying, and the penmanship had holes from
how it was written, most likely on the palm of his hand. I
didn't know if I could trust him, but if I wanted to investigate further,
I knew I had to take the plunge, so I decided to take
the risk and contact him. I sent him an email and waited anxiously for
a response. A few hours later, I got an answer. All it
contained was a link to a small website that documented one of the animations I
had briefly worked on. The website was some small conspiracal site that looked like
it was made with the most basic templates, but what I read was wild.
It tried to correlate the animation releases to a major political event and one
off is a coincidence, But every example given was so specific to each country
an event. I now knew more, but I had no idea where to
go from here. My curiosity was always thirsty, and this did nothing to
quench it. I was craving more. After this, though, my attempts
to contact the worker failed. I started to get worried, so I decided
to try to call the company where the worker was from, hoping to find
some new contact information, But when I died the number, I was met
with a strange clicking sound and a high pitched tone. I lugged them up
and they too disappeared. After my attempts to contact the worker failed, things
started getting weirder. My friends and family seemed to be avoiding me. Whenever
I ran into them in town, they would walk away from me, as
if they didn't want to be seen with me. It was as if I'd
somehow become a pariah, and the thought made me feel isolated and alone.
Even when I went to the store to buy groceries, the cashiers would barely
acknowledge me. They would wordlessly serve me and take my money, but they
wouldn't make eye contact or engage in conversation. It was as if I was
poisonous air breath held until I was safely away, and the thought made me
feel like I was losing my mind. And after everything, I was still
unable to find any solid information on my own until one night I was flipping
through the channels or watching TV, and I came across an advertisement for a
worldwide premiere of a new cartoon. The cartoon was going to be translated into
multiple languages and broadcast around the world, and as I watched the advertisement,
I recognized some of the countries listed. They were the same countries that were
listed on the papers I had found on mister Jones's desk. My eyes widened.
I don't know what's going to happen, but I can't shake the feeling
that something terrible is going to happen. The worldwide premiere of the new cartoon
is fast approaching. I don't know what kind of effect this cartoon is going
to have on its viewers, but it's going to be something that's going to
happen on a grander scale than anything we had done before. I can't help
but worry about the future. We'd all heard the urban legends, heeded the
warnings, followed the rules to a t. Well, most of us there
is Christian and I weren't like normal kids. We were always getting into trouble,
from playing hockey to shoplifting to going on joy rides. We did it
all. We were, without a doubt, the most despised preteens in town.
Little do we know all that mischief would inevitably lead us to the worst
day of our lives. God, I wish I could take it back.
People in my town were always very superstitious. Not like, oh, you
spill the salt, throw a pincher over your left shoulder superstitious. No,
something happened here a long time ago, something sinister, something that still bears
its burden, and the townsfolk half a century later. You see, back
in the seventies, kids started going missing, with disappearances always occurred at night,
always, and always in the same fashion. Parents would lock their homes
down tighter than Fort Knox, only to find the front door hanging wide open
the following morning. The kidnappings were beginning to pile up. At the same
time that nightly reports of an ice cream truck circling neighbourhoods began to flood into
the police station. Every time the authorities were called, the truck would be
gone when they arrived, no matter the response time. The strange thing was,
we didn't have an ice cream truck in the seventies. Hell, we
still don't. This has always been the kinder place where everyone knows everyone,
and none other families in town have ever owned an ice cream truck. Naturally,
people began to associate the truck with their disappearances. Obviously, people tried
to catch the mysterious abductor behind the wheel. That when the adults started going
missing, no one whoever confronted the driver was ever seen again. The fear
was beginning to reach a boiling point. People panicked, families with children started
packing their things. Even some people without families at all were looking at relocating.
And then, just when nearly half the population was about to split,
it stopped the almost nightly kidnappings, the sightings of the ice cream truck,
all of it. The townsfolk never truly recovered. I mean, how could
they After that, Most families of the victims moved away, eventually losing any
hope of ever seeing their loved ones again. Can't say have blamed them.
I wouldn't have stuck around after that either. The ones who did stay grew
paranoid, so they did everything in their power to ensure that nothing similar would
ever happen again. That, unfortunately, manifested into an extremely strict set of
rules. Girls aren't allowed to walk anywhere alone. The doors and windows that
every house must remain locked at all times, and of course, no one
a loud outside after dark for any reason. The town shuts down well before
sundown as a not so subtle a reminder. Growing up, I always thought
the stories when nonsense. I thought he was just another lazy excuse for parents
to keep a close eye in their children to prevent us from causing mayhem.
I should have listened, Sarah for the last time. I'm not sneaking out
with you tonight. You know the rules. Christin whispered, tapping the eraser
on his pencil against his notebook absent mindedly. Come on, this is the
one rule we haven't broken yet. You spray painted off as a Dawkins police
cruiser, and this is what you're afraid of. I'm not scared. This
is different. It's something sacred. You've lived here for just as long as
I have. You should know that he hissed, pretending the dial into Missus
Huckabee's my numbing lecture on mitosis. Aren't you at least a little curious?
You can't seriously tell me you'd never wondered about going out at night. There's
got to be something more than they're letting on. Sarah. I'm not going
with you. If you want to risk your life by going out after dark.
Go right ahead, but leave me out of it, Christian said,
with a stern finality in his tone. I never seen him so serious about
anything before, and that frightened me. Remodeled to the remainder of the class
in silence. Christian gave me the cold shoulder. All day. I was
beginning to wonder if I'd overstepped. I'll give you some time to blow over.
I had just finished cramming my textbox into my locker when Christian approached me.
I jumped, nearly dropping my backpack. I hadn't expect to see him
again that day. What's up, dude, thought you're going to make me
walk home alone? He locked eyes with me, sending a chill creeping up
my spine. A bit of determination was scrawled across his visage. I'll go
with you. I was taken aback. It'd been so adamant earlier. What
changed? Are you sure? I mean, I don't want to go if
you're not comfortable with it, I'm sure I have to know, he said,
averting his gaze. Okay, we'll meet at your house at midnight.
Sound good? Yeah? Christian sheepishly glanced up at me. And you didn't
seriously think i'd let you walk home by yourself, did you, I giggled,
flashing him a grin. No, I guess I didn't. Christian was
seemingly back to his old self and the way from school. I listened intently
as he babbled on about his latest revenge scheme. He was planning on setting
off a fart bomb in Becky Nelson's locker for snitching on him. I didn't
care if I was being suckered into another one of his devious pranks. I
was just happy that things were back to normal between us. I'm gonna make
a pay christianist smashing his fist into his palm. Can't wait to see the
lock on her ugly assed face. Anyway, I'll see you tonight, I
said, as I trudged up my driveway. You bet. We waved goodbye
to each other, and I watched as Christian continued down the sidewalk. Midnight
couldn't come quickly enough. I giddly awaited nightfall. I felt as though my
heart would burst from my chest at any given moment. My adrenaline always spiked
before one of our little misadventures. I was watching the time like a hawk.
My parents had already turned in for the night, so I was left
to my own devices. That was a dangerous game. My eyes were glued
to the numbers of my phone screen. Eleven fifty eight pm. It was
so close, and that's when I heard it clunk. Something hard pelted my
window. My eyes grew wide, and a smile inched across my lips.
As I raised to the sauce. Christian was standing outside, his arms cocked
like a quarterback. Oh there you are, hey, he said, dropping
the rock in his hand. Dude, you skip the hell out of me.
Weren't we supposed to meet your place? And why didn't you just text
me like a normal person. Sorry, I got restless, he muttered,
staring at his feet. My parents took my phone last week. Remember.
Oh yeah, I'm not sure I've forgot Coming down, I said, cautiously,
climbing out and steadying myself on the step ladder that I strategically placed below
my window. I hopped down from the last step, landing in the grass
with a soft thumb. Ready, I said, eager to set off.
Yeah, let's go, Christian said, taking my hand. I blushed,
and he quickly recoiled. Even in the dim yellow light provided by the street
lamps. I could tell that his face was bright red. Ah Um,
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I just want to get
going, is all. No, No, you could, I get it.
There was a long, awkward pause before Christian spoke off, So where
are we going? Aha? I don't know. I hadn't thought this fire
ahead. Where'd you want to go? How about the park might be kind
of fun with no kids around the park. It is lead the way,
I said, dramatically, extending my arm. A big goofy grin plastered itself
on Christian's face as he willingly obliged. We walked in silence, drinking in
the scene around us. We passed by dozens of houses, their looming presents
lending and unsettling air to the stillness of the night. The faint light cast
an eerie glow that glinted off their windows, making my blood run cold.
Another strange thing I noticed was that it was deathly quiet. The only sounds
we heard were our own light footfalls against the pavement and the blood rushing in
our ears. There were no noises from creatures of the night, no bugs,
no frogs, nothing. We couldn't even hear any crickets chirping, and
that sent a chill down my spine. I was sweating bullets by the time
we arrived at the playground. Christian looked and fazed, but I highly suspected
that he was putting on a front. Don't get me wrong, Christian was
one tough cookie, but truth be told, I was the braver of the
two of us. Usually, if I was feeling on edge, he'd be
ten times worse off. We plopped down and adjacent swings. I cringed as
the rusted metal swing set creaked and groaned under our weight. Even though we
were alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, like
something sinister knew we were there. I shuddered at the thought that something evil
might be lurking in the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I told myself that I was freaking out over nothing, but I couldn't stop
intermittently peeking into the shadow veiled trees behind us. I was seriously beginning to
regret leaving the safety of my home. So, Sarah, is it just
me or is this place, this town? Does it feel like there's a
presence, you know, like we're not the only ones out here. He
kept his voice hushed, like he was afraid that someone else would hear him.
Yeah, I feel it too. It's really creepy, I said,
sensing the oppressive way of that feeling slightly lift from my shoulders. It was
nice to know a Christian felt it too. Christians stared off into the mulch
at our feet. He looked lost and thought as if his body was there,
but his mind was in some far off dimension. You know, I
wasn't originally planning to come with you. There's a reason I chose to come
out to night, he sighed, a very ambition written across his features.
There was something who was hiding from me, but I good sense that he
was slowly mustering up the courage to tell me what it was. So,
I know you've all heard the stories about the ice cream truck that went around
abducting kids in the seventies, and I know that you think it's all a
pile of steaming nonsense, But it's not, he paused, searching my face
for a reaction. How can you be so sure? We went a life
back then. So my uncle was one of the two who were kidnapped.
My heart plummeted into my gut, not for the fact that Christian was related
to someone who was taken, but that the stories were true. Christian,
I'm so sorry. I didn't know. It's okay, he said, interrupting
me again. He was three when it happened. It's been decades, but
I don't think Dad ever really forgave himself. He was only five at the
time, but he feels like he should have done more. He won't tell
me that, but I know I can see it in his eyes. It
still tears him up even now. The tear began to trickle down Christian's cheek,
but he quickly swiped it away. I know it's stupid of me,
but I just had to know if it was true, if that thing was
still around. I was honestly so hoping that it would be. I know
I don't stand much of a chance of killing whoever's behind it, but this
might help a bit, right, He gragged a smile and flashed the sharp
black switchblade. Yeah, I think that would help your chances a bit,
I juggled. You know, I wouldn't let you fight alone either. Hate
the bursty bubble, though I don't think it will run into that thing tonight.
Yeah, you're probably right, Christian said, standing from his swing.
Let's go home works for me. I've seen enough. I joined him and
we began to make our way back towards our houses. We'd only made it
to the street when I heard it, a jingle. The sound sliced through
the silence like a rusty knife. It was slow, but something about it
was wrong. Christian and I glanced at each other, eyes wide as saucers.
My heart thumped furiously against my chest. As it grew closer. It
blared, the tune of London bridges falling down, intertwined with the sound of
a jack in the box cranking up, sending waves of panic rippling through me
at every interval. And then it slowly rolled into view. A white truck
rounded the corner to the street we were standing on. A comically large pink
ice cream cone was perched to the top it, facing the sky like a
rocket ready for lift off. The windows were tinted to the point that I
couldn't see who or what was behind the wheel. I wanted to run,
to scream, to hide anything, but I was paralyzed with fear. The
truck crept closer and closer, dread seeped into my bones. I didn't know
what to do. Eventually it passed. I gawked at it, drinking in
all the different selections pasted on the side, and then it stopped directly in
front of us. The music cut out, bathing the night, and then
all encompassing silence. My breath hitched in my throat, waiting for something to
happen. Without warning, the back doors of the ice cream truck swung open.
I looked at Christian. His horrified expression had melted into one of curiosity.
He began to make his way toward the open truck. His legs moved
like they had a mind of the roan, dragging himself closer and closer.
To this day, I don't know why, but I didn't even try to
stop him. Now I joined him. I can't explain it, but there
was something alluring about that truck, something that effortlessly took hold of me and
pulled me in, and I was powerless to stop it. We both tentatively
walked closer, coming to a halt directly behind it. I paid inside my
mouth agape. It was spotless, a sparkling white interior with rows upon rows
of freezers shined inside, you boasted every flavor of ice cream you could imagine.
At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to step into the back
of that truck and try every variation of ice cream had add to Nothing bad
would happen. It was just an ice cream truck, after all. Christian
stepped in before I could react. He turned back to me, out stretching
a hand to hoist me up. I didn't even have a chance to take
it. The doors suddenly slam shut, locking Christian inside. I'll never forget
the look of abject fear on his face. In that split second before the
doors closed, I was ripped from my stupor as the ice cream truck flowed
it down the road. Its tires squealed as it went, leaving me standing
alone under a street lamp. I broke down, fat tears streaming down my
cheeks as I bolted home. I couldn't lose Christian. He was the only
real friend I'd ever had. I burst through my front door, or spooning
nonsense to my parents as I crumbled to the ground of their feet. I
didn't care if I'd get in trouble anymore. I just wanted to find a
way to bring my friend back. The police were called, Christian's parents were
notified, and a search party was assembled. I don't think I need to
tell you that they didn't find him. Christian is still missing to this day.
I was never the same after that. It didn't matter how much time
passed, how many therapy sessions I attended, how hard I tried to forget.
That image of Christian's terrified face is still burned into my memory. But
there's something that chills me even more than that look of pure dread scrawled across
my best friend's countenance, something that I still can't can't comprehend. When I
peered into the back of that ice cream truck, there was no one behind
the wheel. So why am I telling you this? Why? Now?
Well, my son went missing last night. I awoke with a start next
to my snoring husband. A sinking pit of dread sank into my stomach when
that horrible tune met my ears, London Bridge is falling down. I raced
to the front door, who was wide open. I watched helplessly as my
baby boy climbed into the back of that truck. I couldn't even scream.
I was rooted in fear, just like I had been on that night two
decades ago. A surge of panic coursed through my veins like venom, because
as the ice cream truck sped away with my child, I noticed that the
window was rolled down, and I swear for a split second I saw Christian
wink at me from the driver's seat. I'm never quite sure if I was
just stupid when I missed the signs, or if I'm just a normal person.
Sarah I was very sweet on the surface. She ticked all the boxes,
even if she was a bit awkward, But so what people are awkward?
I tried to look past the little things. I mean, we can
all be a bit weird, can't we, especially when we get nervous.
But Sarah was odd in a way that, in hindsight, maybe I should
have taken more seriously on their own. All the little signs seemed quite innocuous
at the start. She was very hands on during dates, pinching and grabbing
and winking. She'd make these hilarious innuendos and constantly towed the line of what
was and wasn't appropriate. I like a woman with a dark sense of humor,
and she had that in spades, but she pulled away if I tried
to reciprocate. And I realized early on that intimacy wouldn't be on the cards
for a long time, and I was fine with that. I wasn't in
a hurry. And yet she continued to send mixed signals. She'd ask for
photos almost every night. Girls don't normally ask for full length. It was
weird, and taking a good picture wasn't as easy as I thought it would
be. I always thought I looked weird in that kind of full body vertical
picture, but she was always happy with what I sent. She had a
lot of requests. One was to see me lying on the floor, eyes
closed, arms to either side of my back. She liked that. One
one time she made me do a strip tease with a white sheet, slowly
pulling it down in one picture after the other. This went on for the
first month. I'd say I sent her pictures, she sent me some.
We talked a lot about what we each wanted. It was kind of fun
and kinky, like we were taking turns being each other's long distance model.
And as a guy, I don't usually get to enjoy the feeling of being
a promiscuous object. I normally feel like my sexiness is tied to some kind
of perform moments. It was novel and exciting to be valued as just a
physical being. We never really figured I had an exhibition at Streak, or
that that was something that women wanted much of, But she did and I
didn't dislike it. Sharing all this, we continued to meet up once or
twice a week for food. It seemed like we had a little thing going
that might one day become something real. We never did spend the night together.
First time I thought it was going to happen was after I sent a
photo of me lying on my kitchen floor. The white towels freezed my ass
the whole time. An hour after I sent the photo, she appeared on
my doorstep without warning, hair soaking, wet and smelling of booze. As
soon as she saw me, she grabbed me, guided me to the sofa,
then climbed on top and started kissing me hard. She was handsy,
but it never went past over the clothes stuff, just hot, heavy,
and well, not all that good. Do you ever wonder if some people
are bad at intimacy stuff because no one tells them the truth. It was
like she was trying to suck the air out of my lungs. I've had
better kisses off my dog. She got a lot of points for enthusiasm.
Don't get me wrong, I've never had anyone grote me and touch me with
such raw passion before. But whenever I tried to match her energy, it
got the sense she didn't really care for it. She never reacted or moaned
or gave off nonverbal cues to be like do that more. It was all
about her touching me, never vice versa. After maybe twenty minutes of this
over the clothes fumbling, she asked me to lie down on the floor or
I had no idea where this was going, so I did. Can you
hold your breath, she asked as she looked down at me. All of
a sudden, I felt very small, and there were lots of thoughts going
through my head. I'm pretty sure there was nothing I wouldn't have done for
it in that moment, although not necessarily because I wanted to. It was
just an intensity to ustare and shrunk me down until I was the size of
an ant. So I held my breath. I held it so long my
lungs burned and my head swam until I couldn't do it any longer. When
I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me with so much hunger
in her eyes. I actually got a little scared. Admittedly, I sort
of liked it. She paused for a moment, drinking me in, and
then said she had better get going, she had work in the morning.
We kissed at the door, and her hand roamed all over my back.
I was called by that point, and her hands felt so warm I swore
something was about to happen, but she simply left me standing there. It
was confusing and frustrating, so much so I almost didn't call her back.
But she had a kind of commanding energy about her, a deep awareness of
what she did and didn't want. That It was just enough for me to
keep replying to her text After that night. I always laid on my kitchen
floor when she asked for a photo, but it never really had the same
effect of getting her to my door step. Still, she became a regular
fixture in my life, and pretty soon I hoped we might get close to
something a bit more serious. I looked for signs that she thought the same
thing, but the going was damn slow. By the time winter rolled around.
We'd been on and off for six months, and just about the only
thing that actually changed was the way she kept holding my hand. She'd take
my cold hands between her own and hold them against her cheek and neck,
maybe even a chest at times. It was quite nice. It took a
while, but I managed to swing her around into another home visit. You
can guess what I was hoping for, but she actually made us spend most
of our time out on the balcony watching the stars, cuddling together in the
freezing cold. She made me give her my jacket as well, even when
I offered to get a one from inside, it had to be the one
I was wearing, and she wouldn't let me replace it. By the time
we went back in, I felt like I was close to getting pneumonia,
and the shock of the warm air left me feeling dizzy. Lie down,
she begged me, Lie in the floor. I have an idea. I
was shaking by this point, the tips of my fingers ice blue. When
she came back over, she had a glass of red wine. She stood
over me, warming the glass in her hands before giving me clear instruction.
Sip some, she said, and keep it in your mouth. Close your
eyes, don't open them, and don't swallow the wine. I don't even
like wine, and I was pretty irritated by the whole thing. But there
was a tension in the air, something about her electric anticipation that infected me.
I didn't know what was happening, and in the past, when I
felt that way, it sometimes led to me having new and exciting experiences out
of nowhere. She kissed me, pushing her tongue into the lukewarm wine until
it dribbled messily out of the corners of my lips. At the same time,
and in one swift motion, she pressed the heel of her hand into
my diaphragm and pushed so hard that the wine gushed out of my mouth and
into hers. I started coughing. She did too. My immediate reaction was
that kind of irritation you can't hide. It actually ticked me off. It
was surprising in all the wrong ways, and given what I may be hoped
to was coming, it just meant all the disappointment turned into outright frustration.
All I'd wanted was a normal kiss, some sign of basic normal affection.
Did she even realize how terrible I felt? Have to freeze my ass off
on the balcony so she could feel like some gentle I was given her my
jacket. I pushed her off me gently but firm. Let's not do that
again, I said, choking at the words. What were you trying to
do? Nothing? She cried, It was nothing, just something different.
She seemed sincerely, regretful and sorry. But I was half naked, horny,
irritated, and freezing cold. I didn't ask her to leave, but
she clearly sensed the changing atmosphere and made some excuse. I wiped myself down
while she went to the toilet, and when she emerged, I greeted her
with her handbag and keys. I didn't even walk her to the door.
Instead, as she looked at me with a sort of sad pow from the
door, I simply ignored her and began to mop the kitchen floor. Looks
like a damn murder scene, I grumbled. She may have said something before
she left, but I didn't look up until I heard the door close.
After that, we didn't speak for a while. Now, this is a
very typical thing for me to do, but over the next few days I
did a little retrospective on our dates and realized I'd beden the one putting in
all the work. It was always me escalating, asking for dates, phone
calls, trying to move things between us forward. I figured if there was
any chance of a real relationship, then she'd have to just come back and
apologize and explain her behavior and be the one to reach out for once.
Of course, at the exact same time, I couldn't get her out of
my head. Maybe she'd just been clumsy. I thought, maybe she was
nervous. I couldn't get my head around the wine thing. It seems so
random. I'm more familiar with the usual BDSM stuff people like. If I
could have pinned her actions down to some specific kink, I could have more
confidently figured if we were compatible or not. But without more information, I
was just well and truly confused. I wanted to like her, but if
there was no chance of us working out, if we were just incompatible,
then I wanted closure. As it was, I didn't have a clue what
we were, but what the hell we've been doing either way? When she
finally text asking if I'd like to pick her up after work, I agreed.
I wanted closure, and maybe I imagined it, but something about her
tone seemed a little contrite. Her feeling was reinforced when I met her in
the parking lot of the hospital where she worked, and I found her sitting
on the hood of her car in a breath taking red dress. As soon
as I was out of the car, she took my hand and told me
she'd set up a little date for us, something special, and that she'd
finally make it all up to me. The way she kissed me, the
way she guided my hand along a waist, there was something so utterly different
about it, so committed that I immediately knew she wanted to go the whole
way. I could just tell she'd finally made a decision, a threshold had
been crossed, and I wanted to go see where this would lead. She
didn't work at the hospital itself, but rather took me off to a building
on the same ground. It was a quiet, little red brick thing,
just two floors from the outside, and I wondered what it was exactly that
she did. Inside. There was a chemical smell I was pretty overwhelming,
but at first glance it seemed like a simple GP office. There was a
little reception area with one or two chairs, a small countertop with some computers
and a bunch of back offices. This was after ours, so no one
else was there, only a few dim lights in the reception area. Everywhere
else was dark. She quickly disappeared upstairs, telling me she was going to
slip into something more comfortable, and I settled down for a short wait.
At least she locked the door behind us so no one else could come in.
I took that as a good sign, but I still felt pretty uncertain.
Where were we and why the hell did she pick this place for our
date. I tried to sit down, but it felt too strange, like
waiting for the dentist, so I stood and shoveled around a bit instead,
listening to the muffled dumps of whatever the hell she was doing upstairs. Outside,
it was starting to get dark, Fewer and fewer cars were going past,
and it was raining heavily, all of which made that little room feel
even like a lonely little corner of the world, well hidden and out of
the way, even though the hospital was clearly visible, with heavy traffic not
far behind it. There wasn't much else to do except snoop, and I
quickly noticed the door had been left slightly Ajar like someone had forgotten to shut
it. It was the only door I could reach without climbing over something,
so my curiosity got the better of me. I approached it and got maybe
two feet away before I realized it was the source of that damn chemical smell.
Once I realized that I had to take a look inside, just so
I could know for sure what the hell it was, I tried pushing it
up open an inch or two and peeking inside, but it was pitch black
in there. So I pushed it open a little further, and using my
phone light, I saw that there were a set of stairs going down into
a basement. More thumps from upstairs told me she wasn't going to come down
anytime soon. I had time to check, so I went down a step
and tried seeing if that helped, but there was nothing. So I went
down another and then another, until suddenly a set of automatic lights came on,
with a loud thung and the rising whine of fluorescence coming to life.
I'm not sure what I expected for what I saw. At first, it
left me dumb struck, but then I don't know. It was a sterile
room with white speckled tiles. A few countertops running along the walls covered in
silver instruments. I didn't recognize one wall covered in a regular grid of metal
cupboard doors and three steel slabs in the center of the room. One of
them was occupied a vaguely human shape covered by a white shroud a lone foot
of a man sticking out of the bottom. Something about the strange coloring and
texture of the skin immediately let me know he wasn't having a nap. That
and the toe tag was a pretty obvious clue. It was a morgue.
She worked in the morgue, and it was here, of all places she'd
decided to set our final date. My initial reaction was to want to go
upstairs and confront her, get angry, let it out, and just leave
after making her unlock the door. But something stopped me. I can't say
for shore what. As quickly as it came, the anger left me,
and I was left with a kind of horrified curiosity, an idea I couldn't
even put to words in the privacy of my own head. Instead of turning
around and leaving, I waited a few seconds to make sure she wasn't coming
down right behind me, and I began to descend the rest of the way.
The walk to the body felt like a ten mile hike. Every step
was too loud, every breath a nervous shivering exhulation. The elecant might burst
into a gasp at any moment. I was terrified. I couldn't help but
imagine that faceless shape turning to look at me, or sitting upright in one
smooth motion. I quickly realized why ghosts I stereotypically portrayed as walking sheet.
Someone must have had the same thought. I had the imagined scene of a
shroud covered body moving swiftly towards you in the dark. Hell of a time
for my brain to play those kinds of games with me, But that curiosity
drove me on. I couldn't walk away, not now. Before I knew
it, I was stood by the body, and with a shaking hand,
I pulled back the sheet. He looked like me vaguely. I think we
would have probably been a close match before the bloating same hair, collar,
same face, shape, same ethnicity, age, so on. For a
moment, I considered the idea that maybe Sarah was just a very weird woman.
People get desensitized to this kind of stuff all the time, and to
her the building were in might just be a nice empty place to bring a
date. But that body on that slab, I don't know how to describe
it, but it set something off in me, a kind of slow rising
dread. I'm not sure why I did what I did next, but I
couldn't stop thinking of that strange night when she pushed against my chest and sent
wine dribbling out my mouth, so utterly bizarre. But maybe I placed my
hand against the man's cold flesh, heeled to the diaphragm and applied pressure.
He animated like a puppet, a brief gasp of air, followed by curdled
blood flowing out of his mouth. Black and yellow and red halletts, platelets,
and plasmas separated with time into a thick soup. When the smell hit
me, I couldn't help but be sick, and as I hunched over the
nearby drain and emptied my body of all my vomit and bile, images of
my time with Sarah flashed through my mind. The photos of me nude lying
on the white tile floor, the use of the blanket to cover my chest,
her vexation, and my cold hands A night spent freezing in my balcony,
filling my mouth with wine and forcing it back out with a shove to
the chest. I lugged at the body and quickly understood how and why she
discovered what happens when you apply pressure to the chest. The image was crystal
clear in my mind. The mental image of her slender frame straddling the bloated
men before me was as unpleasant and inescapable as nails and a chalkboard. Unable
to shake it, I hunched over once more and was sick again, this
time until my eyes watered and there was nothing left but saliva and bile.
I felt violated. I wanted to leave. I no longer felt angry or
confused. Instead, every moment of the last six months fell into place,
and a pattern emerged that terrified me. She wasn't meandering or clueless. Everything
she'd done had been moving towards this one night, with me here, locked
in this place, with no one to call for help. I'd blundered into
what might just be the most dangerous situation of my life. And now I
was too deep into the trap to just blindly panic on the ground and inner
room with only one exit, I had to be careful. She was up
there somewhere, maybe clueless about what I'd realized, maybe not. She seemed
small enough, but a through glanced at some of the glinting blades on the
nearby work surface told me she didn't have to be a bodybuilder to hurt me.
Any one of those razor sharp instruments could work its way into the meat
of my neck with very little effort. Sooner or later she'd realize where I
was. Sooner or later, this plan of hers had to have an endgame.
I looked up the stairs. If she came down from the top floor,
she'd see the lights from this room, and it would be obvious to
anyone where I'd gone. I was torn. Do I go up and pretend
I saw nothing? I thought about having to go up there and lie my
way through some aw good encounter. Oh, I'm feeling a little unwell.
I have to skip polite smile, nod. Could I stomach even that brief
exchange? And that's if she bought it, and it required that the next
step of a planet involved me conscious or alive. I thought of her attacking
me out of nowhere with a scalpel, silently dragging it across my throat,
letting that surgical blade bite into cartilage. She was small, but so what.
I had no idea what she was planning or where she was lurking.
Walking into an ambush and toughing it out didn't seem like the best of plans.
What I wanted was distant. I just needed a door or a window.
I just had to avoid her. My first instinct had been to get
out of the basement, and I wanted to go with it, but the
strange sounds coming from upstairs made me think she might have finally come to find
reception empty. Terrified, I looked around, desperate for some way out or
maybe even a good hiding spot. Just about every bad idea you can I
think of went through my head, including swapping myself out for the corpse.
I nearly laughed at the stupidity of it, but my attention had been pulled
to the mog drawers, and with a sinking feeling in my gut, I
slowly realized there was nowhere else in that room large enough to hide a person.
Michael. The voice was muffled and distant, but I could tell she
was finally looking for me. This was really fast becoming a now and never
moment. With a deep breath, I pulled at the first drawer I saw,
and felt bittersweet relief that it was empty. I wasn't sure I could
go through with this, but at least it hadn't been already occupied with a
rising gorge. I climbed inside feet first, slid myself back into the darkness,
try my best not to think of a pair of cold hands snatching my
ankles, and then quickly pulled the door shut. I'd barely heard a click
when there came the sound of footsteps down the stairs. They stopped halfway,
and I clearly heard a hiss damn under her breath before turning back around and
returning upstairs. She must have figured I'd seen the bodies and run off somewhere
else. Wherever that might take her, it had at least brought me time.
I opened the door using the internal latch, while pushing aside more bed
questions of why that feature was even necessary, and stepped out as quietly as
I could onto the tile steps. After that, I scaled the stairs as
silently as I could manage, and made my way to the door at the
top of the basement. She had thankfully left it a char once again,
bit of a habit of hers, I assumed, and peeped through into the
darkness beyond. In the time I m had been in the basement, the
sun had fully set, and now there were only the lights of passing cars
to illuminate reception. Bright and ber light with hard edges swept across the room,
one after the other with strange irregularity. They made for an unpredictable insight
into the room's components, a chair, a computer, a countertop. I
had to squint and wait patiently for a few of them to go by before
I realized one of the back office's doors were open, and there was the
sound of frustrated footsteps coming from within. She was distracted, and this was
my best chance of getting out. I tiptoed out of the basement and listened
carefully. She occasionally hissed an angry refrain to herself, opening what sounded like
cabinet doors. Why you doing this, Michael, she whined, and I
was surprised that she sounded not malevolent, but sad and pitiful, like an
upset teenager. She was genuinely confused by my reaction. For a brief moment,
I dared to wonder if my imagination had gotten the better of me.
Right there on the counter was a bottle of wine and two glasses. Maybe
she really was just intending for a normal date, and I'd made connections that
were never really there. But in my mind I saw that corpse bloated and
bloody once again, and ultimately decided I was better safe than sorry. A
quick check at the front door showed who was still locked, and so with
nowhere else to go, I went up another floor, careful to stop every
step or two and listen for signs she had changed course. Thankfully, I
was at the top step by the time I heard her leave the office and
enter another Come on, she cried, why are you being like this?
I wasn't sure what my game plan was. I figured my best chance was
a window. I was already trying to start tearing the top floor apart when
I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw. There were a
few rooms on the top floor, but only one of them had an open
door and the lights turned on. What I saw inside hit me so hard
I stopped dead in my tracks and led out a gasp. It was covered
in plastic crap. Top to bottom floors, walls, and ceiling. The
small white table had been set up in one corner, and on it lay
three open pill bottles, a hack saw, and several scalpels. Seeing all
that stuff, getting such an upfront sight into what she had planned, it
all made my damn skin crawl. That and the bottle of lotion made me
want to be sick. Suppressing the urge to gag, I decided none of
that really mattered, because and this wasn't a great surprise. She had picked
a room with a large and easy to open window. I pushed the side
of the plastic sheeting and opened it to find the drop below was in anywhere
near as bad as the thought of spending another second in that damn room.
I began to climb out, got one leg through, carefully balancing so that
if I fell, I'd minimize injury. When I heard a sound by the
door, the crinkling of plastic, the gentle glide over door, I turned
and saw her standing in the dark hallway beyond. It was hard to see,
but she wasn't grinning like a maniac or waiting with a knife. More
than anything, she just looked disappointed, maybe even frustrated. In hindsight,
it made sense she'd spent a long time setting this up, not just the
room with a plastic sheeting, but the entire relationship had been built carefully around
that night. I expected her to crack break, come at me, screaming
and slashing with some hidden blade, but she only shook her head and quietly
mewed, it's not my fault. I considered her reply, but found none
to be fitting. I jumped and landed safely below with a bit of a
knee shaking thumb, nowhere near as bad as the shin splintering worst case scenario
I kept imagining. Then, with a deep breath, relishing with the smell
of fresh air, I ran as quickly as I could towards the hospital and
the lot where my car waited. You know, you might not be too
surprised to learn this, but there wasn't actually much I could prove when it
was all over. By the time the police visited the morgue, it was
apparently back to normal. Her side of the story was that I'd insisted on
visiting the morgue out of curiosity and got upset when she didn't want to stick
around. It was kind of hard to prove anything else. I had no
injuries, no evidence of intent or anything else other than a suspicion of some
pretty mess behavior. In the end, the best the police were willing to
do was hook me up with a lawyer who dealt with restraining orders, and
he told me I need some evidence of actual harassment. Well that, and
the main gist of his advice was actually for me to stay away from her,
because, if anything, it would be a hell of It's a lot
easier for her to convince people I was the problem and not the other way
around. I didn't have much choice in the end except to move on,
and all told, I was just happy to have made it out alive,
even if the thought of her out there made me deeply anxious. I had
to assume she'd go looking for another target since I'd wised up, although I
hoped that maybe the close encounter with me would stop her from trying again.
As for me, I deleted my Tinder profile, having decided that internet dating
would never be a thing for me again. But the nightmares persist, and
I often think of her standing there in the doorway. She didn't look half
as upset as I might have thought. The whole thing was like I'd been
a bit naughty. There she was aspiring murder, moments away from executing a
plan that had been months in the making, and she'd stood there like it
was all nothing but a miner set back. It just didn't make sense,
and like everything with Sarah, I struggled to move on from this peculiar behavior
until I got an answer. Well to day, I finally got it when
I woke up and felt something strange by my feet. I pulled back the
sheets and saw something that made my heart sink and a cold sweat form on
the back of my neck. I was wearing a toe tag. I think
I might have underestimated her patience, and I am starting to appreciate just why
she found that night in the morgue to be a little more than a set
back on attack itself. My name is scrawled on one line, and on
the date of death below she had simply written. In just a few days,
I got a job in San Diego not too long after the pandemic settled.
It was in exciting time, but I was also anxious about finding a
place to live. I didn't have that much saved up, so I had
to find somewhere a bit more lenient to newcomers. I signed up to all
kinds of lists and tenant groups, but most leads were dead in the water.
The only places within my price range had in no pets policy, and
I couldn't bring myself to re home my cat, Marmalade. Poor thing was
just a year old and a complete mama's girl. After weeks of searching,
I stumbled upon a landlord with a vacant spot. He hadn't even got the
time to list it. All I'd seen was a post about a cheap apartment.
I messaged him spontaneously and asked about it. Turns out the previous tenant
had passed away. It was on the fourth floor, not too far off
Main Street, and surprisingly cheap cat friendly too. He offered me a deal.
If I paid for the clean up crew, the place was mine.
I couldn't say no. Once the place was cleaned up, I met up
with my new landlord and got the keys handed to me. My new place
was on the top floor of this beautiful old building made somewhere back in the
fifties. Cools stone, tarred floors, spacious ceiling, and plenty of sunlight
coming in from the body sized windows. There was a sort of French balcony
with a little space to smoke or a mini garden. There was a large
living room area, a tiny kitchenette, and a cramped little bedroom on the
sunny side. It wasn't much, but I could see myself growing attached to
it. You could tell it was old, though. There were all kinds
of little quirks, a lock that you had to jiggle, pipes that rumbled
a little whenever you took a shower, and you could immediately tell if one
of your neighbors was smoking because of the terrible ventilation. It was far from
perfect, but for that price, at that location, I couldn't ask for
a better deal. The one thing that dated it more than anything else,
however, was the strange seventies wallpaper. This intricate floral pattern covered most of
the living room, along with the western wall of the bedroom, a dark
gray bass collar with lines of white rose, tulips, sunflowers, all in
variations of silver and blue. It was beautiful in a sort of primitive Art
Deco kind of way, but you could tell it was old. I promised
myself to get it replaced if I were to live there long term. It
didn't take long to move in. I didn't have much in the way of
furniture, and I didn't really have the money to bring in something new.
I figured I'd settle for what little I had for the time being, instead
of focusing on getting used to my new job. I was working as a
full time consultant for a telecom company, mostly focusing on process management. In
evaluation might not sound that interesting, but you get a lot of wiggle room
to really switch things up for the better. Postpandemic. We were on a
routine of a single weekly meeting and the rest could and would be done from
our home office. It felt kind of done to force people to come in
once a week just because, But if I wanted the job, that was
the deal. Marmalade got settled in that place long before I did. She
found a sunny spot next to one of the big windows. I set up
a cozy basket for her to snuggle into. I, on the other hand,
was having trouble sleeping those first few nights. I lay awake at night
staring at the ceiling. I'd lose myself in that view, sort of like
when you're looking down into dark waters. You can't really see where it is.
It is just this perpetual nothing, and you can imagine it continuing forever.
That first week went by in a flash. I had my first meeting
and got my first assignment process assessment at one of the branch offices in Pittsburgh
long distance, with an in person evaluation at the end of a two month
cycle. Nothing I couldn't handle, but said office had a sort of reputation
for being unmanageable. It was the kind of assignment you throw at someone to
see if they got the chops for it long term. That first day was
mostly meet and greets, with a tiny after work at one of the Shek
downtown bars. It was mostly an excuse the crack a few cold ones,
and on Monday, my colleagues were a few decibels louder than I was used
to, so I ended up sitting mostly in the background, learning to appreciate
a small label dark punkin ale. The next day, I was in full
work mode. I set up my laptop with a view of my awful wallpaper
to make it look a bit more office like. Marmalade wasn't moving from a
new favorite spot by the window, so there were no fluffy tales in the
way of my webcam. I had a long talk with the branch manager,
along with a few technicians, to just sort of dip my toe in the
water. They were all courteous enough, but I could tell they'd been put
through the ringer a couple of times. This wasn't their first assignment, and
it wouldn't be their last. By the end of the day, I was
talking with one of the salesmen, a woman named Deirdre. At that point
I'd been in constant zoom calls for over four hours and my voice was giving
out. Deirdre could tell I was exhausted, and we just ended up talking
about other things instead, my apartment, my job, my cat. I
had to bother Marmalade a bit just to show off. Deirdre showed off her
feline companion, a three year old rag doll named Popeye. Ironically, that
call ended up being my longest, but it went by the fastest. Deirdre
was a gem. I spent most of my time setting up questionnaires and mapping
out the overall structure, bouncing emails all the way down the supply chain,
trying to get a clear picture of the main issues. It was the same
old story that I'd heard a hundred times before, management blaming the salesman,
the salesman blaming the warehouse, and the warehouse blaming the technicians. There were
little hitches all the way down the road, ranging from dated inventory systems to
useless red tape. After the first few days, I started getting into a
routine pingponging between meetings and Excel spreadsheets. Marmalade and I made their apartment into
a proper home. Chinese taco boxes started lining the kitchenette, and earned a
few extra talks with Deirdre just to pass the slow hours. I started getting
used to that place, even the awful wallpaper. I stopped hearing the rumbling
pipes after a while, and the cigarette smoke from the neighbor slowly blended into
the background smells. I stopped waking from cars passing on the street below,
and my first paycheck went into making the living room walk like something that could
actually be lived in. I remember one night when I was working over time,
I got a late email about submitting a progress report, so I had
to stay up making a presentation. I found myself by the opinion that this
was looking more and more like a management issue. Who the hell sends this
kind of email at four fifty pm on a Thursday, expecting it to be
done before lunch the next day. Unbelievable. I was done by about ten
pm. When I shambled away from my laptop. I picked up a can
of cat food for Marmalade and walked over to a favorite window. Only she
wasn't there. Her bed was still there, but Marmalade had moved to another
window, still sleeping soundly, but she found a new favorite spot. It
felt strange in a way, like the entire apartment had shifted a little.
Looking up of the wallpaper, I could have sworn the patterns had moved.
It looked identical, just a bit off. I could have sworn it was
different despite looking exactly the same. It was a strange feeling. Everything felt
familiar with that one little twist made it feel like a new room. Or
starting to doubt myself. When looking at Marmalade out of a basket, however,
it was clear that something was different in some way. The next few
days I started to notice this shift in new ways. The walls would look
different at night, where at one point I'd see a sunflower, I'd see
a rose the next day. Then again, I wasn't ever really sure,
and I chalked it up to me just not paying attention. Marmalade would move
from spot to spot, never really sure what her favorite ever was. One
night, she couldn't settle in at all, instead moving from one window to
the next, meawing at me anxiously. That night, as I lay awake,
out my eyes firmly fixed on the wall, I could imagine the patterns
moving on their own, the many flowers gently swaying to an invisible wind.
It was just that kind of unreal surrealist thought you catch just before you fall
asleep. But in that moment I could have sworn it was real living.
Even as I closed my eyes, I imagined the dark gray background color to
be as deep as an ocean, a darkness stretching into a distant nothing.
The next day, and as I was making my morning coffee, I noticed
something peculiar. I stepped on a dry blue petal. I couldn't explain where
it came from. I had no flowers in my apartment, and the ventilation
was so bad that it could barely rotate. Air Flower petals were out of
the question. Marmalade played with it for a while, and I convinced myself
that it was just something I dragged in. Still, it reminded me of
a flower petal from the Blue Rose and the wallpaper. He made me anxious,
but I couldn't figure out why. What was I even worried about.
I couldn't let that thought go for the rest of the day that I was
missing something obvious, or maybe that there really was something to my strange paranoia.
So at the end of the day, when I talked to Deirdre,
I brought it up. I explained that there was just something inherently creepy about
living there, like an uncomfortable thought tickling your neck when you're not looking.
Deirdre tried to reassure me a chuckle coming through my headphones. It takes time,
love, she said, you just got here. Besides, everything looks
strange in the dark. Yeah. I just can't shake the feeling, you
know, I explained, like there's something more to it, like what.
I didn't know what to answer. As I stepped into the living room,
I noticed marmalade rolling on the living room carpet, casually playing with another blue
petal. Turning on the lights, I could see more of them, over
a dozen dry blue petals lining the edge of the wall. Finally I could
tell I wasn't going crazy, This wasn't a one time deal. That was
real. Marmalade didn't seem to mind, though. I'm going to have to
get back to you, I told Deirdre. Something came up as the call
ended. I started scooping up the petals by hand. The moment my knees
hit the floor, there was a power surge. It was all so quick.
A flash of black Marmalade hissed. Looking straight past me. I could
hear a rustling noise, like a large animal moving through a brush. As
quick as it had come, it went, leaving only a startled cat and
my elevated pulse behind. The lights were slapped back on with a click,
blinding me. Marmalade retreated to behind the couch while I picked up the rest
of the petals. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at
the many patterns petals in hand. I could imagine the gray sinking deeper and
deeper, showing me something past the obvious, like one of those images you
have to look at cross eye to see the truth. I had the same
sensation like I was missing something obvious. I can imagine hearing things deep in
an imagined forest. I could hear branches snapping. I could imagine the blue
flowers swaying in the wind, and somewhere in that depthless dark, something roamed,
something looking for an exit. At some point I snapped to attention.
There was a loud electronic noise and alarm. It was already morning. For
some alien reason, I'd been stuck there for hours, just staring at the
hypnotizing patterns, an entire night's rest gone. It wasn't until I stepped away
that I realized just how exhausted I really was. My legs had locked in
place, keeling me over straight to the stone tiled living room floor. Marmalade
rushed over, worried about this sudden development. I spent a few minutes just
sitting there, calming myself down. The ringing from my cell phone was going
strong, trying to give me enough time to shower before my first morning meetings.
And yet I just sat there, slowly petting my cat, my eyes
bobbing in and out of sleep, my body deprived. Where had I been
all night? What had I seen? Barely made it through that day,
having a forty five minute nap over lunch. By the time I finished my
last interview, I was a shell of my old self, barely conscious.
I filled Marmalade's food and water bowl and crawled into bed with all my clothes
still on the moment my eyes closed, I could hear something in the distance.
In the half world between sleeping and waking, I heard breaking branches,
owls taking flight, and something large approaching. And despite knowing I was well
and truly alone, my body screamed at me to wake, to have one
more loock, just in case I did. I forced my eyes open.
Something sharp scratched against the stone tiled floor, something retreating in haste, a
trail of dry petals leading right up to the side of my bed. After
a night of dreamers sleep, I woke up to choking on something. It
took me almost a full minute to cough up a blue petal, several of
which had been sprinkled throughout my bed. I could have sworn. The wallpaper
looked a bit lighter, as if several flowers were looking sparse. The whole
wall looked a bit darker. That morning, I'd had enough. I called
in sick and brought up my tool box. I started scraping off the wallpaper,
piece by piece across the entire apartment. I made a day of it,
listening to music as Marmalade looked at me curiously. Every illustrated petal and
stem dropped to the floor, cut by cut, like trimming a paper garden.
By the end of the day, my wall was laid bare, revealing
nothing but black lead painted concrete underneath. That night, after a long shower,
I went to sleep with wall paper remains still lining the edge of the
room. Finally I could focus, I could look past the hypnotizing patterns.
It was done, gone over, except it wasn't. As I went to
sleep, my eyes drifted to the barren walls, a black, eternal night,
now unhindered by what little paper thin barrier had been erected. Just looking
at it gave me that feeling in my stomach. My I was falling forward.
Even closing my eyes felt brighter than staring into it, like it was
more than a color a place. At some point in the night, I
heard this loud yell. Looking up, I could see Marmalade sitting at the
edge of my bed, staring straight at the wall, hissing and raising a
hackle's Looking straight ahead, I saw something there, deep in the dark of
the bare wall. Something moved. I swooped up Marmalade, who clung to
my shoulder like a parrot. I threw on my pants shirt and got my
bag. I'd had enough. I wasn't about to stick around to find out
the depths of what was either my own sanity or something unnatural. Entirely I
didn't want to know. As I entered the living room, I stopped dead
in my tracks. Every single wall had turned and midnight black. The windows
had fogged up from the inside, blocking the moonlight from peeking in. I
ran my hand along the wall, looking for the door. Something cold bumped
against the palm of my hand her finger. I recoiled, almost dropping Marmalade
in surprise. I couldn't see my door. As I looked around, trying
to find my bearings. I slowly came to the realization that nothing was quite
as it should. The kitchenette was further away, the windows were further apart.
The proportions of the room were off and seemingly shifting every time I blinked.
It was as if everything in that darkness was untrue, malleable, suddenly
shifting as soon as I looked away, and so was I. Looking down
at my hands, they seemed different with every blink of my eye. They
could be older, younger, scarred, masculine. It was impossible to tell.
It was just affuse, enough for an anxious mind to fill in the
blanks. But it felt like more than that. It wasn't just the fear
of the dark. It was the dark changing me. Finally, I fumbled
my way to the front door. I pulled it open and there was nothing,
just a solid black nothing. The apartment was getting darker, Even the
windows were turning black. The kitchen sink was running, pushing forth dark nondescript
globes, all of which had this peculiar chemical smell like ammonia. Marmalade was
freaking out. She clung to me, digging her claws into my shirt,
hissing at something in the dark. Whenever I turned around, the room would
look different, swallowed further and further by the night. I could see vague
silhouette hands reaching forward, some small, some impossibly large. I can imagine
creatures the size of sky scrapers, towering forward, impish, little beasts nipping
at my heels. I curled into a ball on the floor, clutching Marmalade
close to my chest. Together we stared down anything and everything creeping closer.
But I was losing My light was dying. It was all going dark.
Then I felt a rumble. I'd forgotten my phone was still in my pants,
bringing it out. I had a new message from Deirdre, the little
screen lighting up a little bubble around me. I wasn't even on the floor
anymore. I was sitting on a pile of dry grass and blue petals,
and I could see the edge of a dead field stretching out around me in
all directions. A wind cut through me like cold glass, and there really
were things moving out there, some big, some small, all vague and
horrifying, waiting for me to look away long enough to take shape. Hey,
Ann, I heard you were feeling under the weather, so I just
wanted to check in. Get plenty of rest. We'll talk soon. It
played again and again. I filled my head with a voice, and my
eyes with that little light the phone struggled to provide. I could feel Marmalade's
pulls beating against my neck. Something would brush against me a light kick against
my foot, footsteps rushing past. I saw nothing, but there were there
hidden in the dark. We'll talk soon, Deirdre's message repeated for the tenth
time. I don't know how long I sat there, just waiting for the
dark to pass, but nothing came of it. The battery was dying as
it reached the final few percentages of power. There was little left for me
to do. The light was shrinking. I couldn't hear Deirdre's message anymore.
Marmalade was yelling like crazy, hissing and striking at something unseen. As the
screen died, I felt the chill of the world descend on me. In
the silence, I could feel something approaching, something careful and calculated. I
couldn't see it, but I could feel it smiling at me, leering eager.
I was panicking. My skin fell like ice, and I couldn't feel
my fingers. I held Marmalade close to me, and in a last ditch
effort, I flung my phone into the dark. Glass shattered. I'd thrown
it through the window next to the little French balcony. A beam of morning
light broke through. I turned round to an empty apartment the layout exactly as
I'd remembered it, the kitchenette still running, torn down wallpaper lining the edges
of the room, Marmalade's favorite bed still by the window, and the many
Chinese takeout boxes still left unattended, just as it should be, except every
inch of the room was covered in dry blue flower petals. Needless to say,
I didn't stick around for long. I moved out to the branch office
where Deirdre worked and ended up staying there. We're still best friends to this
day. I haven't been able to talk to a lot of people about what
happened that night. I get the sense that whatever lived in that dark space
was just waiting for someone to tear down that barrier, that hedge of flowers
and patterns, something waiting to pull me into a dark place, never to
return. Poor Marmalade hasn't been the same since. Her fur has turned a
matted orange, and she's a lot clingier than before. She's okay, though,
she's a happy cat, but it'd be a lie to say she hasn't
changed. The same can be said about me. It isn't a single obvious
thing, but I feel like there are things about me that aren't the same.
My eyes looked darker, my fingers longer, my teeth sharper and whiter,
just enough for me to notice and remember. In my new place,
my sleep, with the lights on, I try not to look too closely
at the wall paper, just in case. When Jake told me he had
something to show me, I was curious, but also a little worried.
It'd been my best friend since junior high, and I loved and trusted him
like a brother. But I also couldn't forget that three months earlier he'd been
in an institution instead of living across town. The story of that had ended
up with him being diagnosed with schizophreniform disorder and sent for impatient treatment. But
it started by Jake freaking out in a college algebra class. I wasn't there,
but supposedly he was screaming in some language no one understood and attacked his
professor, and in the days that followed he told the doctors that it had
been dreaming for weeks about living in another part of the world, though he
wasn't sure where. According to his parents, he didn't remember screaming and biting
his math professor at all. With therapy and meds he got better over time,
and if you asked him if any of that stuff had been real other
than the biting, of course, he'd look embarrassed and shake his head,
tell you that it had all been crossed wise in his head, and that
he was better now. And I think most people believed him. But I
knew Jake well, maybe better than anyone, and I could see it in
his eyes when he looked my way. He was lying, or at least
holding something back. We started hanging out again, fairly regularly as life allowed,
but I still felt tints around him, not because I thought he was
dangerous, but because I wanted him to be okay, and I felt responsible
for watching him closely for any sign that he still needed help. But when
he showed up at my apartment twenty minutes later, I could see he was
excited, and it actually made me relax a little. The meds made him
calmer and flatter in some ways, and while that was probably a good thing,
it also made him seem different. This was more like the old Jake,
full of energy and ready to tell you. I'll show you something funny
or awesome. He'd referenced the video on the phone, and when he came
in. I saw he had his laptop under one arm. I raised an
eye, brought him what we couldn't look it up on YouTube or something.
He grinned as he said, the laptop on the kitchen counter and opened it
up. Nope, not this, it's special. On his screen was a
website showing what looked like video from a camera perched high up on a pole
or building and pointed out over a multi lane freeway and part of some city
on the far side. There, the sun was bright and you could see
steady streams of cars going in both directions, and in the upper left part
of the camera's view you could see a long pedestrian bridge with people passing to
and fro. Oblivious to our scrutiny, I glanced at him, this live
or a video? Jay grinned, it's live. It's Kuala Lumpa, Malaysia.
I glanced back at the video. That made sense. It was after
ten at night where we were, but it was probably the next morning there.
But still, I mean, that's neat and all. But I've seen
city cameras before, lots of places livestream. Now, is there some shut
up here? She comes? I followed where his finger was emphatically jabbing at
the screen. Coming towards the camera along the footbridge was a squat woman with
black and gray hair that looked to be in her late fifties. The image,
while good quality, wasn't clear enough to show a face in any real
detail, but a movement was stiff and strange, as though she were aching
with every step on maybe had slipped walked the entire way there. I looked
back over at Jake. Who is that? He gave a small laugh.
I don't know a name. It doesn't matter, but I know her.
She's the one I've been dreaming about for months. My stomach began to curl
in on itself. Jake, have you taken your meds today? He didn't
look at me, but I saw his jaw clench and jump before he spoke.
I did. But it doesn't make a difference. I'm not crazy,
I never was. Just shut up and listen to me. He tapped the
screen where the woman had come to a stop in the middle of the bridge.
This woman, I knew she was going to come to the bridge because
I made her do it. I spent half the afternoon picturing it until I
knew it had set in was raising with what I should do next? Do
I call someone, try to get him to go to the doctor. What
if he got weirder or even violent? Maybe I should just hear him out
and then go from there. I don't really understand what you're talking about.
Still looking at the screen, he let out a long breath. Yeah,
I know it sounds crazy. That's why I want to show you. Give
me just the second I have to concentrate. Jake let his arms hang down
by his sides as he stared intently at the video feed. After over a
minute of awkward silence, he started to raise his right hand, first to
his head, then above it, stretched up and straight, like he wanted
to answer a question in class. I was about to ask what he was
doing when I saw it. The woman on the bridge was raising her hand
to heart pounding. I looked between the video and Jake. He was raising
his other arm in the same way, and about three or four seconds behind,
the woman was doing the same thing. He turned to beam at me,
and to my horror, I saw the woman turning to smile in our
direction as well. What the hell is this some kind of internet trick?
He snorted, No trick, I'll show you ask me to do something,
something simple. I don't have good control yet. I started shaking my head.
Look, I don't know what this is, but it's freaking me out.
Jake scowled at me. Don't be a wass. Tell me to do
something, Simon says, taking his stay back. I rolled my eyes in
irritation to hide my growing fear. Fine, jump up and down, giggling.
He nodded and began jumping up and down or keeping both arms up.
After a brief delay, the woman started doing the same thing, and when
he stopped a few moments later, so did she Okay, so how are
you doing it? No, I can tell you still think it's fake.
Pick something else, something harder. Look, I really don't want to.
His face darkened into a scowl. Just do it, okay, gritting my
teeth, I nodded, Fine, slap yourself in the face hard. I
thought this would call his bluff. Either the video woman wouldn't have done that,
or if this was some elaborate hoax where he paid some stranger to mimic
him through a hidden camera he brought with him, or something she'd hesitate to
hurt herself one way or another, it might stop whatever weird nonsense he was
trying to pull, But no, he just smiled wider as he took a
step back and placed a hand on the counter for support. Now that's more
like it. The first lap across his face sounded loud as a gunshot in
the small kitchen, and he let out a gasp of pain as the right
side of his face immediately started to redden I was so focused on him that
it took me a moment to realize I was seeing her mimic him in my
peripheral vision, same spot, just as hard. Jeez what. He hit
himself a second time, even harder. She did the same, and this
time they were both bleeding from the nose when they straightened back up. Stop,
just stop. He gave a soft laugh, and then struck himself a
third time, hard enough that he seemed unsteady on his feet. When I
looked at the woman, she was holding onto the bridge railing like it was
the only thing keeping her upright, I turned back to Jake and grabbed his
arm. Stop that right now, you're hurting yourself and her. When he
grinned at me this time, I could see a film of blood on his
teeth, so you believe me now, shuddering, and I gave a nod.
I guess so, I mean, yes, I do stop hitting her
and you, I just how And then he told me I started having strange
streams a year ago. It was like falling asleep as myself and waking up
as another person. I've had dreams like that before, but not this long
and detailed and real. I could move around for several hours sometimes and I
remembered all of it. I'd go out into the city I figured out,
and it was Kuala Limpo, and when I was there, I could read
and understand the language, even though I don't know any of that stuff when
I'm awake. But the weirdest thing was I was always the same person when
I was over there, this woman on the bridge. It was like we
were swapping. Now, I'm not crazy, And for a time I just
assumed it was some kind of like lucid dreaming or something. I was dreaming
versions of the same dream and just fooling myself into thinking it was real.
This went on for months, and then one day I dozed off in algebra
class. I really don't remember what happened, because I wasn't there. I
don't know if this woman is normally asleep in my mind when I'm awake in
hers, but this time she's sure the hell knews something was going on and
freaked out. Thanks to her, I wound up in the looney bin,
and now I have everyone looking at me like I'm Jeffrey Dahmer, even you.
Nah, don't deny it. It's okay, I don't blame you,
but I hate it too. So I decided I needed to figure out what
this was and try to either get rid of it or control it. I
started trying different things in the hospital, reading books on meditation and self hypnosis,
even astral projection. Most of it is hippy nonsense, but I got
a few ideas that helped me to focus. I started feeling like I could
feel her a little even when I was awake, and over time I started
thinking I could maybe make her do something if I could concentrate on it hard
enough. The first few tries, well, it's hard to say. It's
not just in your imagination, right, I mean, how the hell am
I going to know if some lady in Malaysia picks up a pencil because I
wanted her to. One night when I was inside her In my dream.
I went walking through the city. It was early afternoon there, and I
remember walking for miles until I got to this freeway and this bridge, and
it was then that I saw the camera up above. I asked the teenager
that was passing what kind of camera that was, and that's when he said
the magic words. It's a streaming webcam. He gestured at the woman on
the bridge again as she started to wander off. I've been practicing this for
weeks now. It's only the third time I've gotten her to the bridge,
But once she's there, I can see that it works. And when I'm
done, I just kind of let go and she wanders on back home.
I just stared at him. Jeez, man, that's a person, even
if this works, like you're saying, that's messed up to just take someone
over and hurt them and stuff. Jake grimaced at me. First off,
saving moral judgments. You're the one that said slap in the face, not
me. I've never heard her before. Oh really, what the hell do
you think she thinks when she wakes up halfway across the city and doesn't know
how she got there. He looked uncomfortable at that, but gave a shrug.
I don't know, and yeah, I have thought about that, but
I don't know her, and I don't know that she's not responsible for this
in the first place. Whatever it is. What I do know is that
I'm not having people think I'm a nutter butter for the rest of my life.
And if I don't know how to turn it off, I'm going to
figure out how to prove to people that it's real. I let out a
sigh. Damn, I get that. Not that I think you're crazy,
not really. I just thought you had like a breakdown or something, you
know, But this, I don't know that it's even safe to tell people
about it. He founded that, what do you mean, Well, even
if you get people to believe you, does that really help you. How
do you know somebody won't just snatch you up to experiment on you or something.
Shake's eyes widened. I hadn't really thought of that. I nodded,
Yeah, I mean, it sounds like a movie. But what part of
this doesn't sound like some horror movie sci fi non sense? I reached out
and gripped his shoulder. Maybe just leave it alone. I know you want
to like vindicate yourself or whatever, but I know it now, and in
time other people will forget and treat you normal. When he started to shake
his head, I gripped his shoulder harder. And if they don't, screw
them. But you don't know what this is you're messing with, and you're
messing with the stranger who either doesn't deserve it or is maybe causing it.
Just close the door and see if it goes away over time. Tears in
his eyes, he began to nod as he leaned forward and gave me a
quick hug. Thanks, man, you're probably right. When we parted,
I kept the smile on my face, despite the dark thoughts churning in my
head where the Jake I knew woud never hurt someone else, even to prove
the point he was trying to make, and that when I looked over his
shoulder at the webcam feed, the last time the woman had stopped wandering away.
She was standing further down the bridge, looking at the camera, staring
right at me. Two more weeks went by, and while I didn't see
Jake, we taxted most days and he seemed to be doing better. Said
the dreams were still there, but he could usually get out of them after
just an hour or two. We made plans to go hiking next weekend.
But then two nights ago, he was banging my door in the middle of
the night. When I opened up, he came rushing in, covered in
sweat and clearly terrified someone's after me. Man I shut and locked the door
behind him, before turning to follow him into the living room. What are
you talking about? Who's following you? He shrugged. I don't know for
sure. I haven't seen them good enough. But it's the same red car
for the last two days, with heavy tint on the windows. Well,
why don't you call the cops, Jake shook his head. They'd find out
I just got locked up and think I'm being paranoid. You're the only one
who knows I'm not crazy. I nodded, okay, Well, did they
follow you here? I think so. I tried to lose them, but
I don't know if I did. Moving past him, I went to the
sliding doors leading out to the balcony, opening them, I stepped out and
looked down into the Orange Liate parking lot below. My heart sank as I
saw a red car parked next to my own, its windows too dark to
see inside. Damn, Oh, damn, damn. I looked over at
him, even as his face grew tight with fear. Oh God, HiT's
her, She's here. He was right. I'd been focused on the car
at first, but directly underneath us was a short, older woman with black
and gray hair that well. I'd never seen her clearly, but I'd seen
enough to know this looked like her. What was she doing all the way
over? She found me? I need to go. I don't know what
she can do, what she's capable of. It's not safe too, his
legs kicking and his chest shuddering. I leaned over to help, but quickly
realized I didn't know what to do. My first thought was the corn nine
one one, but then I realized how stupid I was being. This was
all her fault, wasn't it. It was an a coincidence that she came
all this way and then he started having a seizure or whatever. This was.
Anger burning in my chest. I stood up, ready to shout down
at her for her to stop it, to get lost, and to leave
him alone, but the words died in my throat as I saw her down
there, staring up at me. Tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked
tight with tension as she murmured out just a handful of words. No,
please, don't, I'm sorry. Then I saw the flash of a box
cutter as she raised it to her throat and slashed it wet and wide.
Even as she was falling over, I saw Jake sat up and turning to
look at me, his face split into a smile. Thanks for having me
over. I think I'm okay now. I reached out to help him mop,
but when he met my eyes, I recoiled. I'm sure, I
am. We need to call the police. She she's dead. He nodded
as he rose to his feet. Yeah, sure, we can call the
authorities. They should be made aware. Another glanced my way. Are you
okay too? I nodded and moved quickly off the balcony to get my phone,
Grabbing it up, I stepped out of the apartment to make the call
and waited in the breezeway until they arrived. Jake came out when the ambulance
police pulled up, and after we both told them several times that a strange
woman we didn't know had hurt herself outside, they eventually left again with a
body. I guess I should be getting home too. He smiled at me.
Thanks again for your help. He sounded like I helped him with his
car or something. See you again soon. I forced myself to meet her
eyes for a moment. No, no, I don't think you will.
I think it's better for both of us if you don't. A smile widened
then No, perhaps not. Still my thanks, have a good night.
I shut the door then and bolted it, and even after I watched Jake's
car drive away, I couldn't go to sleep. I didn't go outside again
until today. But then I didn't have a choice. I was the only
one there, a shabby funeral for an unknown foreigner that had inexplicably flown halfway
around the world to die in front of a couple of strangers. Even the
government paid chaplain that did the eulogy could only speak in vague platitudes about the
mysterious life and things unseen. He came over after to offer his condolences,
and after an awkward pause, he asked me how I knew the departed,
tears in my eyes. I lugged up and told him he was my best
friend. It began with a black bag over my head. Six or seven
men seizing me off the street on my way home from work, Holding me
at gunpoint in the back of a van. They explained in detail what would
happen to my family if I didn't listen to them. Until that moment,
torture was just a word. I'd never given it much thought. I wasn't
prepared to hear some of the things they told me. By the time they
were loading me onto a helicopter, I would have done anything they asked.
I arrived at the Black site, kicked out of the chopper, where my
feet hit the hard packed, wet mud with a splash. Black hood torn
off so hard it hurt the skin on the tip of my nose, and
then I got my first look at the place. Can't say if it met
my expectations or not. I didn't have any idea where I was going or
what it was supposed to look like when I got the Still it managed to
leave me feeling surprised. An abandoned village nestled in the jungle, mostly one
room hovels, lots of corrugated iron. Here and there lay burned allotments,
dyeing pepper plants left untended, their fruits stamped into the earth by the passage
of soldiers dressed in all black, Rotten fences and troughs to feed long dead
pigs and goats lay smashed to pieces, and then lurking on a hill like
some architectural jump scare was a three story hospital made of glass and steel,
stated the art, built in a place where tarmac was just a rumor.
Officially, it had been put there by a charitable nonprofit wanting to research novel
diseases and potential cures deep in the jungle. Unofficially, it had always belonged
to the CIA, a useful place to test strange things with pots in the
name, and when the time came, a useful place to dissect the impossible.
Imagine my surprise when I was escorted by armed men to an office with
my name on the door and discovered that I was to be in charge of
its latest major project, head of Research. Printed on the glass, real
official looking big black letters like I'd always worked there. First thing, I
thought, how long do they intend to keep me here? But that didn't
last long. The hospital became my home and has been ever since. Less
than twenty four hours after my arrival and I hid my feet up on the
desk, barking orders at lab technicians. I slipped into the role easier than
I'd like to add. You see, where they got me was on scientific
curiosity. That's how they ensured I was on board with the project. That's
why they never pointed a gun at me after day one. They didn't have
to. The second I saw that thing inside the Messiah's chest cavity, I
was a willing asset. No more me, only the project, the discovery,
and the revelations. Lying on that slab nestled in the flesh of an
otherwise normal looking man was a white hot piece of divinity, a pinprick in
the fabric of reality. I don't know how else to describe it. It
was like I'd spend my whole life seeing two dimensional shadows, and then I
suddenly got a glimpse of the three dimensional shapes casting them. I haven't seen
my children since they took me. Couldn't tell you their names. I was
never the same after the first autopsy. No one in that place was sane.
After the scalpel first bit into his flesh, Attrition amongst the research staff
was incredibly high. Every day, another nurse seized by stigmata, or a
once faithless lab technician struck by the call to write the Third Testament. The
guards dealt with the unwilling members of the team, Traumatized scientists and clinicians lined
up one by one against an exposed brick wall in the jungle heat and shot.
I remember smoking in the cafeteria in between surgeries, nervously shaking as I
tried to ignore the pop pop pop of some of my more stubborn colleagues being
executed. And then back to work, where I suppressed the feeling that I
was the worst kind of traitor. Next day there'd be new faces scrubbing up
and asking for orders, another pair of hands shipped in from God knows where.
Back to cataloging divinity. At times I imagine joining the objectors, the
people who found religion in a sterile, black ops lab. But that thing
we pulled out of him, that baffling enigma that burned my eyes and consumed
the project. Everything we learned about it felt like a quantum leap in our
understanding of microbiology. We tested everything we could get our hands on, plants,
animals, humans. I tried not to look any of them in the
eye, quiet people taken from some quiet part of the earth where they wouldn't
be missed, all of them scared, did they know, I mean really
no, the suffering they were in for definitely not. They expected to be
shot, I imagine, not to wake up with the roof of their mouth
fined with eyeballs. I'm ashamed to say, but those kinds of results invigorated
me, excited me even when it all fell apart and I missed the evacuation.
I got to finally rifle through all those classified documents where I discovered I
hadn't been selected because I was some genius of microbiology, but rather because my
psychological profile made it clear I'd do anything if you dangled a big enough mystery
in front of me. That and the fact that I was actually quite good
at managing projects. Geniuses usually aren't grad at sending out memos or keeping track
of performance numbers. Thankfully, I'm no genius who was humbling at times working
with some of the guys down below, being senior to them, even I
mean, doctor Coates was probably the smartest man I'd ever met, no real
academic career. Because he had a habit of hyper fixating on things that either
couldn't be solved or which no one gave a damn about. But it was
pretty clear this was a guy who could have turned his brain to just about
anything and made a name for himself if he was just a little more on
the ball. He was a NodD and basically gave lectures. Barefoot would respond
to last minute marking deadlines by giving every student to be through a stabler at
the head of his department. That kind of thing. Intelligent, but not
particularly sensible. The project broke him, broke his worldview, broke his mind,
and, towards the end, even his body. You might think the
problem was asking a hyper rational man to process the divine, but if anything,
he processed it a little too well. He was the first person to
read the Third Testament without going insane immediately insane, i should say, or
maybe he was always nuts to begin with. Either way, he managed to
take all the random scribbles and bits of verse that we'd collected from the personal
effects of the deceased and actually put it together into a single document. Then
he read it and came out looking like nothing special had happened. The next
guy after him not so lucky, but doctor Coates he carried on working for
a few days after that, took measurements of this, made records of that
slipped into the background, out of my notice while I focused on trying to
figure out some way of getting the Third Testament scanned into a computer without it
causing havoc a lot like the people who read it, machines liked to give
out halfway through reading the Third Testament. Not Coats, though he seemed just
fine. I should have known better. The first clue that something wasn't quite
right was when I went to his office, a cramped space with metal walls
and floors, no windows given it was below ground, and a countertop full
of equipment. It was always a mess in there, and usually a bit
smelly too, but it was usually just that unwashed scientist smell. But one
day when I went to call on him, he opened the door and I
got the whiff of something that was just wrong. Smelled a little like death,
only not quite just different, moldy almost. Course, he was entitled
to do some experimentations on his own time, and that's what I figured it
was. At the time I wrote it off, had other things on my
mind. Only the smell got worse with time. Turned up day after day,
and each time it stung my nose a little more, hung around my
sinuses a little longer, and coats. He looked a little worse for wear
each time too. Again, nothing serious, the kind of thing that's actually
quite normal for a man like him. I'm used to seeing scientists fixate on
a problem, something quiet they won't share with anyone else until they know for
sure what they've got. That's what he was like, and I figured when
he was ready, he'd either show me something that would blow my socks off,
or it'll be something stupid, like a gourdiss microwave to evenly heat up
his lunch by taking it apart and rewiring its inside. Sometimes I wonder,
if I caught it earlier, could I have done something about it. Someone
smarter might have picked up the odd chemical mixtures on his shelf, or recognized
the peculiar smells. Not me, though, all I can say in hindsight
is thank god my office was above ground. By the time his little project
had finished working its way through the floor he was on, he'd killed thirty
six people with his homemade nerve gas. Thankfully, the facility was prepared for
that kind of attack, and the automated security systems had the entire level locked
down very quickly, so that the damage wasn't that bad. Could have been
a lot worse. But what was weird was the venting system wasn't working.
Should have cleared it out and under a day, but four hours later and
the gas levels were the same. The investigation, at least at first,
had to happen remotely. CCTV from his lab was spotty. Something was corroding
the cameras, but based on some of his material requests, we guessed he'd
been culturing some unusual fungus to create the bioweapon. Whatever it was, it
was potent, and we were helpless to do anything about it. We had
to wait and hope to God whatever awful thing he'd concocted would wear out on
its own. What little the CCTV could capture made for a grueling sight.
Eight scientists dead at their desks, slumped over, blood pouring out of their
mouths. The fluid looked black on the grainy black and white monitor. But
what upset me more were the assistants, dozens of young men and women who
didn't really belong in that place. Too much to live for and all of
them so scared of what was going to happen to them, And they were
just lying there in the middle of whatever it was they were doing in the
labs themselves, smashed beakers and machines in disarray. In their rooms. Some
of them lay peacefully sleeping, others held each other in secret, little trysts
they thought no one knew about. All over the level, bodies lay in
the floor in strange positions, and again the black fluid leaking from every orifice,
staining the floor, their faces and their clothes, soaking their chests and
groins. I remember sitting there and just watching them twitch and foam of their
mouths, waiting for death to finally come. Even then the hours ticked on
as we waited for the systems to purge the gas twelve twenty four forty eight,
nothing happened. It was like everything in there was frozen in time.
And then somehow the lights on that level went out. Emergency lighting came on,
bathing everything in red, but combined with the low quality cameras, it
was like gazing at an old video game, grainy, fuzzy, low resolution.
We figured that Coats must have rigged up a remote timer on the electronics,
which wasn't a good guess since his speciality was biochemistry and the security systems
were of the highest tier. But what else could it be. Wasn't like
someone could have hit the circuit breaker. We knew eventually we'd have to go
in there sixty hours, have to shut down. We just had to.
There was too much high value material to leave behind. And there are reports
of strange noises down there. Guards posted to the door heard faint sounds on
the other side, footsteps They reckoned. Course, I wrote that off.
Not a nonsense, I told myself and them, And yet we still went
in armed, because well, if Coates were smart enough to rig this whole
nightmare, who's to say he didn't make a little gas mask to keep himself
safe. You'd think I'd be used to working in hazmat suits, and I
sort of vam were going into that seiled floor was something else. The visor
felt restrictive, the squeak of the rubber suit was deafening, My breath was
too loud, and every time the insuit radio came to life with one of
the soldier's barks, I damn near jumped out of my skin. And then
the door actually opened. Nothing could have prepared me for that. The air
was thick with mist, which lit up harshly with the emergency lighting's red hue.
Old metal grates, vents, open doorways, all of it either blood
red or completely dark. There are far too many shadows for it to feel
safe. It didn't help some of the bulbs with strobe lighting, rotating sirens
that lit the place up in periodic flashes of crimson light. God. Even
the four soldiers next to me look nervous. We passed more than a few
bodies on our way to Coats's lab. All of them lay where they'd been
on the CCTV, at least as far as I could tell. Sounds stupid,
but I stared at a few of them closely, just to make sure.
All those reports of footsteps had started to worm their way into my brain.
Couldn't shake the idea we weren't alone down there. When we finally opened
the door to Coats, what I saw left me frozen to the spot.
The soldiers focused on the strange growth after the corner of the room, which
registered to me only as a dim sort of collection of thick fungal petals crawling
up the wall veins pulsing like capillaries in the eye. But to me what
really hit home was the empty desk. Last time they had reliable footage of
that room, Coats had been lying there dead as a dodo, blood leaking
from his still open eyes, pulling on the desk and dripping onto the floor.
And that stain was still very much there. There was even the faint
outline of where his head had been laying, but the man himself was gone.
This, even more than the grotesque thing that took up one wall,
terrified me. That quivering mass of fungus was pomping out enough toxic gas to
kill half the base, but it was stationary. At least in another circumstance,
I might have even found it fascinating. But Coats, he had clearly
gone off the deep end. Had he lain perfectly still for days and end
to trick us, that didn't seem right again, I thought the bodies we
passed the way, they looked so still, but not lifeless, like a
porcelain doll. There was that slight suggestion of something working behind the eyes.
What do we do with this? One of the men asked, take samples,
burn the rest. I replied, if gas levels don't go down.
In a week, we'll have to purge the whole floor with phosphor us.
The whole time, I had my eyes and the space around us under the
desk on top of the cupboards. If Coats wasn't at his desk, where
was he? Where the hell did this thing come from? The same soldier
muttered as he laid a series of thermal charges on the fleshiest parts of the
mold. It seemed to flinch in response to his touch, but otherwise benign.
Ah. He probably took some of the subject's tissues. We know it
propagates unusual levels of growth in plants and animal tissue. Explains why the cast
levels don't go down. What'sn't metabolizing? I gave the soldier an odd luck
what he said, you are the only ones within education? Fair enough,
I replied, with a quick shake of the head. It isn't metabolizing anything
except his tissue. It's a well, bluntly, I mean, I think
of the fish and the bread, right. It's something we've known about his
tissue samples for a while now, spontaneous creation of matter and energy out of
nothing. But to give Coat's credit, this is a pretty novel application.
He's created an infinite bioweapon. Why, I was about to reply, I
haven't. The slightest clue and a loud bang draw attention to the doorway.
Outside lay a darkness broken only by the strobing of a red light. Flashing
on and off. It revealed, for just this single instant, the outline
of a man standing in the hallway. The soldiers swore nervously as they raised
the rifles. By the time the light came back, the figure was gone.
Who the hell was that, one barked, must be Coats. Another
replied, job's done, I cried wad, gesturing to the charges les.
Get the hell out of There are no miracles left for you. You have
made your own miracles. The words were growled, so loud and deep they
seemed to vibrate my very bones. The soldiers snapped to attention, but me,
I took a little longer to turn back to the corner of the room.
I knew what I was going to see, but God, I didn't
want to see it. There are other gardens, but not for you.
Do not spoil the other readings. Coats emerged from the thing in the wall,
pulling himself free with a wet squelch. He stood not naked, but
clearly naked. As his skin began to absorb his clothes, he looked like
a burned victim coated in algae. He loves you in spite of everything.
He loves you, and there is a place in Heaven for you all.
But it is time to I can't blame the soldier who pulled the trigger.
It wasn't just the fact that Coach was speaking with a mouth that had grown
grotesquely across his abdomen, but rather that the words were drilling straight into our
heads like some prushing off. It made my eyes cross, my ears ache,
and my nose bleed. Two other men had vomited, splatching the inside
of their visors with thick fluid. They were the first to go. They
didn't see what hit them, and I'm somewhat glad. Coats, angered by
the gunshot, moved with the elegance of a dancer. I stumbled out into
the corridor as he tore them apart, his arms seemingly flowing right through their
biohazard suit. The remaining soldier, the trigger happy one, was beside me
as I fled. It wasn't far to the exit. I hoped would make
it the rest of the way without incident, and in just a few short
hours I might be able to put the few images I had of coats pulling
flesh and fabric apart like it was tissue deep, into some recess of my
mind and just move on. But it was only a few short steps into
the dark before the remaining soldier began to fire blindly at the corridor behind us.
It was a mistake for him to turn around in the fraction of a
second where his eyes had been turned away, he missed one of the bodies
lying on the ground. I jumped, He didn't. I was dimly aware
of there being no one beside me, only when the gunshots grew fainter and
fainter. As I left him behind, one of the shots dinged off a
panel by my head, and to this day I suspect it was not a
ricochet, but a deliberate attempt to get revenge from me abandoning him. Still,
I didn't look back until I reached the secure door. I thulmb the
keypad, frantically, terrified as my ears registered the sound of approaching footsteps muffled
by the buy a hazard suit god. I couldn't stop myself. I looked.
I had nothing else to do except wait for the security to clear me
and open the door, and there was no guarantee they'd even do that.
I might be waiting forever, staring at nothing as Coats came closer and closer.
Without even realizing what I was doing, I turned and saw the soldier
with a gun. Jeez. Coat's office was out of sight, so I
had no idea if he repeated this with the other two. With the man
I saw, he was in pieces yellow and red in ragged strips, the
coat of the ceiling as much as the floor, and barreling toward me on
all fours, legs and arms too long for a normal man. Came Coats,
eyes wide, jawdie then did chunks out of his head still missing,
but his mouth it silently spoke the same few words, almost in time with
his loping gallop, over and over and over. It would take days for
me to even realize what it was he was saying. Thankfully, before he'd
managed to reach me, the doors opened and a hail of gunfire filled the
corridor ahead. Coats, fast as lightning, disappeared into some dark crevice,
and I was dragged to safety before the worst might happen. As soon as
I was on the other side, I told security to flood the place with
phosphorus, and everything was purged white, hot, fire and demand. By
the time it was over, only metal remained, and even then a lot
of it had melted and cooled in strange shapes on the floor. I also
went out of my way to kill any attempts at reclaiming the lost workplace.
Higher ups were mad or that square footage lost, but I said the risk
of contamination was too great. Of course, I left out the part where
I returned one quiet night a few days later and placed my ear against the
thick steel wall that I knew ran close to one of the vents on that
level. It was faint, but I heard Coates whispering. Only then did
I get the final clue to what Coates had been saying as he came towards
me in the flashing red of that darkened corridor. We love you, We
love you, We love you, we love you, we love you.
Even now, the cameras showed that level to be a sterile, hollow space.
But I cannot escape the feeling that if I were to open it I
would see Coats come slithering out of some long forgotten vent, perhaps worse for
wear given all the time that has since passed. But Coats, nonetheless terrifying
and misshapen, were desperate to spread the very Testament that twisted his mind and
body, that caused him to try and breed something that might well have ended
the entire world. And the worst thing of all, what he'd been saying
to me in that corridor. What if it was true? What if he
hadn't done it out of hate but love? And the time I assumed the
force we were dealing with was hostile, But what if it wasn't Everyone who
goes near the Third Testament kills themselves, And until Coates, I thought it
some kind of twisted revenge. But what if that wasn't the case? What
if he wasn't doing it out of spite or hostility? What would that mean
for me? Forgiveness? If so? That terrified me, because after everything
I'd been through, I doubted I'd have the strength to resist that kind of
offer. For weeks, I lay awake at night wondering just what the hell
might be in those words that could compel people like Coats to do what they
did, and yet despite everything, I still haven't read the Third Testament.
Coats was a genius, and he still gave in. I know that I
did some pretty messed up stuff in the name of scientific curiosity, but well,
I guess I'm not ashamed to say I'm also a coward. I'm afraid
of dying. Curiosity can only get you so far, and after seeing everything
that happened to the people who read that thing, I couldn't bring myself to
risk it. Whatever the Third Testament is, hearing it seems pretty bad for
your health. I don't think I even deserve to be forgiven if that is
what he's offering. It was poetic justice that out of all the people who
managed to make the evacuation, I wasn't one of them. Leaving on foot
is hardly an option for me. I mean, even if I had the
strength to hike through hundreds of miles of rainforest, I need to reach the
outer fence first. And strange things have fested in the chemical pits where they
disposed of the bodies, soft mounds of ash and bone that sing from time
to time, exciting the birds in the canopy to take off, make strange
patterns in the sky. If they can sing, they must have mouths,
right, And if they have mouths, what else? I think about coats?
About what kind of hands would reach out to drag me into those rotten
pits of long dead flesh and drown me in filth? And I shudder.
I could try and sneak past, but it really isn't safe outside the hospital.
It isn't safe inside, to be fair, But what choice do I
have. At least there's still power, internet, food to last me over
a century, and security doors. I keep everything below sub level one firmly
locked away. While out there well, I see things sometimes moving quickly between
the old buildings. The trees shake and stir and wear. Jungle now grows
thick and heavy against one of the glass walls of the hospital. The vines
twist and turn and spell out odd messages. I shut my eyes firmly whenever
I have to pass them. And yet even blind I can hear the tidening
fibrous coils as the clawing flora scratches against the glass. They want me hungering
all those corpses we buried out there, rotting, breaking down, contaminated with
divinity. What strange waters flow through the soil in this place. Nothing could
make me risk opening the doors and try walking through that vegetation. He might
forgive, but I don't think my former test subjects have. And as for
down below, you know, I never met him while I was alive.
Don't know where they got him from, or even why. My bet he
ticked off the wrong people, got shot and got back up. Maybe they
shot him again and he got up again. Maybe they did it five times,
ten times. I don't know. Somewhere along the lines, someone worked
out they had an anomaly on their hands. Maybe I wasn't the first person
to even try cutting him open. It's just weird. No one ever told
us who he was. We just knew It'd be years before I wondered who
mothered him, loved him, raised him. I often wonder if this was
the way it was meant to go, or was it just an accident that
he bumped into the wrong people at the wrong time. Sire came and the
first thing we did was cut him off. No wonder we failed. Things
in the projects started to go really bad about six months after the first incision.
I turnover amongst researchers was one thing, but well, it turns out
a lot of the soldiers had religious inclination. Wasn't just us dealing with visions
and voices. At some point they worked out what they were part of.
The agency likes compartmentalization, but it can only go so far. After the
religious element became clear to the guys on the ground, things started to break
down. It was one thing to control the scientists. The guards were armed.
When they broke, they broke hard. Most of his remains are stored
in the lowest level. Wrote It's easiest to keep things cool outside. There's
this long corridor leading to the central chamber, huge, wide enough to drive
four or five cards side by side. And that was where the first card
hanged himself. Simple enough, they dragged him away and cleaned it up.
It wasn't long after coats. In fact, it was one of the men
who saved me at the door. Were pretty soon another two guys went down
there and hanged themselves, and then five, and then eight, and then
top side. Some people started blowing their brains out in their barracks in the
canteens, standing watch at the doors, looking out on the jungle. Cigarette
hanging loose on one lip seemed almost random, except there was a clear pattern
of escalation when those guys started killing their friends, that when it reached the
point where they couldn't ship new guys in fast enough to replace losses. Once
that happened, orders started getting lost, jobs started being left and done.
One lab got written off because a test subject's body was left to fester over
a weekend, and by the time they got the door open there was flesh
growing up the walls, not enough manpower to deal with it, so they
left it for another day and moved on. Only they forgot to tell the
researcher who worked there, So come Monday, he went in and had a
hell of a surprise. Must have been like stepping into a wall of sour
dough. I can only hope he suffocated and it was quick, but who
knows. Not like our stuff as hard and fast rules. For all I
know, he's still in there screaming for air. Meanwhile, that tunnel people
just kept going down there and hanging themselves. I mean, every day I'd
wake up and I'd be down a few researchers and a couple more guards would
be missing. Took a shockingly short amount of time for most of the six
hundred people on site to just disappear. God knows when security stopped taking the
bodies down, just another job that got lost in the grown panic. By
the time evacuation orders came, we were down to a hundred people. I
esked themate that around four hundred ended themselves in that tunnel. I've only visited
him once since the project shut down, only had the guts to go look
once, barely made it out alive. I felt compelled to try and face
up to him, acknowledged the role I played. Only that meant actually getting
to the door at the end of the tunnel, which was by this point
pitch black except for my torch, and blocked almost entirely with hanging bodies,
so many pressed together, so close that I had no hope of making my
way through without bumping into one. Reminded me of the jungle, funnily enough,
of a thick, claustrophobic forest made of dried skin and brittle ligaments,
different colors and shapes, and of course different levels of decomp Some had lost
their noses, lips, and eyes. Others were a little bloated but still
recognizable. Not friends, really, I don't think I actually made one solitary
friend on that project. But colleagues, people who were under my charge,
they looked sad. All of them looked sad. They should have been buried
at home with their families, but instead they were locked all the way in
the ass end of nowhere. Of course, you can bet your ass the
agency will make sure no one ever knows the truth. You know, I
still love contact with them. Anything I post gets screened, arrogant assholes.
No that, no one's going to take me seriously a record of this project
anywhere? All those people just ghosts in a system too big for any one
person to keep track of it all. You know how many people go missing
in the United States in a year? What about Europe? Well, the
whole damn world. God, this project was just a drop in the ocean.
I wanted to put it to bed to see if I could get some
kind of answer from him. It was that idea, trying to get some
resolution to this nightmare. I gave me the strength to push past the first
dead body and go deeper into that tunnel. It reminded me of trying to
make your way to the front of a gig, only deathly silent, and
the people you barged past one gently back and forth, the sound of makeshift
nooses tightening in the dark. I think the worst part was the limited vision.
My light was just a lone disk, and God, it was pitch
black in that place, like caving, only the floor is slick and you
don't have to worry about a ravine. Made me think about being in the
bottom of the ocean with all the corps's visibility was never more than a few
foot ahead. I remember panicking at the realization I could easily get turned around,
And well, if all those lost souls didn't let me go, what
if I wound up in circles for hours, days, even on end,
just round and round. The nearest wall could be right there and I wouldn't
know it. Just bones and teeth and ribs and hanging in trails, all
of them called to the touch, freezing. Obviously, that's why we'd put
him down there. The place was called my own breath, visible in the
air, but the bodies were like the meat you grab out of the fridge
in a supermarket. It was just awful. I found the fresh ones the
hardest. The stomach, A really rotten body looks almost like a prop It
isn't don't get me wrong. You look at it and your brain tells you,
damn well, it ain't a prop. But it's a hell of a
lot easier to convince yourself. It's just the thing when it hasn't got eyes
or skin. But the fresh ones sometimes they still had expressions like anger or
sadness on their faces. They made me feel watched. And the fact they
were cold and slick with condensation. Every time I bumped into one, it
took everything I had not to let out a whimper. And they moved.
They didn't move, not like that. But there were no drafts down there.
It was perfectly still. They had been perfectly still for months after the
project shut down, and then I came along and disturbed them, and it
was like a giant Newton's cradle. The static system that I put energy into
it began to sway and twist and bomp. I'd knock one, and a
fraction of a second later it would knock me back, jostling against my cheek
or my arm as inertia rocked it back and forth. Ten minutes in too
far to turn back. That was when the nightmare began started small I lost
my ability to track what body was where and which ones were sent swinging by
my own clumsy movements, and then fingers combed my hair. I cried out,
Another said touched my beard, my face. I forced myself onwards and
started making eye contact with one. Too many dead men for it to simply
be an accident. Their expressions changed from sullen and listless to angry and cool,
leering smiles and curled lips. Then came the unmistakable sensation of someone deliberately
grabbing for my arm. I had to shake it loose, too afraid to
look back and face the possibility that I'd see one of them moving and scared,
I pushed on constantly, having to shake cold fingers off my elbow or
my collar. They groped incessantly, looking for anything to hold on to.
Firm grips pinched my belly, fat, my shoulders, my chest, and
then they started reaching for my eyes. At one point I made the mistake
of crying out, and a freezing cold finger with a slightly furried texture slid
into my mouth. The only relief came when I dropped to my hands and
knees and crawled. The entire time my mind raised with a terrible possibility that
I really was just being sent in circles over and over and over, and
they were never going to let me leave. I would die down there in
the dark, smothered by their rotting hands. God damn, I came close
to giving up. When my torch finally alighted upon an open space. I
cried out, a heaving, wet sob made of relief and joy, and
my muscles given new life, worked over time to get me out of that
horrible nightmare and into freedom. I didn't stop until I bumped my head against
the steel wall with a dull clang, and looked up to see the vault's
door, at last, the place we'd frozen him. I got up,
with what little dignity I had left, brushed down my clothes, and risked
only the briefest of glances back. The bodies looked inert now, just like
they had before I entered. I could have tricked myself into thinking it was
my imagination. Only half my shirt was now in tatters on the floor,
and I could still see strips of it still clenched in a few of their
hands. I did my best to compose myself, and I entered the vault.
We hadn't left him in a very nice state. The plan was the
catalog everything. Yeah, we excited the most striking biological anomalies, but the
remaining flesh. I mean, we wanted to know everything, every last capillary,
every last cell. We wanted it recorded. So we had this special
machine flown in. It works by taking a piece of flesh and slicing into
a layer that's barely a micrometer thick, and depositing it into a slide.
That slide is digested and then stored in specialized cold refrigeration units. Is usually
used on a sample not much bigger than a potato, but for him we
had something specially made, frozen stood vertigal. We put him on the machine
where it worked, creating about one slice every three hours. Only at the
end. Well, first, no one came to take the slides away,
so they had gathered on the floor below in a terrible mess. And second,
no one had bothered to check if he was still dead. Stupid of
us, really, of course he came back to life, only this time
he didn't get to leave the cave. I often wonder if he had anything
left to say, but by then the machine had reached his nose, just
his eyes at the top of his head looking right at me, following me.
God, we made a mess of things, didn't We made the Romans
look gentle in comparison. I fell to my knees and begged for forgiveness,
and the worst part he gave it. Obviously not verbally, but it shouldn't
surprise you to know he had other ways of putting thought to my head.
I was so angry at myself. I was positive I'd find some kind of
punishment waiting for me. When I didn't, he forgave me, told me
I was loved after everything I'd done. I mean, God, that hurt
the most. I didn't deserve it, still don't. And then he gave
me the Third Testament, or rather the cliff notes. Not enough to drive
me nuts, but the gist of it, so to speak, did a
numb me. Anyway. By the time I was done sobbing on the floor,
I lugged up and he was gone. Nothing remained, just broken glass
in a machine cutting empty air. Going back through the tunnel was no easier
than going in, but I hardly remember it. I lost a couple of
weeks after that little trip down below, but eventually I came to in my
office. Now I stay above ground. I've asked for rescue, but the
agency feels I best serve my country by staying where I am, making sure
nothing else leagues out. It's messed up, but I think, for once
they might be right. I've considered sharing what he gave me, considered even
putting it in bits of writing here. Might even go get the full Testament
and upload it, but that would involve reading it, and like I said,
I'm a coward and I don't want to die. Everyone who reads it
dies by their own hand. I guess all I can say is the Third
Testament. It's something of a warning, an outline of what's coming our way,
so bad that he came just to offer us a way out, a
promise that there's somewhere else, and an acknowledgment that we're going to need.
It makes me think of Coats, smartest man I ever met, whose first
reaction to knowing what was on the way was to try and engineer something to
wipe humanity all out. Given to what we did to him, I wonder
if we don't deserve it