Would you sign your life away for money?
I bet most of you reading this would say “no” to that question. Unfortunately for me, I’m not most people, and I didn’t.
“Fuck!” I yelled out as the microwave yelled with me.
I’d almost forgotten I didn’t need to make sure the microwave didn’t beep anymore. Or that whoever was banging on my door only bothered me now. Or most importantly that I just announced to the probably weirdo in the middle of nowhere aggressively knocking that I am definitely home.
I decided I shouldn’t postpone my burrito for this stranger, but I also wanted to know what the hell was going on so late, so I gently wrapped my precious cargo in a paper towel and took a bite while shambling to the door.
Before people ask why I opened the door, there’s some stuff you should know about me and where I live.
The stuff about me first. I’m really stupid, and I try and help when I shouldn’t.
Now about where I live.
In my town I’d heard a lot of weird stories. Stories about things that happen when and where they shouldn’t.
Most of these stories have come from passersby, people who stop at my isolated house asking for directions, food, medical supplies, or all three.
These stories are about ghosts and the supernatural. All stories I’d avoided being a part of by keeping my head down for 18 years. Also all stories I didn’t believe, and for good reason.
That’s where my weird begins. At 18, living alone, and calling attention to myself when I shouldn’t.
So when I opened that door I expected Buck or Edith or “Mr. Holiday” as he’s been called so often around town, but instead I was greeted by a total stranger.
Total strangers are a real shock in this place. Even I, thanks to my time working the register at our local movie theater, know most faces.
“Marco!” He greeted me like an old family member, or maybe it was like a man trying to give me a false sense of security. I think it might have been both.
The cold blast of winter wind was all too fitting for this man. The pale skin didn’t go well with the all black suit he was wearing. Neither did the heavy purple bags drooping beneath his eyes. Behind his spectacles was a piercing green stare.
Stretched out toward me was a skinny hand, sprung like a trap.
“It’s good to finally meet face to face!” The handshake was extended just a little further now. His beck and call more urgent.
I still couldn’t tell if I was in danger but based on the supreme confidence the individual carried, I had a funny feeling my knowledge of any danger presented wouldn’t change how he wanted this to go.
When I finally shook his hand, I had a burning question on my mind. One I needed ask as soon as possible to see where this whole thing was going. It’s not like what this stranger thought of me in this exact moment mattered, so I asked away.
“Are you, ya’ know, Death?” I half whispered that last word. I almost regretted asking. Almost.
“Not quite! Though I do get that a lot these days.” His reply was ready. Casual. Made me think he wasn’t kidding. He really did get asked that a lot. If it wasn’t that, why was I getting such a bad feeling?
“Then if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly are you?” With that question he got considerably more serious. He was ready to get down to business. Whatever his business was…
“My name is Dr. Jay Bryning. My associates and I put out an ad in the newspaper. If I’m not mistaken you are one of the few who replied to that ad. Sent in your application. Can we assume you’re still interested?” A lot clicked into place when he said that.
See I do a lot of stuff impulsively. Not without thinking, mind you. I think of either the good and only the good, or the bad and only the bad. Not usually much wiggle room in my head. So when I saw an ad for clinical trials, ones that paid 2 grand a check, I was rushing to send my application in.
“May we come inside? It’s a bit chilly.” He didn’t give me time to answer his question before one of his feet was in the door.
“Uh, sure.” Normally, I would have tried to stop him, especially not when I was about to go to bed, but something felt really off about him. I felt like I didn’t have a choice but to at least hear him out.
He helped himself to a seat at the table. I did the same. If the context were to be removed from that moment I would look like the unexpected guest. This man looked ready to meet the president, and I was in pajamas.
The small, yet very nice and surprisingly well kept house didn’t lend well to this juxtaposition. See for all their flaws my parents left me with the habit of cleaning and put a roof over my head.
Wordlessly he pulled out a thick file from his breast pocket.
“So, Marco, can we assume you’re still interested?” He repeated his earlier question. The use of “we” instead of “I” seemed odd but I chose not to comment, afraid of poking the bear. Instead I’d decided the path of least resistance.
“What exactly will we be testing?” At this question, he perked up.
With excitement the strange man explained. “We have created a machine that allows you to relive the memories of other people as if they were your own.”
I was surprised he didn’t say more, but he seemed satisfied saying that much to me.
“Are there like–brain needles?” I asked, again feeding into his narrative, feeling helpless, like I had no choice.
“That’s the best part! It’s all done with no more than sensors and wireless signals. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen The Machine.” He then rifled through the pages of the contract, stopping on a page he’d dog eared. “Here, these are the risks you wanna know about.”
It seemed like he had done this a few times before, like he knew down to the line which parts of the contract people would or wouldn’t want to read.
Possible side effects of use of The Machine include but are not limited to: Headaches, Memory Loss, Memory Gain, Stroke, Aneurysms, Parkinson’s, Ataxia, Hallucinations, Memory Change, Ataxia, and Spontaneous Combustion? Like burning into a fireball? When I pressed about that one I was assured it was very rare, a near impossibility that always exists with “These types of things”.
A lot of those were things I didn’t even recognize, and what the hell was Memory Gain and Memory Change supposed to mean?
Recognizing the look on my face, one he had definitely seen before, he cut off my train of thought and said “I assure you these side effects are not common. It’s very rare that the Machine actually does any permanent damage to the brain. We’re in the later stages of testing now,” he started pulling out another stack of papers that looked like graphs, “I can even show you the data–”
I cut him off. Taking a risk. Trying to get him out of my house and back into whatever hole he crawled into. “Do I have time to think?”
I had already made up my mind subconsciously, if I couldn’t get him to leave now I would just sign his papers. I felt like if I didn’t he might try something. I just wanted some time to talk to Buck. Warn him life might get weird. See if he knew what to do.
“No.” The answer hit like a truck but made me feel even more like I was in danger denying this guy what he wanted. “If you don’t sign the contract now, I promise you I can and will find another applicant. This is the last available spot and there will be no openings after today. And we, under no circumstances, will be pulling in new applicants later. It’s now or never.”
There was a lot of emphasis in that promise. It very much felt like a thinly veiled threat.
I wasn’t sure if this was an intimidation thing, or just some kind of car dealer tactic. It felt scummy. Probably because it was. It felt dirty, fucked up. Probably because it was.
It worked either way. Whatever this guy was trying was absolutely successful.
The signature I hadn’t practiced since I got my current job was just there before I had time to think. Then the next one, and the next, and by the end my wrist hurt and I was at least 20 signatures more practiced.
And before I knew it he was gone like the wind. He handed me a business card and a prepaid flip phone, and told me he’d “be in touch for orientation”.
I suppose my hunch about this being an ultimatum instead of choice may have been correct too, as when he drove away he was followed by a car trying and failing to hide in the darkness.
As soon as he left, I did the most reasonable thing I could think to do, I called the cops.
I gave the dispatcher my address and told them all the details of my situation, and because nothing actually happened, they told me an officer would come out to talk to me and take a report, but that was all I’d really get. Like anyone else in this town I asked for more, and received indifference.
This didn’t quell my concern even a little so I decided I’d go lie down and wait. I got all nice and comfortable in my bed and laid there on my phone, waiting for the officer to show up.
To make a long story short, they weren’t helpful. Cops in this town have a bad reputation for ignoring the weird stuff. That left me waiting, hoping whatever came next would be somewhat normal.
And I’m still waiting. For now, my shift at the movie theater is starting soon. I’ve gotta go and tend to my civic duty. Hopefully, that guy doesn’t call to chat.
Real fast. I’ve decided to ball up entry one and two into a single post. It just helps me keep things moving so I can catch you up faster.
Today I learned a very valuable lesson, the line between the natural and supernatural is a thin one, and it’s maintained by office walls and bulletproof glass.
Today didn’t start behind bulletproof glass, though. It started behind 4 oversized unlocked glass doors. It started on stained carpet, those stains always hidden by the neon lighting of our lobby. It started with the smell of cheap popcorn sold at an expensive price. It started with my hands always having a thin coating of sweat from the plastic gloves I wore to serve that cheap popcorn. It started with a new face.
Well, I say new but this man was familiar. He used to be a cop, Officer James Vox.
He was the guy who usually responded to my calls when people wandered into my yard from wherever they’d come from.
I saw him towards the back of the line. Used to be a welcome sight. He was wearing the same stained grey zip-up hoodie he always did. He uncut curly hair and scraggly beard against his dark skin showed signs he’d gotten even worse lately.
The former officer would come to the theater often, using his free movie privileges to keep up with entertainment outside of our small town. Before he went off the deep end he was actually one of the few people I could talk to for more than a few minutes at a time.
He’s only a new face now because he’s unrecognizable behind all that crazy.
“Hey man,” Vox started while I tried to ignore him, “Marco. Can you come help me over here. Drink machine isn’t working.” I could smell the bullshit from a mile away, but on the off chance it wasn’t I’d have to put in a work order, so I obliged his request.
On our way to the drink machine my phone rang again. It had rang a few times that morning. I had ignored it every time.
When we made it to the drink machine, I got out a cup to test it. He interrupted, knowing I’d find it perfectly operational if not in need of a cleaning.
“You know that guy is dangerous, right?” I let out an audible sigh. Last thing I needed in all this insanity was more insanity.
“I don’t know man Milton seems pretty normal to me.” I replied halfheartedly.
“You know who I’m talking about, asshat.” I did. Who else would it be about.
“I was just hoping it wasn’t about the other crazy guy who showed up out of nowhere.” I could see a surprising amount of hurt on his face when I said this.
“I get why you think I’m crazy but I’m really trying to look out for you, Marco. I’m telling you that guy is bad news for you and worse news for everyone else around you. You should just skip town. Now that he knows your name you and everyone you kno-“ I cut him off. I was fed up or I might have let him finish. Might have politely indulged him in honor of my fondness for the person he used to be.
“I know like 3 people here, and I’m pretty sure all of them can take care of themselves. I’m also pretty sure I couldn’t skip town if I tried on account of being broke. It’s not like I can just uproot. No one is buying that house anytime soon and it’s not paid off yet. And I’d really like to know exactly how you knew about Dr. Bryning!” I almost yelled that last part.
“I knew about him because I still listen to the chatterbox.” He was surprisingly composed and ready to answer this question. “I heard all kinds of talk about a strange man. And when I heard your address I figured he showed up at your house too. Look Marco I know you and everyone else in this town thinks I’m crazy but that guy showed up at my house too. Right before my wife went missing.” He trailed off. It might have been because he was reminiscing about his wife, or that he realized he mentioned her again.
See, this is why everyone thinks he’s crazy. He’s always rambling about a wife and kids that no one else can seem to remember. When people ask him about them, he says he can’t remember. That “they’re completely gone now”.
I finally relented, realizing the only way I’d get back to my shift peacefully was to assure him I’d be careful.
“Alright. How about this. I do my thing and if it starts to go south I’ll get ahold of you, alright, James?” This was apparently enough to satisfy him because he nodded his head, and walked away.
I still didn’t know exactly what I would do when the time came anyways. I wasn’t lying when I told Vox I couldn’t skip town. It’s not like the cops are gonna help unless I get hurt or killed. Even then they might ignore like the rest of the weird stuff.
You know that feeling when someone is really old, and you know when they die and it’s gonna suck but you wanna get it over with because it’s gonna happen anyways?
That’s about how I felt waiting for my shift to end. I knew something shitty was gonna happen, but I wanted to get it over with.
I mostly knew that something shitty was gonna happen because my phone hadn’t stopped ringing. I figured if I ignored the problem it would go away. Dr. Bryning would lose interest and I’d be fine. I might have been wrong, because I eventually had to put my phone on silent because it was starting to bother the customers, my coworkers, and most importantly my boss.
I’d almost managed to forget about the whole thing as I got toward the end of my shift when I was reminded something terrible. Something that sent the worst kind of chill up my spine and force fed me all the fear in the universe.
I was closing.
That not only meant cleaning all the disgusting messes around the counter and double checking the theaters and bathrooms for people trying to stay in the theater overnight, but also that I’d be the last one out of the building. Which of course meant I’d be alone.
The alone-ness of the situation came to a head when my manager Ashley finally left at 9. I’d never really considered how vulnerable I was in that theater until then. Sure the doors were locked and I’d checked every corner, but it was a big building. It wouldn’t be that hard to slip by someone with no experience in real security and hide until close.
It was also an old building. Place had its flaws, far too many. A door in the back that didn’t lock was the most obvious, a coveted secret among us employees that I imagine anyone who’s ever worked here knows. Oversized with loose screws. A very claimable fire escape that led into theater 7. I’m sure there’s more.
I always hated theater 7. See, up until very recently, about 3 or 4 hours ago, I wasn’t one to buy into superstitions. The only exception being the number 7. Nothing good ever happened to me when that number was invoked. It was the birthday party when no one showed up. The day of the week church rush happened in fast food. The day they left.
It was part of my hunch with Dr. Bryning, too. It still is. I’m sure it’s some cosmic joke that the number of missed calls from him was 70 when I checked right after Ashley left and I’d gone to vacuum and clean what little trash there was from todays traffic.
I decided to skip the suspense, I’d had enough of that recently. I’d go straight to theater 7, nothing would happen, and I’d be able to finish the rest and go home in 2 hours.
I made my way down. The movie shown today was some cheesy horror crap. Each step down the empty hall bounced lightly off the walls breaking a comfortable silence. I entered theater 7 with the agility of a frightened child running up the stairs after turning off the lights, trash bag and handheld vacuum equipped. I was ready for anything.
I walked up and down the rows, scanning for trash but never quite putting my head down unless I had to. Always alert. Always listening.
The worst part of my duties was undoubtedly how often I had my back turned. My neck craned and arms bent at an awkward position reaching for discarded cups, candy wrappers, and plastic bottles. In the other hand I held a vacuum, multi tasking to try and speed run the chore, the usually satisfying loud thunks of dirt being inhaled now a horrible masking for any loud footsteps or guns being readied to fire.
I was constantly checking over my shoulder, like it would stop anything.
Every time my back was turned I ran through every horrible situation, a stabbing, a bag going over my eyes suddenly, a massive arm craning around my neck just too fast, a syringe being plunged into my neck. I tried to let the swirling colorful patterns of the matted down carpet hypnotize me. Take me away from these once menial now frightening tasks.
Before I knew it, my fear had lent me to completing my task. What felt like hours was really only 10 minutes.
“I knew it wouldn’t be that bad.” I told myself.
I started to make my way down the stairs, but halfway down the proverbial old person died. I stopped dead in my tracks as my world was plunged into blackness, my high alertness only lending to my mounting fear.
I wanted to move or drop to the floor, but the plastic bag in my hand would create all too much noise. Though I’m sure whoever did that saw me. It also took me entirely too long to consider they might be approaching me from behind, the only place in the room with controls for the lights that just turned off. To possibly confirm my suspicions, I slowly turned my head to check. Maybe I’d be able to catch them off guard. Maybe I’d adjust to the darkness in time to see them and make a move.
Or maybe, I’d turn my head slowly and see 3 distinct green glowing orbs in the darkness. Not like night vision lights. Like animal eyes, peering at you from a distance. Except these weren’t at a distance. They were about a foot away, and accompanied by a sharp exhale and a warm, dog like breath.
I swung my trash bag like a mace, dropping it as I did and turned to run. Just when I thought I might be getting away, another pair of eyes stopped me from going anyways. Except these eyes came with two strong hands grabbing my arms at either side, lifting me off the ground slowly. They guided me carefully over to a seat in the theater, and sat me down with force, holding me there. I expected the other pair of eyes to appear from the darkness, but they didn’t.
Was I really that slow? Or was this thing fast enough to lap me and cut me off? Or did his friend leave? All things I had plenty of time to consider while it forced me to maintain eye contact with whatever it was.
My heartbeat was more intense than a teenage waiting on a reply to a risky text, slamming against my chest and raising my blood pressure to dangerous levels.
The hands slowly let me go, and the intense stare told me I wasn’t going anywhere until this was done.
“Some advice,” he snarled, his warm copper smelling breath coming in waves between labored breaths, “if you don’t want this to happen to your mom Susan, or your dear old dad Todd, or god forbid your best buddy Buck,” he spat all their names at me, literally, “I recommend you answer your phone tomorrow.” He then gave me the best case scenario outcome from tonight.
It started with my pinky on my left hand. He grabbed my hand forcefully, and my uncut pinky nail with a forefinger and thumb and slowly lifted it, until it started to strain like a dead branch. The process of peeling the protective surface back was dragged out for minutes. He moved it with surgical precision, counting up as he did.
“1.” He moved up what felt like a centimeter. I tried to struggle but I couldn’t do a think against his brute strength.
“2.” A centimeter more. My breaths were sharp and shallow. The stench of his exhales made it hard to intake air, and the pain made it even harder.
“3.” I felt the warmth start to cover the tip of my finger as blood rushed to compensate for what was leaving. As my body tried helplessly to fight the external force making this happen.
“4.” Consciousness was becoming harder and harder to cling to.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, stop man I get it I’ll answer my phone!” I let out in between screams, my throat thrashed. He didn’t.
“5.” He opened my nail slowly like a trap door, letting the blood trapped beneath escape.
“6.” Finally, after holding it for so long, he gave me the relief of ripping it out swiftly.
The relief didn’t last long.
The exposed air was bad enough, but having my own pinky nail slowly shoved back into the slot it had just been removed from was akin to wedging something in your toenail and kicking a foot as hard as you can. Suddenly, I regretted all the relief I’ve ever felt when an old person died. It’s nothing compared to the pain.
“Glad you got the point, Marco. I hope we don’t see each other again, you seem like a nice kid.” He half mumbled, half said to me, as he turned to walk away.
I could hear his footsteps lumbering. In a time all too fast for footsteps that few, the lights were on, and he was gone. I checked my nail once I’d looked around. It was completely fine other than some blood. Had he really been able to surgically remove and replace a nail. Is that even possible? I mean I’m no doctor and it still hurt like hell but I’ll take why I can get. There was however, a lot of blood to clean up or scrub in well enough it wasn’t easy to see.
I couldn’t use the robbers excuse again. Already did that one this month. Besides, some cleaning would help me handle the shock of whatever the hell that was.
I decided I’d call James in the morning. Maybe he’s not so crazy after all. Maybe this towns ghost stories aren’t all just whispers in the dark. Maybe, just maybe, I’m gonna need some help.
I hate to be that guy, but I gotta go. Some important business to take care of involving a spider with human arms which I know is way ahead of the story at hand, but I promise I’ll catch you all up to where I’m at. Until then, I’ll try and answer any questions if I survive. Wish me luck.