It started when I realized people would stop talking when I entered the room. It sounds like a small thing, like it’s no thing at all, but I noticed it, and after that, I started paying attention. It wasn’t that I would enter rooms full of people and everything would be silent. People were, technically speaking, still talking to each other. I’d go into a store or part of my office or anywhere where there were other people gathered and you’d expect to hear some chatter and…well, I would hear some chatter, but it was off.
I could tell from snippets I’d heard walking up that topics had changed, and from the voices that were now talking more loudly and clearly that secretive murmurs had been replaced with full-throated conversations that were just a little too loud and a little too bright in their banality. It was also the expressions—part of it was the tension of almost getting caught at something I think, but more than that was a sense of satisfaction at not getting caught. Of knowing things that I didn’t, and of also knowing that I suspected things that I could not prove. Feared things that I could not verify.
And even if I was to try to explain it to another person, as I’m doing right now, I would sound paranoid and insane. Yes, I think they enjoyed dangling me like that, watching me slowly hang myself a word and a worry at a time. It might have worked if they’d had the patience for it. For awhile I was half-convinced I was crazy.
But then they got greedy. Or maybe they knew they couldn’t risk leaving her out in the world—infinitely smarter and more credible than me, and acting as though she took what I was saying seriously. Either way, when they took my best friend in the world…when they stole Brooke from me, they gave me something tangible to latch onto, a lens of rage and grief and guilt that focused my terror and self-doubt into a searing point of belief and hatred.
For months I’d listened as they talked about what they would do with me. What they would show me when the time was right. Dozens of mayfly conversations, dying in midair as soon as I stepped into view. But from those dozens I got pieces, and over time I’d developed a terrible mosaic of what was coming for me.
There were mentions of “giving me the dream”. Of “showing me the door”. Of “stripping away” and “enuring the beast”. That was a common thing. They would often refer to “the beast”, and I’d heard enough from context over time to gain an understanding that the beast was me. These tidbits made no sense to me at first, but over time a few things became clear.
First, the people that talked this way all seemed to be sharing the same ideas and vocabulary, even though they were as varied as people I’d worked with for years, other customers at the grocery store, and strangers on the bus. In other words, no one talking about me seemed confused or taken aback by the strange conversations going on around them.
Second, I was starting to think more and more that they wanted me to hear bits of it. Why talk in public places at all, if not? Why talk in places where I could just walk in at any time, especially when I was clearly the subject of their strange and sinister plan? And why else did some of them stare and smirk as I walked by, my hands trembling as I tried to ignore their passing glances and knowing smiles? They were growing fat on my misery is what I think.
I tumbled these first two things in my head like rocks being worn smooth through use and repetition, but I would have likely kept them to myself awhile longer if not for the third thing that I finally admitted to myself last month.
The conversations were becoming slightly more specific and significantly more intense. This was all heading to a point of action, and I was afraid that point was coming soon.
I was more than afraid, honestly. I was terrified. And it was in that terror that I told Brooke about everything, fearful of what she would think and how she would look at me. At every rambling sentence I paused and cringed inwardly, waiting for her to stop me and ask if this was a stupid joke or if I had somehow gone insane. Instead, she just listened. She listened to everything I’ve just told you and then she pondered a moment before asking a question.
“Do they always talk about you or just sometimes?”
I looked at her in surprise. She wasn’t joking or mocking. She was serious and asking a serious question. Voice trembling slightly, I nodded dumbly as I spoke. “No, not always. Just sometimes.”
Chewing on her lower lip, she looked at the ceiling. “And is it always the same people doing it, or is it different people?”
“N-no, it’s different people. I told you that. It happens all over the place. At the store, at the office, when I get on the bus some times.”
Lowering her gaze to mine, she shook her head. “No, you’re not listening to what I’m asking. Like, the people at work for example. It doesn’t always happen when you go into a room at the office, does it?”
“No. Just some times.”
“Okay. Now, best you remember, the times it happens at the office, is it always the same basic pool of people? In other words, if there’s like fifty people in your office, is it always the same ten that are talking about you and forty that aren’t, or is it like forty or fifty and it’s just different ones at different times?”
I swallowed and nodded, feeling a stir of excitement. I thought I saw what she was getting at. “Um, no, it’s like the same eight or nine people I think. I mean they’re not always all there, but it’s consistently the same people I think.”
She nodded again. “Okay, next part. You said the other places it happens are at the store and on the bus, right? Anywhere else?”
Shrugging, I felt my face redden. “I don’t really go anywhere else other than home and here.”
Brooke smiled at me. “Nothing wrong with that. And you always go to the same store and take the same buses too, don’t you?”
“Yeah, usually, yeah.”
“Well, anyone at the store or on the bus that you’ve overheard talking about you more than once? Like someone who always rides the same bus as you or works at the store or something?”
I’d already been thinking about this now, so I was quicker with my answer. “Not on the bus that I’ve noticed, but it happens less frequently there. It’s usually just something I hear ahead of me as I’m walking up the aisle to the back row. But at the grocery store, yeah. There’s a young guy and an old woman who work there, and I’ve heard them talking about that stuff at least twice. Other people too at times, but definitely the two of them. A couple of weeks ago, I came around a corner and they were pretending to restock canned peaches. When I pushed past them, the old woman started laughing and the guy shushed her.” I rubbed my face tiredly. “I think he was about to laugh too.”
Brooke leaned forward and rubbed my knee. “I know this is freaky. I’m freaked out too. But I do believe you. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t think you’re crazy.”
I felt tears coming to my eyes. “I…thank you. But I just…how do you know? I sound crazy to me.”
She broke into a brief grin before turning serious again. “First off, I think if you were crazy there wouldn’t be this kind of pattern. It would either be really random where everyone was against you or it’d be very focused on a small group of people you either didn’t like or didn’t trust. This isn’t either of those. It’s a lot of people, a lot of whom you don’t even know, but there’s a level of consistency to it too. Repeat offenders, if you will.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “I want you to try something.”
“Okay.”
“For the next week, change your routine as much as you can. Every day take a different bus or a cab. Instead of eating at work, go to a different restaurant every day that you’ve never been to. And go to different stores at least twice this week instead of the grocery near your house. Take notes of anything you notice weird, and this time next week, let’s see how things stand. Okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Okay, yeah.”
I did as she asked. By Thursday I was texting her, telling her in all caps that “NO ONE WAS TALKING AT THE NEW SPOTS!!!1!” She texted back that that was great. That she wanted me to come over on Saturday, but before I did, go to lunch on Friday the same place I’d gone Monday. I thought about asking why, but then thought better of it. She’d got me this far, I should just trust her.
When I walked into Jackie’s Subs, there was a brief hush before people started talking about various things—their food, their jobs, sports. But as I’d pushed open the door, a gust of words had moved toward me, trickling into my ear like poison.
“the beast will take what…”
“…almost time…”
I looked around at the half-full tables, looking at each person in turn. I didn’t know any of them, but more than one of the customers and one of the women behind the counter were looking at me, not like they were alarmed by my strange expression or behavior, but as though they knew me. Knew me and had a funny secret to tell.
I spun on my heel and ran outside, making it to my car before vomiting on the pavement next to the driver’s door. I climbed inside and locked the door before cranking up and heading not back to the office, but to Brooke’s place instead. When I got there, I knew right away something was wrong. The door was ajar, and when I called out to her, I was only greeted with silence.
So I went to the police. Just told them that my friend was missing and that I needed their help. To my surprise they agreed to send someone out right away. I offered to go back with them, but the officer I was speaking with asked me to stay and answer more questions while a patrol unit went by to check for any evidence of what might have happened.
Twenty minutes later a call came in and the officer had to leave the room. When he came back, it was with two detectives and…
The larger of the two detectives snatched the pad away from me with a sneer. Scowling at the paper, he flipped through my account before setting the pad down hard and sliding it back to me. “So this…crazy bullshit. This is your statement. This is your excuse for what you’ve done.”
I stared at him, trembling. “You won’t tell me what you think I’ve done. You just started yelling at me, demanding I tell you what happened. That I write it all down.” I gestured feebly toward the pad. “So I was.”
The other detective waved the big one back down into his chair. “Look, I haven’t read what you wrote, but judging by my partner, it doesn’t go down easy. So before I look at it, before I decide that I can’t believe a word you say, I’m just going to ask you. How long had you had that girl?”
I blinked, staring like a guppy from one to the other. “Girl? What girl?”
The big one rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Brooke Zalman, shit-stain. She says you had her for over a year locked up in that place. Does that sound about right to you?”
Tears welling in my eyes, I let out a gasp. “She says? So you found her? She’s okay?”
The smaller cop frowned at me. “We found her. And she’s okay, though no thanks to you. She told us about how you abducted her. Kept her out at that place under lock and key, would go out and tell her crazy shit.” His expression darkened. “And God knows what else you did to that young woman. But thankfully she was smarter than you. Managed to get the door open and get out. She flagged down the patrol car a mile before they reached the address you gave us.”
Everything seemed hot and cold at once, the air full of static as I tried to make sense of what they were saying. “That…that’s not true. None of that is true. Brooke is my best friend. And I didn’t kidnap her or do anything to her. That’s all a lie!”
The big one snorted. “I’m done with you. Tell you what. Your buddy Brooke wanted to see you. Confront you. I was against it, but you’re handcuffed and maybe it’ll help give her some peace. So you just sit tight. We’ll let her try on your bullshit for size.” Standing up, he slapped the other one on the shoulder. “Go get her.”
I thought it was another lie, another trick, but no. Less than five minutes later, Brooke was led in and seated across from me. She looked dirty and tired, but otherwise much like she’d always looked. Beautiful and smart and my best friend. But when I met her eyes, she looked away.
“Brooke…what happened to you? Why did you tell them all that stuff?”
She glanced up briefly and then looked down again. “You know why.”
“I don’t. I swear I don’t. What happened to you? I went to find you…the sandwich place…it had been tainted now. They were in there talking when I opened the door.”
Brooke nodded, rubbing a spot between the curve of her jawline and her ear. “You know what that means?”
I nodded, caught up again for the moment in the mystery and terror of the last few months. “Yeah, I think so. It means they can’t predict everything. But when I make changes, they adapt. It means they’re going out of the way to show me things. Let me overhear them. I don’t know why, but they are.” She started nodding slightly as I went on. “It means that it’s all real, doesn’t it?”
She chuckled slightly, continuing to nod as she rubbed at the same spot on her face again. I felt my hands going cold as I stared at her.
“Brooke?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you say those things about me. None of that is true.”
Her eyes found mine now, a broad smile on her face. “Well, truth is a matter of perspective.”
“But…you’re my friend. You’re my best friend. Why…” The ice in my stomach hardened with a sickening twist. “You’re not Brooke, are you?”
The woman’s smile widened even more. She pointed a finger at me before gesturing down to the pad. “Best write all this down too. It’s all very entertaining.”
My voice began to climb as I tried to rise from my chair, only to be stopped by the handcuffs run through a steel loop on the table. “What did you do to her?” I hissed. “Where is she?”
The woman pursed her lips into a smirk and stood up, making a point of affecting a limp as she grew closer to the door. “Officer…I…I can’t listen to him anymore. He’s crazy. Please let me out.” She glanced back at me, her eyes twinkling. As she turned, I saw something move between her jaw and ear—it was a patch of skin, rolling away like wallpaper that hadn’t taken to the glue quite yet. She caught it in her delicate fingers and smoothed it back into place quickly, but not before I saw the patch of grey scales beneath my dear friend’s smooth skin.
I started to scream then, prompting the larger detective to stick his head back in, yelling for me to shut the hell up. The thing that looked like Brooke patted his chest placatingly as she passed, murmuring to him like you might calm a horse or dog. I could only hear part of it, but it was enough.