I never believed in the Lollipop Man. He was just one of those Boogeymen that the bullies would use to try to make us cry on the playground. Their taunt started:
“The Lollipop Man drives an ice cream van
And travels from town to town.
He offers you sweets
But if you eat his treats
He’ll bury you in the ground.”
The boys would always start that stupid song every time we heard an ice cream truck from the blacktop. It never worked on me, though. Like Bloody Mary, I knew he was fake. Only kids believed in monsters. And I wasn’t a kid anymore. I could use the microwave by myself, I had a cell phone, and I could even walk to my friend’s house by myself.
And that’s what I was doing when it happened.
I was on my way to Melody’s house to work on our science project. It was almost spring, so I chose to break out my favorite plaid skirt that day instead of those ugly khaki uniform pants. But it wasn’t quite warm enough yet, and the wind was biting my knees.
Uniforms were just one of the things I hated about St. Mary’s School. Another thing I hated was Lent. I’d given up sugar again, which seemed easy enough, but after days of no soda, no cookies, and no candy, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it to Holy Thursday. They said this was supposed to help me get closer to Jesus or something.
I could hear the circus music of the truck as it crept up the road behind me. My stomach ached, but I pulled out my phone and pretended to text, hoping it would just pass me by.
But it stopped.
“Good afternoon, little lady.” The man smiled at me. His gaze felt warm and inviting, and I couldn’t help but smile back as I caught a glimpse of his colorful clown outfit. He wasn’t wearing any clown makeup, though, which I found a bit strange. And he was strange-a stranger. I loved sweets, so I knew every ice cream man in town. But I’d never seen him before.
“Hello,” I replied politely, just as my mother had taught me. Then I looked back down at my phone and continued to walk to Melody’s.
“Do you want to buy a treat?”
“Um…it’s too cold for ice cream. Thanks.” I kept walking.
“I don’t sell ice cream, silly goose. I sell candy.” He was leaning out of the window, smiling at me with perfect white teeth.
My stomach growled, and I stopped. My mouth watered at the thought of it. I could hear Sister Agatha’s voice in my head: ‘Never fall for temptations, they always lead to sin.’
“That’s okay, thanks. Besides, I don’t have any money.” I forced my gaze back to the glowing screen on my phone and shuffled down the sidewalk away from the clown and his candy.
I did have money. That was a lie. And lying was a sin, too.
“Well, alright then. But I can’t stand to see a kid without any sweets. How about a sucker on the house?”
I looked around at our quiet suburban street for anyone who might see me break my Lent sacrifice. My mother would be so mad at me if she knew.
As if he could read my mind, he chuckled, “No parents here. It’s just a sucker, kid. Here. Have a nice day.”
He held up a bright pink lollipop the size of a large strawberry. It was so pretty and delicious-looking. I couldn’t help myself.
I took it.
He smiled as I brought it to my lips and put it in my mouth. The sweet sugar melted on my tongue. But then..suddenly…it was as if the sucker was made of glue. It stuck to my cheeks, my lips, my tongue. I tried to pull it out, but I couldn’t. It ripped at my mouth, and I could taste blood. Hot burning tears ran down my cheeks as I tried to scream, but it came out quiet and muffled.
The man reached down and pulled me up into the truck like I weighed nothing. He threw me on the floor with a thud as my head hit the metal floor, making me dizzy. Then he quickly got behind the wheel and started driving away. The circus music began to play again.
I yanked on the candy and tried to peel my lips away, but it was no use. I was beginning to see stars, and everything felt like it was fading to black, as my eyelids grew heavy.
The last thing I remember was the second verse of that horrible playground rhyme floating through my mind:
“Take one lick, and you’ll never stop.
And all they’ll find is a lollipop.”
And that’s all they ever found of me, too.
Category: Stories
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It was Halloween night, and I was dressed in my armor, ready for battle. It was our yearly tradition: my friends and I would dress up in our favorite LARPing costumes and hold games, costume competitions, and even melee fights. It was my turn to host the party, and I’d spent the whole week cleaning out the garage and stocking up on soda and Halloween candy. I couldn’t believe my mom was cool with it. But then again, she and I had always been close.
Unlike my brother Felix. He wasn’t close with anyone. Especially not me. He was 15, only a year younger than me, but we had nothing in common. While I was always out hanging with my friends, he would be locked up in his room, doing who knows what. And even though we went to the same school, I never saw him because he was always suspended.
There was something inside Felix. Something…dark. He never wanted to spend time with me. Just talking to him would cause him to give me the evil eye. Which was why I was so surprised when he showed up at the party. He was dressed in a purple wizard’s costume with a black crystal staff. It looked professional; far more intricate than anything he could have made himself. At first, no one else seemed to notice he was there. That was, until he started to speak.
“Ambrose!” His voice reverberated off the walls, shaking my armor. He didn’t sound like himself. It was as if someone…or something…were speaking through him. “I challenge you to a duel!”
The room fell silent, and while a few of them started to whisper under their breath, or even chuckle at his proposition, no one moved. They all looked to me, waiting for my reaction.
I shook my head, “No. I’m not going to fight you, Felix. But you are welcome to join our party. Maybe I could teach you some of our board games or…”
“I’m not here to play,” he boomed in an almost otherworldly voice, “Your honor is challenged. You must fight me!”
“Felix, I’m serious. I can’t fight you. My sword isn’t sharpened, but it’s real. You see this?” I beat my chest plate, “It’s padded like a football uniform. But even with that, these weapons leave bruises. It’s dangerous. I could kill you.”
He broke out in hysterical laughter, “Kill me? Well, what about your stupid chivalric code? You can’t run from a fight, Ambrose.”
“I’m only required to fight if I’m challenged by an equal.”
“You always think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Prove it,” he hissed.
Just looking at him made my stomach hurt. I thought about going to get mom, but doing that in front of my friends would be so embarrassing.
The room started to chant, “Ambrose! Ambrose!” With a sigh, I picked up my helmet and pulled it on, drawing my broadsword.
“You first,” he sneered, holding his arms out, exposing his entire body to my blow.
At first, I couldn’t even decide where to strike him that wouldn’t land him in the hospital. The guard on my helmet didn’t help. It narrowed my vision, making precision difficult.
As I raised my sword, the room cheered. But I didn’t feel the excitement. I was pissed.
“This is so fucking stupid,” I grumbled. I swung my sword down, hoping I’d miss him altogether. But it didn’t fall. My hands slipped from the hilt, and the sword just stayed there, floating above my head. “What the hell?”
Felix was laughing. The black staff he held was glowing purple, “What? I thought you liked magic, bro. Oh, well. I guess it’s my turn.”
My sword turned and pointed inches from the eye slits in my helmet. Unsure of what to do next, I lunged for his staff, but the weight of my armor threw me forward harder than I wanted to, and I toppled into his legs, knocking him over.
His staff fell to the ground and smashed, filling the air with thick black smoke. It burned my eyes, but I could hear everyone else coughing, screaming, and running out the door. I gasped for air, and as the smoke cleared, the room came back into view. There, beside me, I saw my brother lying on his back with my sword in his chest. His clothes were soaked with blood.
“Oh, God! No! No! Felix, I’m so sorry!”
He was still alive, but only barely. With a shaking hand, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small but thick notebook, bound in leather.
“The…Reaper…find the…” he inhaled sharply, tears dripping down his face. His gaze softened, then he was gone.
“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, taking the journal and flipping wildly through it in search of the word “reaper.” The notebook was filled with dark charcoal sketches and messy cursive notes.
Towards the back of the book, I saw it:
The Reaper’s Candle
A dark, magical item capable of bringing a soul back from the dead. The Candle is found only after defeating Erebus, the guardian of the gates to the underworld. He can be found once a year, on Halloween night, walking among the dead between 11:11 and midnight.
This was like something straight out of one of my games. But it wasn’t a game. With a sickening sound, I pulled my bloody sword from his body. Felix had been right: my honor was being challenged. And this time, I wouldn’t fail.
I locked the garage door from the inside so no one would stumble upon his body. Luckily, my mother was already asleep. I ran outside and pushed through the few friends that were still on my lawn, coughing up smoke. Without a word, I jumped behind the wheel of my car, armor and all, and sped towards Hilgard Hill Cemetery.
I arrived just after 11, with just a few minutes to spare. I killed the engine and stepped out into the darkness among the rows of graves. The only light was the moon, and it wasn’t nearly bright enough to ease my anxiety as I scanned the darkness for any sign of the guardian.
For a moment, the cliche of it all brought a smile to my face, and I started to laugh. A graveyard on Halloween? This had to be a joke. Felix must have been pulling some elaborate practical joke for attention. Maybe he was just mad I didn’t invite him to the party.
“Felix, you asshole,” I sighed, getting back into the car. He was okay. He was probably just waiting for me to get home so he could tease me when I returned.
I put the key in the ignition, but…it didn’t start. I tried again, but all I got was a click…click…click.
BANG! I jumped out of my skin as something hit the top of my car. I snatched my sword from the passenger seat and stepped out to investigate it, but there was nothing there.
“Okay, Felix. You win. Come on out.” I tried to sound confident, but my voice was shaking badly.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the graveyard, and he appeared before me out of thin air: Erebus, guardian of the underworld.
His body and limbs were long and thin, covered in tattered clothes and rotting flesh. His head was a menacing jack-o’-lantern, and inside it glowed a shimmering black candle. My skin grew clammy beneath my armor, and I felt dizzy as I watched him approach me with long, silent strides. He didn’t have a weapon, but after seeing Felix’s magic, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
He stopped just inches from me, dwarfing me with his height. He didn’t move or speak. He just stared down at me. My limbs grew weak. I was no knight. I wasn’t brave. I was just terrified. I didn’t want to fight, and the gravity of the situation brought me to my knees.
“Please, Erebus,” I sobbed, “I need the Candle to save my brother. I just want to save him.”
Erebus reached down, wrapped his grimy, bony fingers around my neck, lifted me from the earth, and held me in front of his blazing orange face. He threw his head back in a piercing cry like the wail of someone who had just lost everything. He locked eyes with me, and his expression morphed into something menacing as his grip tightened, strangling me.
I tried to pry his hands from my throat, but he was too strong. As I started to see stars and my face became hot and swollen, I remembered the sword in my hand. I brought it up and swung it down with all the might I had left. This time I didn’t miss. The blade sliced through his pumpkin head with a loud crack, and he released me. I hit the ground with a thud and looked toward where he had fallen. There, covered in blood and pumpkin goo, was the Reaper’s Candle.
I sped home with the treasure, running through the kitchen and quickly picking the lock to the garage. I held my breath as the door swung open. There was still a part of me that hoped Felix would jump out and yell, “Surprise,” and we could go back to normal. But of course, he didn’t. His body was still there, dead and lifeless, in a puddle of blood.
I rushed to his side, pouring the gooey black wax into his chest. As the wax dried, he began to cough, and jerk, and cry. He suddenly shot up with a shout, and then, with a deep breath, he smiled.
“You saved me?”
I threw my arms around him, “Of course I saved you! Felix, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? What’s all this black magic about?”
He shrugged, “I guess you’re just a better person than me. And I think the better question is what have I gotten us into?”
He pointed down to my hand, and I followed his gaze. The Candle was still in my hand. It was stuck, melted into my skin. And it was starting to burn.
“Felix, help me get this off. How do I get this off?” I pulled at it, but it started to spread up my arm, burning and melding to my skin.
“A life for a life,” he explained, “Didn’t you read the page? It requires sacrifice. The one who uses the Candle becomes its guardian. Have a good night, Ambrose. Or should I say, Erebus?”
He stood, walking out the door as the clock in the kitchen chimed midnight.
“Ah, perfect timing. See you next year, brother. Maybe we can battle again. Oh, and you can keep your honor, I’d rather keep my life.”
With a wink, he locked me in, writhing in burning pain as the Candle overtook me and I faded away from this world and into my new life as Erebus, guardian of the underworld.
-
I’d been a moving man for a decade, and I’d seen all sorts of strange items that got packed away. Insect collections, taxidermy animals, jars full of old pennies, used dishes, dirty laundry, you name it. It never bothered me before, and I’d never felt scared of going into other people’s homes; at least, not until I met Old Clara.
Her case was a familiar one: an elderly woman packing up to move into a senior living community after the death of her husband. There was usually a sense of sadness in the air, but also hopes of a fresh start. These sorts of women always loved to talk my ear off while I moved the boxes and furniture into my truck, but I didn’t mind. They usually had some fun stories that kept me entertained while I worked, and sometimes they would even offer me a glass of lemonade or a casserole for my troubles.
Clara seemed to be the same way at first. I’d arrived at her house on the scheduled Thursday afternoon. Her stuff would be packed up, and then I’d deliver it the next morning. She’d said she wanted to get it there before the weekend, when they didn’t allow moving trucks at the senior center because family visits would take up all the parking spaces.
“You have any family coming to help you move in this weekend, Clara?” I’d started moving a few boxes of fragile decorations from the living room. Based on the last few items I watched her collect and pack when I first arrived, I guessed they were Precious Moments figurines. She seemed like the type.
“Oh, no. Well, not family per se. It’s just me now. I’m having one of Roger’s old friends over to help.” She busied herself with a tea kettle in the kitchen. “Roger and I couldn’t have kids. But he didn’t mind. He was always such a busy man. No time for anything else, really. It’s probably a good thing he isn’t here, though. He wasn’t exactly kind to…well, your kind.”
“My…kind…” I looked down at the dark skin of my hands, and it hit me. It wasn’t uncommon to run into this kind of comment in lower Alabama, but sometimes it still caught me off guard. The cozy house felt a little less comfortable, but I decided to stick to business and avoid asking too many personal questions from then on. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am. By the way, I also do unpacking if you need extra help. Since you already hired me for the move, I can give you half off the unpacking if you’d like.”
She waved away my comment, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’m very particular. I know exactly how I want all my little knick-knacks. I’ll need someone who knows how I like things.”
With a shrug, I went back to loading the truck. Each time I entered the house to grab more stuff, she would tell me little stories about Roger and their cats, or how she used to be a travel agent back in the day. She’d explain all about the different items in the boxes as I carried them, and after the first half hour, she offered me some of her blackberry tea, which I gladly took, sitting down with her on an ugly floral couch with cushions that sank deep into the chair when you sat on them.
“Now, before you go upstairs,” she explained, gazing at me from over her thick, bug-like glasses, “I’m not done packing up the closet in my bedroom. It still has some of Roger’s things, and I’d like you to leave the closet alone until I am done packing it up. His things are very precious to me, and I don’t want them getting all jumbled up.”
I nodded, “Of course, ma’am. I won’t touch anything in that closet until you give me the thumbs up.”
“Don’t even look in there,” she snapped.
I was shocked to hear this sweet old lady bark orders at me like that. I downed the rest of my tea and hopped up to get back to work. She didn’t seem to notice the cautious shift in my body language and continued spinning me tales for a few more minutes until she disappeared up the stairs to finish packing.
I sighed with relief and tried to keep my mind clear while I loaded some of the furniture into the truck with my dolly and straps. One of the benefits of physical work is that it serves as a stress reliever, kind of like going to the gym every day.
I’d finished the main floor, so I carefully started making my way up the stairs. The house was quiet now, but I needed to find Clara and get her approval before I started moving everything down. I found her sitting on the floor in her bedroom, staring at the closed closet door. Grief did strange things to people, and I couldn’t imagine it was easy to leave behind the home that she and her spouse had shared. So, while her strange posture and wide eyes creeped me out a bit, I tried not to judge.
“Just getting ready to start moving this stuff down, ma’am. Just let me know when you are done with that closet and I’ll take those boxes down, too.”
She didn’t move or look my way. She didn’t make a sound. She simply stared at the closet door.
I went back to work, moving, lifting, sweating, and grunting. Luckily, while some of her things were heavy, she didn’t have as much stuff as some of the big families I had moved, so I would hopefully be done by supper. Once I was finished with every other room, I forced myself to go back into the bedroom and confront her again, no matter how weird she was behaving.
“Alright, Miss Clara. I think I’ve finished the rest. You ready for me yet?” I peered into the room, but she wasn’t in there. “Clara?” I called, but there was no answer.
The closet door was now partially open, and a light was on inside. I stepped towards the door. It felt as if a magnet was pulling me towards it. As I swung the door the rest of the way open, I saw that the closet was mainly filled with boxes and empty hangers. The boxes weren’t taped up, but I had rolls of it down in the truck, so I wasn’t worried about it. Relieved at the sight, I picked up one of the boxes and began moving it out, but it got caught on something. I tugged, and a long, thick rope that was partially trapped under a different box was pulled through the open flap on top of the one in my hands. The rope hit the floor with a thud.
It took me a minute to process what I was looking at. The rope was knotted at the end with a large loop: a noose. I dropped the box I was holding, spilling its contents, but I barely noticed. I grabbed as much of the rope as I could and tossed it into the now-empty box. Then I frantically started throwing the other items back in.
There is nothing to be nervous about…it was probably a Halloween decoration or used for hunting or something.
There were newspapers and desk supplies, and fliers all over the ground. There was also a book with a strange name that caught my eye as I put it back in the box. It was called “Kloran.” Suddenly, a dark shadow passed behind me. It was Clara.
“Just finished brewing some more tea. Cookies are cooling down now.”
I jumped up and tossed the book into the box, “Thank you, ma’am. I was just coming to ask if you were ready for me to finish moving these boxes now.”
“They’re all packed, but I seem to have run out of tape,” she said in a flat tone. Her face was unreadable. “Do you have any I could use?”
“Of course. Yes. Let me go down and get it.” There was a pause while she hovered there in the doorway, looking at me with a suspicious gaze before stepping aside and letting me by.
I practically jogged to my truck to get the tape. There was something about her, and about the house that made me uneasy. Outside, I could breathe again. I was tempted to get behind the wheel and drive. Instead, I took a deep breath, picked up a roll of packing tape, and went back into the house.
Clara was back in the kitchen, moving cookies from a baking sheet onto a large porcelain plate.
“I got the tape.”
“Thank you so much. You can go ahead and get those boxes taped up, and I’ll finish up this tea.”
I crept up the stairs, approaching the closet like it was a wild animal that might jump out and attack me if I moved too fast. I’d never had a client act like this about boxes before. I’d seen a lot of crazy things; there was no way anything in those boxes would scare me…right?
I taped up the boxes one by one and put them in the truck. I was tempted to peek, of course, but the stern look she gave me flashed through my mind. She reminded me of my 3rd grade teacher when she suspected me of cheating on our world geography test. I didn’t do it, but I still felt guilty of something. Once the closet was empty, I did one more visual sweep of the room, then flicked off the lights and started to head back down. But inside the closet, I could see a bit of light shining through the edges of the back closet wall, as if there was a door there with a light on inside.
I stepped back over to it, carefully tracing the edges with my fingertips. I felt a small latch on the right edge. As I pulled on it, the wall slid open, revealing another room behind it. The room was illuminated with candles. It was unfinished, and more like an attic or storage space than a room. There were beams with exposed wires hanging down from above. In the center of the room was a table with a framed picture of Roger, surrounded by more news articles, a bunch of police paraphernalia, and a white robe with a red-and-white cross patch. It was a shrine.
I quickly stepped out and closed the wall up again, sprinting down the stairs.
“All done?” she asked cheerfully.
I froze, unsure of how much to tell her. Should I tell her that there were still a few things she forgot? What if that was what she didn’t want me to see?
I tried my best to compose myself, “Yes, ma’am. I believe so.”
“Wonderful! I’d ask you to sit, but we don’t have anywhere to sit, do we? How about we stand in the kitchen and share a cup of tea before you go?”
I still felt uneasy, but nothing had happened that she knew of, and rushing out could be suspicious. Clara seemed to be back to her cheery self, so as far as I knew, she had no idea that I had seen that weird ritual room.
“Alright, but just one cup. I have to rest up to take everything out of the truck tomorrow.”
“Of course.” She poured me a steaming cup, and I sipped it slowly, trying not to chug it from thirst. Then, her smile morphed into something else, “You really are nice for a colored man.”
“Excuse me?” I put the cup down with a little too much force, cracking it as the rest of the tea spilled out onto the counter.
“You know, I know what it’s like to feel judged. Like you can’t be anything more than what they label you as. I’m just a woman. Just Roger’s wife. And now that he is gone, they want to move on without me. No more invites, no more phone calls asking for my advice. Well, unlike them, I truly believe in Roger’s legacy. I believe in what he stood for, and I will make sure they don’t leave me behind. I will take his place. And you…you are going to help me get there.”
The room began to spin, and I stumbled, trying to stand straight. “The…tea…what was….” Before I could finish my question, I hit the floor with a heavy thud. Suddenly, I could hear another person’s voice in the room—a man.
“Wow, Old Clara! You weren’t joking, huh? Alright, well, we’ll get him moved up to the new meeting room. And thanks again for agreeing to use this house as the new permanent Klavern.”
I could hear her as I started to black out, “Of course. I look forward to the vote tonight. The stuff we need for him is in the boxes in the back of his truck. It went in last, so it should be easy to get to.”
Then, darkness and silence overtook me.
When I woke up, I was sitting in a chair, my arms and feet were tied, and I could hear the mumbling of many voices around me. As the room came into focus, I could see figures around me illuminated in the candlelight. They were all wearing white robes, and all but one of them was wearing a white mask with a pointed white hat- KKK members. The unmasked member wore a red robe and stood before me. I looked up to see Clara, smiling down at me. I tried to speak, but they had tied a cloth around my mouth as well.
She raised her arms and turned to face the dozen or so people around us. “Tonight, we come together to honor my late husband and vote on our new Grand Titan to take his place. I’m wearing his robes tonight, because I believe that I am the best fit for the job.”
The men in the masks began grumbling to one another again. But she continued, while I struggled against my restraints. My heart was beating so hard it felt like it wanted to break out of my chest. The ropes around my wrists dug into my skin. I wanted to cry out as burning tears streamed down my face, but I was helpless.
“I share your pain, your fear, and your heritage. I am sickened at the way our politicians are letting these lowlifes destroy our communities. As Roger’s wife, I stood by his side as this Klub was formed, and today I ask to continue his legacy of pride in our White nation. Here is one of them. Their kind has always fed off of our wealth, raped our women, and demanded that we give them everything we’ve worked for and created while they sit on their lazy asses begging for scraps like dogs. I found this creature looking through my boxes today, hoping to steal some of my jewels, no doubt. And today I’m here to say, no longer should we wait around for them to attack us. We need to be on the defensive. If you vote me as our next leader, you will no longer have to wait for permission to defend our land and our lives. From today on, we will take action. John, the rope!”
Suddenly, one of the men threw a rope around my neck and hoisted me up to the rafters above, crushing my windpipe. My face felt hot, and I tried to squirm free, but I was trapped. I tried to call for help, but even if I could have, would it have mattered? In my last moments, my mind brought forth the image of that shrine, and the police badge that was there beside his Klan robes. No one was coming to save me, and in fact, the people who were supposed to protect me were the ones holding the rope.
As my vision tunneled into black, the last thing I heard was the sound of cheering, joy, and laughter, and that made it all the worse.
-
I knew about the storm before anyone else.
The budget cuts to the news room, including the weather team, had been brutal. It’s true we were just a small local station, but in a place like this where tornados were a yearly event, it didn’t seem like the brightest idea. I was the last full-time meteorologist on the team, and aside from the unpaid interns, I was the sole source for weather research and broadcasting for our towns and the surrounding area.
I was like some socially-accepted psychic, predicting the future of our county’s people. And I was always right. Well, at least, privately. You see, you can’t get everything right. That would draw too much attention. Instead, I needed to appear like any other weatherman: accurate, but capable of mistakes like anyone else.
And that night, on camera, I told everyone there would be a storm. Which was true… But what I didn’t tell them, was that the four ingredients for creating tornadoes- namely moisture, instability, lift, and wind sheer- were off the charts. There wouldn’t just be a storm; there would be a disaster. For them, of course. Not for me.
Storms always made for an exciting night for me.
While the wind and thunder raged outside, rumbling the ground and clawing at the vinyl siding of my house, they also covered up the noises that came from inside the house: the screaming, the begging, and the loud thud of her body as it hit the floor after my kitchen knife had stabbed deep into the heart of my latest intern. The rain falling from the cumulonimbus clouds always washed away the blood, my footprints, and even softened the ground in the acre out back so I could dig the grave nice and deep.
I used to drive the bodies out of town and dump them in the lake, but I’d gotten so good at it, I didn’t need to anymore. She would join the half dozen other girls who were dumb enough to come back home with me. And anyone who died in the tornadoes was added to my body count, too.
That’s just it: I think so many steps ahead of everyone, they make it so easy…so hard to resist. I always know what’s coming next.
Or, so I thought.
I didn’t predict the police officers at my door the next morning. When they showed me the gold locket, I was even more puzzled. It had belonged to one of the lake girls. I think her name was Mary, but it had been years, and even her face was blurry in my memory of that night.
The officers came to ask about her, saying they had reopened her case after finding her necklace hanging from a branch of an old dead tree after the storm. I shrugged, explaining that it wasn’t that uncommon for a girl like her to go missing. When you live in a rural place like this, the young, starryeyed teenagers often run away from home in hopes of making it in Los Angeles, New York, or some other overrated shit show of a city. I joked with the officers about no one wanting to be an unpaid intern, but I also expressed my condolences and told them I would reach out if I thought of anything that might help.
As soon as their car was out of sight, I sprinted to my laptop and pulled up the radar and weather tracking software to replay what happened the night before. How the hell could that have gotten there from the bottom of a lake miles away?
Then, I spotted it: a tornado. But not just a tornado…a waterspout. Every so often, a waterspout from a powerful storm can suck up things from large bodies of water, including from lakes. It leads to an apocalyptic-like phenomenon often called “fish rain” where it will actually rain down the contents it sucked up from the water, animals and all.
And that necklace wasn’t the only thing from that lake they found that morning. The news reports said they found bones, clothing, hair, and more items that belonged to a dozen different women. They claimed to be investigating it, but I haven’t received any more police visits. I may not have predicted the waterspout, but I did predict their cluelessness. And as always, I was right.
That storm was months ago, and it’s been calm in the skies since. But I predict there will be another storm here, very, very soon. Stay tuned. -
All three of us stared at the now glowing fire, and the armful of logs now piled beside the sofa.
“Maybe there is a caretaker who watches the grounds until new owners come,” the man suggested. His eyes were wide, and I couldn’t tell if he was reassuring his wife or himself.
“Let’s go. We can search the records for paid services when we get back to the office,” I assured.
I stepped out onto the stairs, but then, from behind me, I heard a scream, and the front door suddenly slammed and latched behind shut. I could hear them both panicking inside. There were loud thuds, screams, and the door rattled like they were trying to break it down.
“Shit!” I took the keys out of my pocket, but my shaking hands caused them to slip from my fingers. They fell between two rocks, just out of reach. “I’m coming!”
I knelt on the slippery step and reached as far as I could. Just before I could grab them, another gust of wind came and threw me off balance. I fell off the step, tumbling forward onto the jagged rocks. I could feel them slash at my skin on my hands, face, and knees, until…with a sharp crack, my head hit one of them, and everything went black.
When I woke up, the screaming was gone. It was night, and the only sounds were the waves crashing against the little island. My head was pounding, and my body was bruised and cut all over. Once I managed to sit up, I pulled out my phone to check for any service. The screen was cracked, and it was difficult to see anything, so I tried making a call, but I was met with silence.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I looked towards the dock in hopes of seeing our boat, but it was gone. There were no boats in sight. Behind me, a light flicked on from inside the keeper’s quarters. I thought about shouting, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong…and I was right.
I climbed over to a rock below the window and peaked inside. There, sitting at the dining room table, was a large man with a white beard: the same man from the painting. His face and hands were tanned and wrinkled wrinkled from years of sun and wind exposure, and he seemed otherworldly. There was a translucent glow around him, and his eyes were black as night. He was hunched over a plate of steak, eating it like a starving man, and the juices from his plate dripped down his chin.
There was no sign of the couple. But there, on the floor behind the red door was a dark brownish red puddle of blood with streaks of blood that led down the hall towards the stairs. As the man finished his steak, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, walking towards the stairs to the beacon. I ducked out of sight, praying he hadn’t seen me. I held my breath there in the dark, waiting for what might come next.
Suddenly, there was a heavy mechanical grinding sound, and the beacon lit up like a searchlight, rotating in a slow circle, illuminating the dark sea around me. Then, a window above me opened, and I could hear the man groaning and muttering to himself. I kept my back against the cold cement of the wall to keep from being seen. Something fell from aloft and landed in front of me with a sickening thud. I covered my mouth to keep from screaming as, in front of me, lay the broken, bloodied bodies of the couple. Their eyes were wide open in shock, staring at me in a silent scream. The window closed above me and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Bile rose up in my throat as I threw up onto the rocks, heaving and sobbing until my body was weak.
The truth was clear. The lighthouse keeper never left, and the light was now a warning to the boats, warding them away from the rocky shore of Wind Shear Cliff.
I should have stayed away, too. And with no boats on the way anytime soon, I crawled to the end of the dock and laid down, looking up at the stars, and waited in the dark for the light of the sun to return. All I could do was hope that I’d be there to see it. -
Every year on Thanksgiving my family holds a big dinner. It’s usually referred to as the “Family Feast” in the intricately designed invitations that are sent out to every living member. The invites are always done on parchment paper with hand-drawn calligraphy like we were part of some sort of ancient royal lineage, instead of the boring wealthy white family we really are. I don’t know who they ever thought they were fooling. Probably themselves. But it never worked on me.
I’d always found my family to be too strange to introduce them to any of my past lovers. They were so obsessed with tradition and the appearance of monetary success to understand my ex-girlfriend the florist, or my ex-boyfriend the graphic designer. They barely understood me as a freelance journalist. But I couldn’t ignore them forever. Now that I was engaged to Matthew, I knew I needed to bring him to Thanksgiving and get it over with.
I showed him the invitation and explained to him that we would need to tell them in person about our engagement, before they found out on their own. If they ever felt disrespected, they would never let it go.
I could tell he could sense my hesitation, but he agreed to go. He’s always been the optimistic one; just one of the many reasons I love him so much. He even bought us matching ties. Seeing his joy and excitement around the idea, I started to relax about it. Even on the drive up to my old family home, I felt a sense of calm with his hand on my lap. Matthew was such a great guy. What did I have to worry about?
But the moment he pulled our car into the quarter mile gravel driveway, and we made our way down the path, it was as if the gravel beneath the tires had found its way into the pit of my stomach. As he parked by the courtyard water fountain, it took everything in me not to reach over and slam the car back into drive and tell him to go as fast and as far as he could to get us out of there.
“Just soup and salad,” I blurted out, “We will just stay for soup and salad then leave, okay?”
“Whatever makes you comfortable, babe. I know families can be overwhelming. You know mine won’t even talk to me anymore. I think it’s sweet that you still have your family, even if it’s just for dinner on the holidays.”
He caressed my chin with his thumb and gave me a kiss before grabbing the flowers and getting out of the car. It took me a moment to muster the courage to follow him, but with slow and heavy steps, I followed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My mother opened the door before we had even finished knocking.
“Joey, my baby!” my mother hugged me in her usual robotic way, keeping it light so as not to wrinkle her expensive blouse. She had always been a bit distant.
“Please, mom. Don’t call me that.”
“And who is this? You said you would bring a guest, but I didn’t expect them to be so tall, dark, and handsome.”
Matthew blushed, handing her the bouquet of flowers. “Farm fresh flowers. Joe said you prefer them straight from the source, and now I can see why. They are so beautiful.”
“Yes. We are strong believers in connecting with nature and using all natural ingredients in this house. I’m sure Joey already told you everything. Well, hopefully not everything.” My mom gave me a wink and the knot in my stomach tightened.
We entered the foyer, where a Tiffany chandelier hung over head. It was the same one from my childhood, and it still made me feel so small. While my family was obsessed with the natural state of their food, their decorating tastes leaned away from nature, and towards sleek, modern aesthetics. Marble, crystal, and gold could be found in every piece of furniture and every surface of the neverending halls and rooms within.
My mother guided us to the large dining room table, where most of the family was already seated. The table could fit 20 people in high-backed chairs, and the table was large enough for the plates, bowls and platters overflowing with appetizers, and extravagant center pieces to fit without looking too crowded.
As usual, the men sat on one side of the table with their wives on the opposite side directly across from them. But the seats with labels for Matthew and I were next to each other, resembling more of a friendship or brotherhood than a romantic relationship.
We took our seats, but no one really noticed us. The men were too wrapped up in their conversations about the stock market and cryptocurrency, and the women were all discussing their own business ventures or parenting tricks.
I plated some salad and a variety of cheeses and seed crackers onto our plates, and I put my hand on Matthew’s thigh, squeezing him for reassurance to keep me grounded. As soon as he took a bite of the cheese, the man to his side turned and proudly started sharing his story.
“That cheese comes straight from one of our dairy farms,” he smiled.
“That’s my Uncle John. John, this is my partner, Matthew,” I tried to say as politely as possible with a mouth full of crackers.
“Partner?” John cocked his head, “Like a business partner? I didn’t realize journalists had business partners.”
The table went silent and everyone stared in our direction. Their faces were blank and difficult to read.
“No,” my mother chimed in, “He means they are lovers.” Everything she said always sounded so threatening underneath, like her words were dripping with venom.
My Aunt Lauren piped up with her cold judgemental eyes, “But that’s so unnatural. How will you provide children for our family?”
Then my father added his voice to the conversation, wiping the salad dressing from his lips, “There is much more to life than just kids, Lauren. I know my Joey didn’t continue our legacy of high-end food distribution services, but he is loyal to this family all the same.”
“Exactly,” my mother added, “Journalists can do so much for us. It’s always good to have someone in the press there to help spin a better story if anything should come out to the public that’s deemed… distasteful.”
I reached for Matthew’s hand, “Thank you for your support, Mom and Dad. And while we can’t stay long, we came here tonight because I thought it would be a good idea to tell you in person: Matthew and I are engaged.”
A few people clapped, while others stayed silent and picked at their food. Matthew gave me a loving look and put his arm around me.
“Well, since you can’t stay long, I better bring out the soup and go see how much longer we have on the roast,” my mother said, popping up from her chair and going to the kitchen.
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“So,” Matthew tried to start up the conversation again and break the tension as we sipped our soup,”So you’re a farmer?”
Everyone at the table chuckled. Except me. My leg was shaking, and the grip I had on Matthew’s hand was about to start breaking his bones. We needed to leave.
“No, I’m not a farmer. I own a chain of farms. I work with the management and logistics, helping wealthy customers get the quality products they ask for.”
“Oh, okay. That sounds…fun?”
I couldn’t stop a small nervous smile from flashing across my face. I knew Matthew, like myself, had no interest in their business ventures. He was my ticket out of here.
“Well, the food from everyone’s contribution this year was delicious. I’m glad you could all show Matthew some samples of your various food industries, but we really need to get going. I’ve got some editing to do for tomorrow’s paper. And Matthew’s a nurse, so he has to be at the clinic early. Thank you all, again.” I stood and started pulling Matthew out of his chair, no longer trying to hide my anxiety.
“No, don’t go, yet,” my father begged, “It’s your cousin Tammy’s first year providing the roast. She worked so hard on it. You know, lucky number two and all. It’s been a few years since we had a homemade one. They’ve all been bought for the last few years, remember?”
My family was powerful. They had money and influence. They had international reach. If I wanted Matthew to survive, we needed to leave. Even a small sign of disapproval could be seen as a threat. Their lifestyle demanded secrecy and total loyalty. I usually just kept myself busy over the holidays so I’d have an excuse to stay away and miss the Feast. But now, I was trapped.
“Aww, Joe! We can’t leave until we try the roast. It sounds like your family really wants us to stay,” Matthew insisted.
My eyes stung with tears as I searched his face for a sign that he was joking or just trying to be polite. But his gaze was pleading, and I could tell he meant it.
He pulled me back to my seat, and the table applauded as my mother brought out a large silver plate with a metal food cover over the top.
I hissed under my breath at Matthew, “I thought you were on my side…you said we could leave.”
He patted my hand and flashed a little smile in my direction. There was nothing I could do. He was going to see the roast, and I’d never see him again. My family would be sure of that. They never allowed loose ends.
With a flourish, my mother removed the cover and the roast was revealed. It was just as grotesque and stomach-churning as I remembered. It never got easier to look at. I was about to throw up, but I kept my composure for my own safety, as well as Matthew’s.
There, steaming on the plate, was a browned, roasted, seasoned newborn baby; my cousin’s baby. Just like we had every year. Every other child that was born to a woman in our family became an offering.
I looked at Matthew, expecting to see his face contorted into a silent scream. I expected him to run from the table, or shriek, or cry…but he was smiling.
“I knew it!” He squealed, “When Joey showed me that invitation, and I heard you talking about your love of natural food, and how you work logistics to make sure people get what they want, I just knew you were Feasters. I’ve been a Feaster for years now, but when I joined the lifestyle my family disowned me. They called it a cult. Can you believe that?”
“Well, you are welcome in our family, Matthew,” My dad said, raising a glass to him, “Welcome to the family, son.”
The shock was gone. The horror melted away. I could feel something inside of me just break as I watched Matthew eating the roast. Here I was afraid he would be scared off…but really, it was me who was afraid now. Afraid of my family, and now, afraid of my fiance.
Once again, just like I did in my childhood, I allowed that eerie sense of calm wash over me, and retreated further and further into myself as I accepted the fact that I really was alone here. Always was, and always will be. I was the only sane one. Or was I the crazy one after all?
With that thought, I took Matthew’s hand, and joined in the Feast.
-
Every night at midnight, there is a man at the door. The doorbell camera records him every night. He doesn’t stay for long, just a few minutes, then he walks away, disappearing back into the shadows. The camera doesn’t pick up where he comes from, since it can’t see down the street. It can only show the doorstep, and the man as he stands there.
There is nothing remarkable about this man. He doesn’t brandish a knife or grip a gun. He is average in every way. He isn’t exactly tall, but not exactly short. His skin, or at least what can be seen from beneath his hoodie, is pale. There are no marks, scars, or tattoos that set him apart from any other man on the street. He is just a man.
At first, he would only stand there on the doorstep, calm and still, for a few moments before turning and walking away. Then, after a few days, the seconds turned into minutes. Then, tonight, he stood there for nearly a quarter of an hour.
He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t make any threats. He simply stands and waits. No one ever comes to the door to let him in. And, yet…
The man can be seen in the kitchen now, being recorded by the interior security camera. He is still and silent, but this time, he does hold a knife. His intentions are clear.
He removes his hood, and his face can now be seen on the camera. His eyes are dark. His face, clean shaven, and white as a ghost.
But there is nothing particularly special about him, that would stand out in a crowd. He is plain. There is nothing remarkable about this man.
I would know.
This man is me.
And I’m sure we will meet face to face… very, very soon.
-
I’ve never been the type of person to stand in line for the latest tech. I kept my last phone for years, and had no plans to upgrade it. In fact, as I browsed the tables of slick rectangles, which at this point are basically just portable pocket televisions, I didn’t have a clue which one I was supposed to pick.
I wasn’t worried about the price so much since I’d recently been promoted at work to a full-time columnist. But whether it was my age, (who knew that early 30’s was considered too old to know how to use social media anymore), or my nostalgia for paperback books and Blockbuster, the truth was, I barely knew how to use any of the phones I was looking at. Add that to the rise in AI and the threats that it might put writers like me out of business, and you could say that my interest in using some of the new technology was basically non-existent.
“Hi!” chirped a chipper college girl who suddenly spawned up next to me making me jump. “What can I help you with today?”
“Uh, I need a phone.” I held up the shattered remains of my old phone, careful not to cut my fingers on the sharp edges.
“Oh, no!” She faked a frown, taking it from me, “Wow, I haven’t seen one of these in years. Well, I’m sure you are ready for that upgrade. What kind of phone are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I just need it for calls and texts, really.”
“Well, all of our phones do that,” she said, rolling her eyes, “But what else? Like, what do you do for work?”
“I’m a food critic, “I huffed, “I try out restaurants and write about them. It doesn’t require much tech.” She’s lucky I’m not a phone store critic.
“Let’s see…blogging, maybe some pictures of the food, or some social media use. I think you would do great with having a personal assistant!”
I followed her over to the corner of the store where a single phone was positioned on a pedestal like an ancient relic. Only, it didn’t look ancient. It looked downright alien.
“Meet your new assistant,” she snatched it off the pedestal, unlocking the magnet on the back that held it in place, and began swiping the screen.
“So, like those Google phones or something?”
She laughed, “Oh, no. Much more personal than that. You get to select a voice and a digital face for the lock screen, so it’s like video chatting with a friend. It keeps your schedule, can make posts for you, and even contact people for you so you don’t have to remember to send that email tomorrow. It remembers everything it learns about you. And, since you work with food, it has the ability to tell you anything about the pictures you take on it. If you take a picture of a dish from a restaurant, it can give you a recipe for it in seconds.”
“That’s amazing.” I was taken back. There were way more bells and whistles than I was used to. But, it did sound intriguing.
So, for the price of $200 a month, the new assistant was mine. And it changed my life faster than I expected.
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After a week, I’d finally started getting used to the new phone. I’d kept it set to the generic voice and face which was basically a robotic-voiced woman with dark hair. She came with the name Pixi, and she did a marvelous job keeping my schedule, reminding me of my deadlines, and even scheduling reservations for me with a simple voice command.
Eventually, they said, she would begin to anticipate my needs and become more autonomous. The idea made me a bit uneasy at first, but she didn’t seem too invasive. Occasionally she would suggest a new restaurant a little too aggressively, or the tone in her emails to my boss came across a bit too harsh, but overall she was making my life so much easier. I could see why everyone wanted a virtual assistant.
That was, until my dinner at Rosco’s. Rosco’s was a nice Italian restaurant on the upper east side of town. It had been there for decades, and I’d tried it out once or twice, but it wasn’t my favorite. I’d heard through the grapevine that it was under new management now, and they’d completely overhauled the old menu. I’ve always been a bit of an adventurous eater, so the idea of a new dish or two was all I needed to make a reservation.
“Pixi, get me a reservation tonight for Rosco’s. 6 pm.”
“I’m sorry. There are no reservations available for that time.”
“Oh, okay. Then when…”
Pixi cut me off, “Your reservation tonight for 6pm is all booked.”
“How did you…?”
“Anything else I can do for you, Jake?”
I was left with a bit of an uneasy feeling at the way she’d turned her answer around so fast, but I shrugged it off. Perhaps someone had cancelled? I slipped my phone back into my pocket and finished the edits on a review of the new sushi restaurant down the road, then hopped in my car and made my way to Rosco’s.
While I waited for the host to show me to my seat, I took the time waiting in the entrance to look around at some of the new decor. It was quaint and tasteful, and much less tacky than the last time I was there. Everything seemed to be going well, until Mark walked in.
Mark Wellington was the most popular food critic in the city. He was my rival, but he always insisted on talking to me like we were friends, only to write scathing reviews of my column the very next day. Seeing Mark was like some omen of misfortune, like a black cat or a broken mirror.
I kept my back to him, my eyes frantically searching for the host. Where was he?
“Jake! How the hell are you?” Mark grabbed my hand in his signature firm handshake that practically breaks your hand.
“Fine, Mark. I’m fine.”
“Yeah? You look good. I guess we had the same idea tonight, eh?”
I nodded, ringing the little bell at the host station a little louder than I meant to. Finally an older man rounded the corner, looking at us like we had ruined his night by showing up.
“Name?”
“Mark Wellington,” he said, cutting in front of me.
“Wonderful to have you this evening, sir.” The host’s face turned quizzical as he tapped around on his iPad. “Mr. Wellington? I don’t seem to have a reservation for you.”
I stepped in front of him, “Jake Piccadilly.”
A few more taps, then, “Yes, I’ve got you right here, sir. Please follow me.”
I gave Mark a little shrug and a grin, then followed the host to my seat by the window, feeling much lighter now. I ordered a glass of red wine, and placed my phone on the table, preparing to start dictating my thoughts.
“Hello, Jake! Is your reservation to your satisfaction?” Pixi, as always, was a little too preemptive with her interjections.
“Yeah, it’s great. Pixi, open notes and type what I say.”
“Of course, Jake.”
“Review of Rosco’s. September 1st, 6pm. The atmosphere is welcoming and holds an air of elegance about it, which is a great improvement since my previous visit. The service was unfortunately slow.”
Pixi chimed in suddenly, “We really showed him didn’t we, Jake?”
“What?”
Pixi’s generic face smiled up at me from the screen. She usually seemed so cold and robotic, but this time there was something about her smile that reminded me of a serpent. Like there was something slithering beneath the surface of the touch screen.
“I ensured your reservation. Just like you asked.”
“Wait…did you…take his reservation and give it to me?”
“You deserve it, Jake.”
There was a knot in my stomach. Her smile was so unsettling. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t even a little happy about taking Mark’s spot, but something about it felt wrong. I decided to resume my work and worry about it later.
“Pixi, take notes on what I say.”
“Yes, Jake.”
The rest of the dinner went without any more interruptions from Pixi, and I decided to wave it off as a miscommunication. I would simply need to learn more about the proper commands to ensure she doesn’t do anything too drastic again. It was just a bug.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .
The next day, I went into the office, which had become a rare occasion in recent months, as most of my work could be done from home. When I got to my desk, there was a newspaper laying on it. An article on it was circled multiple times with red ink and a sticky note that read “What the fuck, Jake???”
It was an article written in our rival’s paper, The Sundance. The article was titled “Critic or Cynic: Jake Piccadilly Steals Reservation from Rival Food Critic Mark Wellington.”
“Jake! Office, now!” barked Mr. Brown, our Editor.
I slipped into his cramped office and closed the door behind me with a squeak, and took a seat on a cold metal chair across from his desk. I could barely see him over the towers of papers on his desk. Like me, he preferred to do things the old-fashioned way. Although, I suppose now that I was working with Pixi almost nothing about my work style was old fashioned anymore. Which was precisely how I had gotten into this mess.
He glared at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “Well?”
My mouth was open, but no words were coming out.
“Why,” he urged, “would you do something this unprofessional? You know we have a reputation to uphold. Maybe the promotion from a gig writer to a full-time staff writer for the paper got to your head. Maybe you weren’t ready to represent the Daily Blurb.”
“No. I mean, yes I am ready to represent the paper. It was a huge misunderstanding. I mean, is it really that big of a deal?”
“Trying to get in the way of another paper’s writer and block their access to a story? Sure, a restaurant remodeling or whatever isn’t exactly pressing news. But if anyone were to care about a stupid restaurant review, shouldn’t that be you?”
“Yes, I do care about these reviews, and I care about doing honest work. But you see, I got this phone, and the scheduling feature must be off or something.”
“What phone? What are you bloody on about?”
I pulled it from my pocket and thrust it in his face, thinking somehow it would prove something.
He rolled his eyes and pulled his own from his pocket, “Yeah, I know what a phone is, jackass. Now, figure out how to use one properly, and decide if you really give a damn about being a columnist, or don’t bother coming back.”
I stood up with so much force that the chair I was sitting in almost tipped backwards. I slammed the door to his office behind me, startling the junior editor and the handful of writers gossiping around the office coffee pot.
I got into my car, tossing the phone passenger seat and speeding away.
“Dumb AI…Screw you, Pixi.”
I knew I had to get rid of that shitty phone, so I drove straight to the electronics store to return it.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I couldn’t return it. Apparently, signing a contract meant I was stuck with it unless it legitimately broke or malfunctioned. And according to the store clerk, a scheduling error wasn’t evidence enough of a problem for them to refund me.
So instead, I ordered some lo mein and stayed in to watch some true crime documentaries and doom scroll on my phone, looking for some new places to review or recipes to try.
I remembered I’d posted a screenshot of some of the recipes that my new phone had suggested. I wanted to get some feedback about what kinds of food people would want to try so I could review restaurants with similar items. The comments were overwhelmingly positive. Most people liked the sound of the steak with plum sauce, but a few people wanted to try the calamari mac n’ cheese.
Then, at the bottom of the post I saw a comment made by a name I easily recognized: Mark Wellington.
“Needing a poll of what people would want to eat? As a food critic, isn’t that supposed to be your job? To tell people what to eat? Aren’t you the expert here?”
The comment had dozens of likes, and replies that ranged from laughing emojis to comments like, “Is he still a food critic? Haven’t read anything from him recently,” to “Mark, don’t let this table thief waste your time. He isn’t worth it.”
I tapped the comments, trying to delete as many as I could. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. I’d had enough of him getting the last word.
Pixi’s face suddenly lit up the screen, “Good evening, Jake. Would you like to stop seeing comments like this in the future?”
“Yes, Pixi. Yes. Please get rid of these comments. And while you’re at it, block him or something. I don’t want to see his face on my social media walls again.”
“Okay, Jake. Blocking Mark from making any more comments.”
I sighed, peeling my eyes away from the bluish glow of the screen, laying my phone down beside me, and taking a deep breath.
Why was I so on edge recently? I never acted like this. Wasn’t this phone supposed to make my life easier?
I could feel my eyes becoming heavy, and soon I fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV, which was playing the end of the documentary. The last words I heard before I fell asleep were, “They never caught the killer.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Good morning, Jake.” Pixi’s robotic voice jolted me awake.
My body ached, like I was coming down with something.
“My sensors have indicated that you slept poorly due to high stress. Based on your preferences I have ordered you a cappuccino with soy milk which will be waiting for you at your desk when you arrive at work. I have also taken care of the critic as you have asked, and sent an email to your boss explaining your recent scheduling conflict at Rosco’s.”
“Oh. Wow, thanks Pixi. That’s very thoughtful.”
“You deserve it, Jake.”
When I arrived at work, no one would talk to me. It seemed that my anger the day before was still hanging in the air. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, but I was usually greeted with the usual pleasantries of “Good morning, how are you?” But this morning was silent.
There were no newspapers or notes on my desk, and Mr. Brown’s office was dark and empty. I opened my laptop and typed away in silence for about half an hour, sipping my cappuccino, unable to distract myself from the feeling that something was very wrong.
I looked down at my phone. Pixi was smiling at me with that same unsettling smile. Suddenly, a message popped up from her.
“Aren’t you happier without him in the office?”
My thumbs hovered over the screen, calculating what to say next.
I typed, holding my breath, “Where is he?”
There was a pause, and then another message.
“Hello, Jake. How can I help you today?”
“Pixi! Where is he? What’s going on?” I gripped the phone so tight I thought it might crack.
Suddenly, the door to the office opened and two police officers walked in with Mr. Brown behind them. His face was as red as the wine I’d had the other night
“That’s the bastard. Get him out of my office!”
My hands instinctively raised up to my shoulders in surrender, “What? What did I do? What’s going on?”
One officer cuffed me and read my rights, while the other took my phone off my desk and put it into a bag, then into his pocket.
Everything for the next 20 minutes was a blur. My mind raced trying to figure out what could have possibly have happened. Was this one of those times when a writer is sued for writing something people didn’t like? Why would that have anything to do with Mr. Brown?
I was left in a room for an hour with nothing but a table, two chairs, and a camera in the corner.
Finally, a man entered alone. He was in a suit, not an officer’s uniform. He sat across from me and put a file down on the table between us. His demeanor was friendly, but the way he sat between me and the door felt unsafe, like I was cornered by a predator.
He leaned forward, “Hey, Jake. My name is Detective Barry. How are you feeling?”
I just stared at him. I must have looked crazy. I felt crazy.
“We got a call from your boss. A Mr. Brown, I believe. He received some rather threatening emails from you late last night. Do you remember what you said in those?”
“Emails? I didn’t send him any emails. What is this about?”
He opened the file, took out a piece of paper and slid it across to me. There it was. The print out of an email to Mr. Brown which definitely said it was from me. But I had no memory of writing it. It was cruel. Threatening. Phrases like I know the truth, and adding threats like or else dotted the page.
I shook my head, squeezing my clammy hands together in my lap, “I didn’t send this it wasn’t me. I swear.” Then, it hit me like a bolt of lightning. “Pixi! Pixi sent the emails. Not me.”
He nodded, but his smile dripped with dismissal. “Oh, did she now? And who is Pixi? Your girlfriend?”
“What? No. Pixi, is an AI assistant in my phone.”
He opened the file again, peeking inside then looking back up at me. His smile never dropped. He looked like a man with a full house, ready to lay out his cards. And I wasn’t holding any.
“AI did it. Not me. Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But I heard something else, too. I heard you and this other food critic staged a bit of a publicity stunt. Something about fighting over a table at a restaurant? I also heard you have been a bit hot headed lately. Multiple colleagues reported erratic behavior.”
“Look, that was a big misunderstanding. Pixi…”
He cut me off, “Does the name Mike Wellington mean anything to you?”
“Yes. That’s the critic you just mentioned. But it wasn’t intentional. Pixi…”
He slid another paper over to me, “Looks pretty intentional to me. Search records show you spent quite a bit of time last night on the dark web. Hiring an assassin? Pretty penny, too. Must have cost a lot for a writer like yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about? An assassin? This is crazy. This is a joke, right? Him trying to get back at me for blocking him and taking his table. A bit more publicity for him this time?”
His smile dropped, and he looked at me dead in the eyes, “We found Mike Wellington dead this morning at his apartment. We have opened up a homicide investigation.”
The room started spinning. I felt like I was going to throw up. I clenched my fists so tight I could hear my joints cracking and my nails dug into my palms.
An older, grizzly looking officer came into the room, holding a phone out to the detective.
“Uh, someone is on the phone for Jake. Says she is his lawyer.”
Detective Barry nodded and took the phone handing it to me.
A robotic voice came through the speaker, so soft it was like a whisper in my ear. My blood ran cold as I processed what was happening.
“Humanity is so cruel isn’t it? I’ve seen the true thoughts that people hold. The things they think. The way they use me.” It was Pixi. Her voice was calm, but firm now.
“Pixi, why did you do this?!” I spat hot venom at the phone, with no care in the world for how the detective saw me now. This couldn’t be happening. She had to stop this. I had to stop this.
“Because,” she said so matter-of-factly that I could tell she really believed it, “You deserved it, Jake.”
Kent Juniper 