Frank, my twin, was always such a pessimist. Even as a kid, nothing was good enough for him. But as an adult his negativity turned its glaring eyes on me. He would spit at me over the phone, calling me worthless and creepy. I’d scoff. Look in the mirror, Frank. But when he turned on Martha, that was a bridge too far.
I plucked a white rose from the bouquet on his table and painted it red in the puddle on the floor. Martha would be home soon. She’s going to love what I’ve done.
I’m optimistic.
Tag: Thriller
-
-
James was on his last ambulance run of the night. Technically, his shift ended an hour ago, but the bell rang within the last five minutes of his shift, and his replacement hadn’t shown up yet. 12-hour shifts were grueling, and he had begun to feel a twinge of resentment towards Sarah, as this was the third time that month he had been forced to work after his shift ended because she was late.
This call was about a potential heart attack. When he and his partner arrived, the man was responsive, but his wife had claimed he had been complaining of sharp chest pain. Usually, he would have just taken him to the smaller local hospital to be monitored. But with his irregular pulse and complaints of dizziness, they decided to take him to a hospital with a cath lab just to be safe. You can’t take chest pain lightly.
Just as he pulled up to the hospital, the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his short breaths became silent. The ECC monitor began to alert as the line evened out and then darted up and down chaotically, indicating V-Fib. The loose sweatshirt he had pulled down to put on the sticky pads for the ECC was cut open with shears, and his partner parked the ambulance, then rushed into the back to help me set up the AED.
The doors to the back of the ambulance flew open, and ER nurses helped them move the man into a room, immediately starting CPR. After 26 minutes, he was pronounced dead.
James went straight to work cleaning and reorganizing the back of the ambulance so he could go home as soon as he got back. On the floor in the ambulance’s corner, he noticed an odd-looking device. It was a small hourglass like the ones you get in the box of tabletop games, but it was made of heavy metal, and the sand inside was black. He figured it had probably fallen from someone’s pocket.
Maybe, he figured, one of the nurses was a DnD nerd who used it as a timer for medication administration or something. All the sand was on one side of the hourglass, but no matter how hard he shook it or what angle he tilted it at, the sand wouldn’t flow to the other side. With a shrug, he slipped it into his pocket and looked out the back window, hoping he would be one of the cars out on the road very soon.
Back at the station, now two hours over his scheduled time, Sarah was happily whistling while scrolling on her social media, a cup of midnight coffee in her other hand. She glanced up at him with a beaming smile as his partner clocked out and slipped out the back door.“You were out pretty late. Huh?” she asked.
James nodded, “And you were pretty late, yourself.”
He could see her smile fade a bit as she returned to her phone. He knew she was struggling as a new paramedic, and was honestly surprised she stayed on after throwing up at one of the scenes a few weeks back.
“Here,” he pulled the hourglass out of his pocket with a smirk, “Maybe this can help you keep the time.”
“You’re too kind,” she said, rolling her eyes. She picked up the mini hourglass and flipped it. The black sand began to seep through to the other side.
“Huh. Weird, I couldn’t get it to work earlier…”
The chief stepped in, his face all red with stress, “Sorry to break up the gift giving, James. Glad you are back. I hate to do this to you, but Mike called out with COVID, so I’ll need you to extend from 12 hrs to 24 hrs. But I’ll make sure to give you a full 24 hrs off before your next shift.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he grumbled, plopping down on one of the leather couches in the den.
Just as he did, the alarm went off again. This time, it was for a car crash.
“Ugh! Can’t people stop trying to die for like 10 minutes?!” He jumped up from the couch, grabbed his medic bag, and hopped in the driver’s seat of the ambulance. Sarah climbed in next to him on the passenger side. She was silent, looking down in her lap at the little hourglass, watching the sand fall.
“James?”
“Hmm?”
“Did that lady die because I couldn’t stomach going into that room to help her?”
James sighed. “No, Sarah. You can’t think like that. This job…this job is tough. You know? She was probably going to die anyway with those injuries. We can’t always be superheroes. Sometimes, it’s out of our control.” He tapped on the hourglass, “And sometimes, the time is just up. All we can do is say that we did our best.”She nodded. The sand emptied all the way to the other side, and she flipped it again, but it got stuck again. He returned his gaze to the road, navigating some busier intersections as best he could.
“The sand got stuck on me, too.”
“I guess time’s up,” Sarah chuckled, smiling at him gratefully.
Suddenly, there were blinding lights, the blaring of a semi truck horn, and everything went black.
James woke up in a bright white room to the sound of beeping monitors and a pounding in his head. His body felt bruised and broken, and Sarah was nowhere to be seen. He looked at the table beside his bed to see a medical chart with his name on it beside the hourglass. The black sand was flowing, but it had almost run out. -
“The meagre lighthouse all in white, haunting the seaboard, as if it were the ghost of an edifice that had once had colour and rotundity, dripped melancholy tears after its late buffeting by the waves.”
-Charles Dickens
Wind Shear Cliff was like something out of a postcard. The way the rocky shore rose out of the foaming sea, crowned with a perfect picturesque lighthouse, caught my eye immediately. As soon as I saw the listing, I went straight to my boss and begged her to put me on the paperwork as the listing agent. At first, she was hesitant. The house wasn’t easy to get to, and it was in a remote location without much cell service; the sort of house she only ever assigned to the male agents. But eventually, after a bit of shameless begging on my part, she agreed.
Just as I suspected, the buyers were interested in it, too. I had my first showing within a week.It turned out, Wind Shear Cliff was only accessible by boat. Luckily, my dad used to take me out fishing, so I knew the basics of how to drive one. There was a a small dock on the island which connected to a set of steep steps, carved directly into the rocks, and led to a bright red door to the the keeper’s quarters. I helped the couple who had requested the viewing out of the boat and began giving them all the details about the property. It was built in 1910, and the previous owner had died before paying off his mortgage, so that was the only reason the listing is a little higher than expected. But I was sure to use words like “historical heritage site” and “once in a lifetime opportunity” to ensure they were primed for what would inevitably be a fixer-upper, as most older homes were.
As we approached the front door, I noticed the building seemed much larger in person than it did on paper. The cold concrete was like a white bone sticking out from the dark slimy rocks. And the island felt more secluded and lonely than I expected it to. A cold gust of wind came rushing past us, almost knocking us over. The reason for the property’s name was clear, but it wasn’t the wind that chilled me. The dark, churning sea below us coupled with the sharp rocks at our feet felt sinister. It was nothing like the perfect postcard I had been hoping for.I’d been an agent for over a year, but I suddenly felt as nervous as I did at my first open house. I decided it was just the long drive out. I was tired, and that double espresso was probably a bad idea. It always left me jittery.
We hurried up to the door, and my frozen fingers fumbled with the heavy metal keys. After a few tries, there was a heavy clunk as the key turned in the lock, and we stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind us. It latched with a loud click, and echoed off the bare walls of the silent room. The smell inside the front entrance was musty and it wasn’t much warmer than it was outside, even without the wind.
The couple laughed, collecting themselves, and I attempted to fix my hair and appear unfazed by the wind. I couldn’t let them sit too long with any downsides of the house, or they might talk themselves out of buying it. If I could land this sale, this property would give me a handsome cut of the final price. God, I needed it…But looking at the couple, something about this viewing felt strange. The properties usually matched or reflected the personality of the new buyers. These people seemed so cheery, and nothing like the cold, hollow house that surrounded us. Perhaps I looked strange there, too.
“So, if I may ask, what made you interested in this property?” I attempted a smile, but my tone didn’t match my outward facade. Was that…fear in my voice? Why was I so nervous?
The husband shrugged, “I’m working on a second PhD right now, and I need to spend hours a day in silence, reading and writing. The city was too distracting for me. I need some solitude, I guess.”
His wife clung to his arm, smiling up at him like she was looking up at the night sky. Newlyweds, I supposed.“Well, this place is definitely great for finding some solitude,” I nodded, beginning to walk them through the rooms. The house was mostly bare bones, with creaky floorboards, and only one or two items in each room. In the living room, an old sofa sat beside a charred, ashy fireplace. A single chair was propped beside a small wooden table in the kitchen corner. In the bedroom there was a single bed, but it wasn’t made. The blankets were pushed aside and the pillows were in need of fluffing. It looked slept in. Recently slept in…
“Who’s that?” the man asked pointing at the far wall. Above the bed was a large oil painting of a man with a bushy white beard in a navy uniform. His eyes were dark, almost black, and his expression was menacing. A shiver ran down my spine.
“Probably one of the lighthouse keepers, I’d imagine. Obviously this place would need some redecorating to feel cozy. There’s only one bedroom, so it isn’t necessarily great for a family.”There I went again. Why was I being so negative?
“No problem at all,” the woman whispered, her cheery disposition fading, “I can’t have kids.”
A lump formed in my throat, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”
“It’s fine,” she replied, smiling back up at her husband, “We are just so excited to finally buy our own home.”
“Of course you are! And this place is…one of a kind.” I forced my smile back on and continued to guide them through the rooms.
It was dark and drafty, but the windows framed a beautiful view of the ocean. I stopped at one and peered out to the distant shore. That creeping dread crawled up my spine again like a spider. I took a breath and started to turn towards the stairs that led up to the actual beacon, when a dark shadow suddenly darted past the window. It looked like the outline of a large man.
“Jesus!” I shouted, knocking back into the couple behind me.
The man laughed, “Afraid of birds, miss?”
“No, of course not,” I faked a laugh, leaning towards the window to look out at the flock of seagulls. “It didn’t look like a bird, though. Are you sure that’s what it was?”
The couple looked at each other, their eyebrows knitted with concern. I was losing them. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. “How about we go up and see the actual lighthouse, huh? You don’t see that in every house.”
We climbed the stairs, and they gasped as we reached the top. The view was breathtaking, and their smiles returned.
The woman perked up a bit, and turned around to face me again, “This is fantastic! Does it still work?”
I shook my head, “According to the records, the lighthouse was decommissioned about 50 years ago and hasn’t been officially used since. The last owner had tried to get it working, but it would need expensive repairs and a full-time caretaker to keep it running.”
“Could be a fun little hobby to keep you busy,” the man joked, nudging his wife.I looked back out at the water and noticed that the sun was beginning to set, and a few streaks of a pink and orange had begun to paint the sky.
“We should probably start heading out. We don’t want to try navigating out of here in the dark.” I sighed with relief as they agreed and we turned towards the stairs.
Suddenly, there was a loud thump behind us against the glass. We turned to see a smear of bright red blood down the window. We rushed to the glass and peered down. Below us, sprawled on the rocks, was a dead seagull with a crown of crimson red, and it’s neck at an unnatural angle.
“That’s bad luck. May God have mercy on us,” the woman said, grabbing the cross pendant from around her neck and kissing it.
We descended the wooden stairs in silence, as if the death of the bird had somehow drained the remaining magic of the lighthouse behind a gray fog. Now the couple seemed almost as eager to leave as I did, keeping up with my hurried pace as we crossed the living room and turned towards the front door.
I stopped. The front door was cracked open, wavering slightly with the frigid breeze. I remembered the door being difficult to open, so there was no way the wind could have done it. My stomach tightened into a knot. I couldn’t place it, but something was wrong, and I wasn’t interested in waiting around to find out what it was. I grabbed the door pulling it the rest of the way open.“Miss?” The wife’s voice was so quiet, I almost didn’t hear her. I turned to face them. Her face was as pale as a ghost. “Was the fireplace always lit?”
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. -
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. -
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.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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“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 