Chapter Eleven
I spent my first hour back at home writing a new blog post. While the generic man was probably the least interesting person to ever come into the store, the circumstances around his appearance and reappearance were still bothering me, and I needed to share it. That sense of déjà vu was so strong it hurt. I realized, of course, that it was probably yet another new symptom of my brain’s steady decline. After all, I’d been making more and more of these mental typos in recent days.
I lost my house shoe for almost forty-eight hours, but it eventually turned up right where I left it—inside the refrigerator. I tried plugging a surge protector into itself, and it took almost ten minutes for me to realize why it wasn’t working. At one particularly low point, I completely forgot my middle name. I had to look at my driver’s license, but by then I couldn’t remember why I needed to know it in the first place. And of course, there were those increasingly frequent periods of missing time…
Normally, I could shake it off. A quick shower or some sudoku. Maybe a silly book or a hot coffee to pull myself together, then I could laugh to myself and pretend it wasn’t devastating, because if I pretend hard enough it becomes indistinguishable from truth. It may not be ideal, but it’s how I survive.
Brrrriiinnnggg… Damn it to bloody hell! Brrrriiinnnggg…
For only the second time in memory, that stupid phone was calling me into the dining room. I found my crutch and went to see who it was that dared interrupt me in the middle of my depressing thoughts. Brrrriii—
“Hello?”
Whoever it was, they didn’t answer right away. Instead, they laughed. A slow, breathy laugh. The kind that starts deep inside and escapes in a growing torrent.
“Who is this?” I demanded, ending his laughter all at once.
“Hello, Jack.” His voice was menacing. “It’s me.”
Menacing... but not super familiar.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is awkward, but... who are you?”
“You mean you don’t recognize the voice of your greatest mortal enemy?” He laughed again, but this time it sounded humorless and dry. “I'm the one you see when you close your eyes at night. I'm the one who brought you to the grim reaper's doorstep, and next time we meet, you'll finally feel the death you've earned!”
My pulse was racing. My heart pounded in my ears. No. It can’t be.
“Spencer.”
A moment passed before he said anything. Then:
“What?! Spencer? No! I'm your greatest enemy!”
“Spencer is my greatest enemy. I think.”
“No, I am! It’s me! The one who has been watching from the shadows this whole time. The one you truly fear beyond any other.”
My pulse was racing. My heart pounded in my ears. There could only be one person who fit that description. “No. It’s… you?”
“Yes. Say my name!”
“I… wait, I never learned your name. Unless your name actually is ‘The Collector.’ This is the Collector, isn’t it?”
He squealed, “Who? Shut up! You know who this is. Quit playing around, Jack.”
“Agent Brick Roscoe? Is that you?”
He moaned in annoyance. “Little hint. I showed you what dark powers I wield. And now you know that even death cannot hold me!”
“Ohhh!” My pulse was steadying. My heart was beating slightly above average. Now, I really knew who it was.
“That's right!” he taunted. “It's me!”
“Kieffer!”
“What? Fuck you, Jack!”
Okay, so it’s not Kieffer. Well damn. Who the hell else could it be?
“Travis? Hey, I thought we were cool now.”
“Who’s Travis?”
“Fox Lady?”
“Do I sound like a fox lady to you?! Come on!” He sounded genuinely hurt. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “I’ve been your greatest nemesis since childhood, Jack!”
“I think you might have called the wrong Jack. This is Jack Townsend.”
“I know who you are, Goddammit!”
“I give up.”
“It’s Beaux! Beaux Couvillion!”
“Oh!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Right, Beaux. My greatest enemy. Of course. Sorry.”
“No, you’re not ‘sorry.’ Not yet you’re not. But you will be. I guarantee it! You thought you’d won by letting me die, but little did you know that I was choosing to die on purpose! The master is growing his army right under your nose! Everyone you know will join us or perish! Soon, I will become one with the beast, and then I will be more powerful than you can ever imagine. You will beg for—”
“Hey, listen, Beaux—”
He shrieked like a cat in heat, “DO NOT INTERRUPT ME!”
“I won’t. I just needed to say real quick that I totally want to hear more about your big plans, but I’m in a hurry right now. I have this thing that I’m late for. Why don’t you give me your number and let me call you back later when I have some free time?”
“Are… are you… trying to get off the phone with me?”
“No, no, not at all. I totally want to catch up. It’s just, I’ve got this thing.”
“Here I am, calling from beyond the void, a genuine dark fucking miracle, and you… you’ve got… ‘a thing’?!”
“Yeah man. I would have rescheduled if I knew you were going to call but, you know.”
“You want to know what I think? You’re too petrified by the exquisite horror of this reality to even comprehend what’s happening right now. But just wait. Later, when the shock has worn off, you will be in physical agony from the terror of knowing that I have returned!”
I used my crutch to bang on the wall three times.
“Oh shoot, you hear that? That’s my company. They just arrived. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll see you again soon, Jack. Count on it!”
“Sounds great.”
He anger-grunted. “No! It doesn’t sound ‘great’! You’re terrified of me!”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Sounds super spooky. Talk to you later. Bye!”
I hung up the phone and waited to see if he was going to call back. After a couple of minutes had passed, I decided that I was in the clear. I considered calling O’Brien to let her know what happened, but it didn’t strike me as important enough to bother her.
***
I didn’t get back online until late that night.
The carnival had ended, and the final wave of attendees—half of them drunk on hard wassail (the carnie specialty)—had descended upon the gas station like they were prepping for a hurricane. Jerry (God bless him) wasn’t scheduled to work, but he stuck around anyway to help steer the drunker customers back out the door. He was still wearing Rosa’s pink t-shirt when I clocked in that night, and when I asked if he was planning to change, he just took Leroy’s old name tag and pinned it on over his heart.
By the time the last carnivaller had gone, we were completely sold out of light beer—something that normally only happens during Christmas. I felt like I’d earned a break, so I turned on my laptop and settled in for a long, presumably boring rest of my shift.
I logged into my email and found something peculiar waiting for me. Thirteen different messages from thirteen different people, all with the same subject line: “Glitch in the Matrix.”
I assumed it was some form of advanced spam, ignored it for now, and logged into my blog to find that my post from that morning had inadvertently started a very active group discussion. This wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. If there’s one thing the amateur paranormal investigator community loves, it’s sharing opinions. What was unusual, however, was that for the first time in history, everyone actually agreed on something.
They all kept saying it. That same expression. This was a Glitch in the Matrix. Even SavageCardigan dropped the usual alien argument to state that my déjà vu was a textbook case of GITM.
The exact definition of a “glitch” varied from person to person, but the general consensus was that it was “something” that happens when the “powers-that-be” change “something.”
The most specific and most cryptic posts were one in the same, from the old Elm Street Irregular alum himself, ScaredMoose. He wrote:
A Glitch like the one described here is evidence that things aren’t what they seem. Maybe it’s proof that the gas station is an advanced simulation. Maybe you’re stuck in a time loop. Or a dream. Or some kind of pocket reality. Most likely, something was supposed to happen the first time around, but you messed up the plan. What changed? The generic man. He was always MEANT to encounter your coworker. They had to bandage it up. Correct the timeline. The only real question here is this... Why are you the only one who noticed?
“Excuse me,” the man said in a chiding tone. I looked up from my computer screen to see Frances M. Howard (Doctor, Businessman, Visionary) standing over me, a claw hammer in his hand and the vague look of annoyance on his face. I didn’t notice him come in, and I would have preferred it stay that way, but now he’d gone and ruined that.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Jerry walked out of the bathroom and immediately shouted “Balls!” at the sight of the doctor. Howard stared at Jerry and placed the hammer on the counter in front of me without saying a word. I took it, scanned the barcode, and gave him his total like a good employee.
Jerry took his usual spot by my side, pulling up a chair next to me and propping his feet on the counter. Howard took the bait.
“Is this really the best use of your time during working hours?”
“Probably not,” Jerry confessed.
“I’ve been watching you two. I came into the store almost ten minutes ago. I saw several customers come and go without either of you offering any help, or even the slightest modicum of attention. They left empty-handed. Those were sales that walked right out the door.”
“Well,” I said. “If they didn’t buy anything, they weren’t really ‘customers,’ were they?” I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “That seems to be the theme of today: people coming in here, looking for things they can’t have.”
Jerry piped in, “We call those people ‘cantstomers.’” I’d never heard that expression before, but I nodded in solidarity.
Howard looked away first. He took out a wallet so overstuffed I couldn’t believe he managed to close it—clearly a flex, but a damn impressive one. He retrieved a black credit card and held it out for me to take. I reached for it, but he pulled it away at the last second and asked, “What is it exactly that’s holding your attention so? Video games? Homework?” He narrowed his eyes and made an ugly smile. “Online dating?”
“No. I was checking on my blog.” I surprised myself by how easily I’d offered him the truth, but then I remembered that this guy wasn’t worth the dignity of a lie.
He chuckled. “You’re a blogger then? What do you blog about?”
I closed the laptop and put it on the shelf under the counter before answering, “Nothing special. Just sharing some of my stories from the gas station.”
“Is that a fact? So you fancy yourself a storyteller, Jack?”
“Jack’s the best storyteller!” Jerry exclaimed.
The man gave a wry smile and asked, “Do either of you know any scary stories?”
Jerry said smugly, “Well, I did pee a demon back to hell once.”
The doctor leaned over the counter and said, “I’m hardly a professional, but I have been known to dabble in the verbal arts myself. How about I tell you boys a story? We’ll make things interesting. If it’s not the scariest thing you’ve ever heard, well, I’ll leave this place and never come back. I’m sure you’d like that, right?”
“Yeah,” I answered truthfully. “What’s the catch?”
“Well,” he replied, lifting the tool and inspecting it closely. “How about this: If my story terrifies you like no other, if my story is too scary for you to handle, then why don’t you pay for this hammer, and we call it a night?”
Jerry chuckled and said, “You’re on.”
“Well,” the doctor began, “Like all of the best tales, this one is a completely true story.”
Jerry laughed, but I didn’t. Something about this man’s sense of confidence was leaving me unsettled.
He continued, “This is the story of two young men, not unlike yourselves. Brothers, in fact. They hail from a small New England town and a privileged, well-to-do family. Old money. You know the type. Nary a single problem money couldn’t fix. They grew up with the finest education, and when the time came, they were accepted into the same Ivy League university. By all accounts, they had a perfect life. Until one day, during spring break, when the two brothers decided to take their lovely girlfriends on a vacation to their summer home in the Rockies. You see, at the end of the trip, only three people returned.”
I couldn’t tell where this story was going, but so far it seemed boring as hell. Maybe all those discount novels had left me jaded. I turned to Jerry to see if he shared my opinion, but one look at his face told me he was hearing a completely different tale. His skin was ghost white. His pulse was bouncing in his neck. And he was sweating. Profusely.
“Theories swirled about what could have happened to the missing brother. Unfortunately, the remaining witnesses proved… unreliable. The police investigation stalled, and despite the family’s resources, the case remains unsolved to this very day. But you see, I know what happened. What actually happened. And I know why the missing brother desires to remain missing."
Jerry shoved his way between me and the cash register, opened it up, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He slapped the money onto the counter and exclaimed, "You win! Terribly scary story. I’m shakin’ in my little bootsies, and I don't even want to know what happens next!"
He reached over the counter, grabbed the doctor by the lips, and squeezed them between his thumb and forefinger. “Shush, now!” he whispered.
Howard smacked Jerry’s hand away and said, “Don’t put your dirty fingers anywhere near my mouth, you heathen!”
Jerry took the hammer and pushed it into the doctor’s hands, then removed Leroy’s name badge, dropped it onto the floor, and declared, “Hey Jack, I have to clock out and go home early tonight. I just remembered; I left my… cat… on… fire…”
“You were never on the clock.”
“Even better!” he cried before speed-walking around the counter and out the back door.
If my jaw weren’t attached, it would have hit the floor. I turned my attention back to the doctor.
“What was that? Did you break my friend? How did you do that? Fix him!”
He laughed again and turned to leave, but not without one parting shot, “I’ll be seeing you around, Jack.”
***
I didn’t know what to do next. Jerry had peaced out with no explanation, and the (clearly evil) doctor had declared war in the most roundabout way possible. I was alone, and never had I felt more so.
I weighed my options. I could call O’Brien, but there wasn’t much she could do. Howard was too smart to make any explicit threats, and Jerry was far less than forthcoming about whatever secrets the doctor was alluding to. I could try the owners again. Maybe they could get the doctor to back off. (Of course, they might not be so willing to stick out their necks if they learned it was Jerry they were protecting.) Or I could kill Howard myself.
Whoa! Where did that thought come from? I shook it out of my head and tried to forget it was ever there.
The phone rang, and I instantly reached for it. In a rare spell of blinding optimism, I assumed it was Jerry, calling to explain himself.
“Hello?”
The person on the other end of the line let out a long, deep sigh.
This was not Jerry.
I repeated my greeting, a little slower this time. “Hello?”
“Hey Jack. It’s FJ.”
FJ was a nickname for Farmer Junior. There was a time when he would call the store on a daily basis, pestering us about the handplants, but I hadn’t heard from him in months. I was hoping he’d finally forgotten about us and moved on to other obsessions.
“What can I do for you, FJ?”
“I want you to know that you’re a real piece of shit.”
He took a pause. I guess he was giving me a turn to respond, although I can’t say why.
“Okay. Well, thanks for calling.”
Before I could hang up, he began his rant. It sounded like it had been building up inside of him for a while, fermenting like a batch of moonshine and now full of poison and passion.
“My family gave you all our business for years, and we ain’t never tried to screw you over. You sit up there in your ivory pedestal, pretending like you wanna do right by us, but you ain’t nothin but another asshole what thinks he’s better than everybody. You ain’t even man enough to tell me to my face that you got more handplants sitting behind the store. Instead, you lied. Cause you’re too stupid to know what a good deal looks like. I ought to kick your ass for being so stupid.”
“Farmer, I told you, the handplants are gone.”
“Yeah, they’re gone. Now. Even if they weren’t, that ship has sailed. You know how much money he was gonna give me for them things?”
I never did figure out what Farmer wanted those handplants for. I just assumed it was some kind of weird sex thing. This revelation that he was trying to sell them was more than a little surprising.
“Someone wanted to buy the handplants? Who?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Some rich-ass collector. All I needed was a dozen of ‘em and I coulda retired. That shit’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal, and now it’s over because you’re a stupid lying sack of shit, and next time I see you I’m gonna fuck you up.”
I tried to wrap up the conversation while the wrapping was good. “Okay, well, I should probably get back to work.”
“Fuck you, Jack!”
“It was nice catching up.”
“I’m gonna kick your teeth in.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
“You better watch your back, ‘cause I’m coming for you!”
“Good night, FJ.”
“Good night.”
I hung up the phone, opened my computer, and went to the file on my desktop labeled “PeopleWhoWantToKillMe.doc.” As soon as I’d updated the ever-growing list, I received an email notification.
Someone had sent me a private message. There was no subject line, and the sender label was simply “R0g3r.” Without thinking, I opened and read it:
There are creatures in this world you’ve never seen before. Beings of invisible energy that connect the frames of time, routing history and ordering your reality. We call them “engineers.” One of them went missing not long ago. And she was last seen in your town.
This Glitch in the Matrix excuse is pure nonsense. Someone captured an engineer, and now he’s experimenting on her. Finding ways to use her power.
The Collector is building his army. I sure hope you’re ready for war.