Category: fiction

I saw an awesome B-movie last night.  An old man invites his two sons up to a remote cabin in the mountains for a relaxing weekend, and each brings his wife.

After dinner, the father sits everyone down and spins a yarn about their so-called ancient familial curse, and how they must fulfill a ritual pact that their ancestors made to protect their tiny village centuries ago.  The village no longer exists, but the curse laid on the family remains.  A shadowy, half-seen beast that flits in and out of the corners of their vision, and it slowly makes itself known with increasing twisting and vanishing shadows in the corners of the cabin.

As the movie progresses, we learn that the story is true, and that the beast is real.  Black, angular shadows bolt through the cabin, upsetting the table as the father talks louder and more aggressively.  The women freak out, and beg him to stop.  He refuses, and tells them the real reason they’re there: the beast feeds on blood, powerful emotion, and life.  And it’s time for the last sons of the village to sacrifice their beloveds in order to slate the beast’s thirst and send it back to wherever it came from.  The same way the old man and his brother sacrificed their own wives twenty-five years ago.

Both sons go slack, blank, and stare numbly.  Their wives scream for them as they fight an extended battle for their lives with the old man and the beast, and lose.  The women are pulled, bloody and screaming into a hole torn in the world by the beast.

The next morning, the sun rises on the idyllic scene of the old man cooking breakfast for his two bachelor sons.  They have no memory of the last night’s events or their wives.  One glances down at the fork in his hand as he eats, and notices a tan line around his left ring finger.  He frowns at it vaguely for a second, then crams another forkful of eggs in his mouth, unconcerned.  The old man thanks them for coming up to see him, and they leave.

After he stands out on the porch waving as they drive away, he goes back into the house and reaches deep into the back of a dusty cabinet.  He pulls out two tin cans, each one labeled with a son’s name.  He carefully lifts up the jagged metal lids, pulls two wedding bands out of his pocket, and tosses one ring into each can.  As the camera fades to black, it pushes in until we see that both cans are half full of battered, scarred wedding rings.

Sounds like a great B-movie, right?  It’s classic.  The cabin in the woods, the ancient evil, the half-seen monster, the hint that something darker is happening and will happen again.  There’s just one problem: this movie played in my head last night.  It was a dream.

What in the fuck is wrong with my subconscious?

I found this story when I was going through some old files on my laptop.  I wrote this in 2009.  It was going to be a story about a guy who lost his memory and spent the rest of the story tracing clues he had left for himself, trying to figure out what had happened.  Obviously, I never finished it.  I thought I’d post it here anyway, since I liked what I read.

 

Chapter 1

 

Chat log 10/09/09

Goat: Ahoy

Ham: hey

Goat: You remember what i did yesterday?

Goat: Because I don’t.

Ham: yeah, me either.  total waste of time.  I don’t even remember what I was doing at work.

Goat: No, you don’t understand.

Goat: I mean–I don’t remember yesterday.

Goat: At all.

Ham: WTF.  are you serious?

Goat: Yeah.

Goat: I fell asleep reading on Wednesday and I woke up Friday morning.

Ham: no you didn’t.

Ham: you IMed me.  I have the logs.  hang on, lemme find them

Goat: Don’t bother.  I have them too.

Goat: I was just reading them.  Apparently you were fighting with the girlfriend again?

Ham: yeah.

Ham: find anything else?  did you send any email, texts, update your profile…?

Goat: Hadn’t looked yet.  checking

 

Goat has gone away

Goat came back

 

Goat: Yeah.  three calls yesterday.  One to my sister, one from my mom that I didn’t answer, and one call to Melissa.

Ham: whose melissa?

Goat: I have no idea.  It’s a local number.

Ham: call her

Goat: And say what?

Goat: “Hi, I don’t know who you are, but apparently we talked for 14 minutes yesterday at 2:44pm.  Any idea what that was about?”

Ham: good point

Ham: did you go to your martial arts school?

Ham: maybe you got kicked in the head or something.

Goat: I doubt it.  I don’t have any lumps or bruises.

Goat: I’m gonna check the mileage on my car.

Ham: you keep track of it that closely?  that’s pretty OCD, man.

 

Goat has gone away

Goat came back

 

Goat: No

Goat: I always reset my trip counter when I fill up to keep track of mpg.

Goat: I’d just filled up on Thursday and drove home.  there should have been about 10 miles on that tank

Goat: I drove almost *300 miles yesterday*

Ham: holy shit

Goat: I know.

Ham: anything else?  text messages?  email sent or received?

Ham: looks like you didn’t update your facebook status

Goat: looking

Goat: email–couple job applications sent, some netflix receiving and shipping stuff

Goat: TON of text messages

Ham: anytihng good?

Goat: Bunch of stuff from Melissa.

Goat: Apparently we set up a lunch date for today…

Goat: Fuck.  10 minutes from now.  I guess I’d better get ready.

Ham: your going?  are you stupid?

Ham: you don’t even know who she is!

Ham: she might be the reason you can’t remember anything.

Ham: you should call a doctor.

Ham: or the cops.

Goat: or maybe she can tell me wtf I did yesterday.

Ham: or maybe she’s the queen mother

Ham: don’t be an idiot

Goat: later

Ham: goddammit

 

Ham is typing…

Goat has disconnected

 

Chapter 2

 

Peter arrived at the agreed-upon meeting place fifteen minutes late.  His text messages had included only an address, and he was surprised when he arrived at an upscale downtown restaurant.  Once inside, he belatedly realized he had no way of recognizing Melissa.  As it turned out, this wasn’t a problem.

“Peter!”  A slender, well-dressed woman sat waving and smiling at him from a booth near the bar.  Peter guessed she was in her mid-sixties, and noticed as he drew closer that she wasn’t just well-dressed–she was well-preserved and well-to-do as well.  Had she decided to color her hair instead of leaving its natural silver, she could easily pass for forty-five.  Her designer purse and top of the line Blackberry made it clear that this was a woman of means.

“So good to see you again.”  She gestured at the open booth seat.  “Please, sit down.  We have much to discuss.”  Peter sat down and flipped over his coffee cup.  Before he’d finished removing his jacket, a waiter had filled it and disappeared.

“I apologize for being late.”  Peter began.  “I was…”

“No need to apologize.”  Melissa interrupted.  Peter sipped his coffee, grimaced, and promptly added cream and three sugar packets.  Melissa laughed and sipped her own cup of tea.  “With these prices, you’d think they could at least make a decent cup of coffee.  Those dark roast blends are so trendy and popular, but I’ll take a nice cup of Chamomile any day.”  She set down her cup and steepled her fingers, looking over them at Peter.  Her demeanor became businesslike, exuding a comfortable authority.  Peter realized this was a woman used to being in charge.

“How was your trip?”  She inquired politely.  “Productive, I trust?”  Her voice betrayed the barest hint of emotion.  Which one, Peter couldn’t tell.  Impatience, maybe?  Or was it fear?

“I really have no idea.”

“I beg your pardon?”  Melissa’s eyebrows shot up, questioning.

“I can’t remember.”  Peter shrugged.  “I don’t remember yesterday.  Any of it.  As far as I know, I feel asleep Wednesday night and woke up Friday morning.  I came here because I was hoping you’d be able to tell me what happened.”

“I see.”  The warmth had drained from her voice, and she regarded him with a coldness that Peter found unnerving.  She glanced down at her Blackberry, which hadn’t beeped or vibrated since he sat down.  She made a pretext of reading the screen.  “I’m afraid I’ve been called back to the office.  We will have to discuss this later, Mr. Kelly.  I will contact you.”

Melissa snatched a fifty dollar bill from her purse and dropped it on the table as she rose.  Too surprised to remember his manners and stand, Peter simply gaped at her as she turned and left without another word.

 

Chapter 3:

 

Next: Peter finds the camera with the trail of photos, and his brother calls him to find out what happened to his meds.

It had been three, maybe four weeks since I’d eaten anything that hadn’t come out of a take out box or through a drive-through window. I’d gained fifteen pounds, looked like shit, felt even worse.

I accepted my double Whopper with extra cheese value meal from the counter monkey with a sneer.

“Keep the change, junior.”

I tossed the twenty-something cents on the greasy counter at the seventeen-year-old zit-faced fuck. A few of the pennies overshot the edge and slid onto the floor. He didn’t move to pick them up.

I turned to leave. I could feel his stare burning up my back side as I intentionally pushed open his freshly Windexed glass doors with a greasy, unwashed hand. This kid hadn’t done a damn thing to me. Nothing. He’d actually been really nice, and I think he’d been trying to brighten my day with a cheery smile and a few attempts at conversation. I’d instantly shot them down with unrestrained contempt.

I’d instantly hated him.

I’d hated his shiteating grin, his eagerness to please, his kindness to a disheveled mouth-breather like myself–but most of all, I’d hated his potential. He had his entire life in front of him, and here I am, thirty-seven, divorced, in a job going nowhere, up to my ass in debt. He can do anything he wants. He’s probably a month from being valedictorian, and then off to some Ivy League school where he’s going to be knee-deep in hot, rich, pussy. Probably bang a dozen girls in his first semester if he has a clue what he’s doing.

I sat in my ostentatiously expensive sports car and wolfed down my fast food filth, not tasting a bite of it. My stomach twisted around the rock of low-grade beef, but I ignored it.

It wasn’t for the sake of getting away from junior that I’d left the “restaurant.” My rapidly growing stomach, declining hairline, and the deep bags under my eyes were more than enough to make me turn away from any reflective surface these days. That included the large windows of the place’s lobby.

“Hey.”

My head jerked up from the burger wrapping unfolded in my lap and the remaining overcooked fries. The kid had followed me outside, and was staring down through the driver’s side window. Christ, he’s going to beat the shit out of me. Good. Maybe he’ll kill me and save me the trouble.

I rolled down the window a crack and screamed at him. “What, goddammit?!”

“Um… you were… cry–you looked distressed… distraught. I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

I twisted the rear view mirror to look at myself. Tears lined my face, and more sat in the corners of my eyes waiting for their cue. I’d been crying and not even realizing it. Had I been crying in the burger joint? When did I start this time?

Did it matter?

“Yeah…” I managed a wan smile for the kid and looked him in the eye. I wanted desperately to loathe him. Like a long string of other unfortunate strangers, I wanted him to take the brunt of my self-pity and rage instead of me. Just for a little while.

He smiled back. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I nodded slowly and wiped the tears out of my eyes. My eyes flitted to his plastic name badge. “Thanks… Thomas.”

“It’s Tom. And you’re welcome.”

A squawk burst from the mic headset he was wearing. Tom pressed a button on the box hanging from his belt.

“Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?” He smiled again and waved silently, then turned and walked back to work.

I turned the key in the ignition, and the German-engineered beast purred to life. I opened the glove box to stare the pistol lying on top of badly folded maps and old chapstick. I pushed it shut again and drove away.