Red Right Hand

I've grown accustomed to the feeling; the loss of authority over my own body, the fear that I would never experience normalcy.  But the worst was the ever present fear of ending up in some lab, being referred to by a number rather than my name.  I longed for life away from people. A place where I could live alone, and not worry about the next horrible thing I'd be forced to do.  "It" had been with me for as long as I could remember. "It" being the evil that's rooted in my right hand. This wasn't simply an impulse to do bad things on my part.  My right hand lay dormant until it chose to spring forward, causing whatever awful act it sought-after in that moment, before giving me full control once again. 

When I was younger it was easier to ignore. I never could control it, but sometimes I was able to suppress it, and most times I succeeded. By my teens I was considered a problem child. I'd stolen from my mother's purse, vandalized the school's gymnasium, and wrote profanity on my grandmother's grave in permanent marker. All bad things but nothing too terrible.  But somehow, the day I turned 23 my ability to ignore the evil impulses of my right hand suddenly became a lot harder. I found myself struggling to suppress it. Even worse, whenever I tried, the more terrible its deed. I learned quickly not to fight it.  By the time I turned 26 I'd stolen everything from money to a child's wheelchair. I flipped off more elderly ladies than I care to count, and damaged quite a bit of property. I'd even been arrested several times. As you can imagine, I try to stay far away from other people. I work from home most days and do the majority of my shopping online. 

Unfortunately there are times when I have to go out, and my right hand is usually itching by then. At this point I let it have its fun. I know attempts to avoid it only aggravates it more. Though it's not normally violent, the last time I tried fighting it, resulted in a teenage barista receiving a scalding cup of coffee to her face. 

So now I simply allow my right hand to satisfy its cravings whenever it needs. That might make me weak or even just as guilty, but I don't have a choice. I need to save all my energy, all my strength for resisting the homicidal urges of my left hand. Because while my right hand has caused a lot of damage, judging by the bodies piling up in the crawlspace my left hand is capable of much much worse.

---

Credits

Some Days Are Better Than Others

 

Some days are better than others. 

On this particular day I was late. Mr. Flaherty had asked me to stay after, again. I had wanted to say no, especially since overtime pay was not in Mr. Flaherty’s vocabulary. But I needed this job. I can only imagine how it would look if I lost it. But still, two hours of overtime I wouldn't get paid for. Two hours worth of listening to complaints, and completely redoing the schedule of appointments. I had checked my phone in the elevator after locking up my office. Battery was dead, just as well. I knew there would be messages from Kelly. And I knew that I would have to hear her complaining when I got in. She was always on me about “working for free” and standing up to Mr. Flaherty. "Oliver, you have to learn to say no. How hard can it be!?" I could almost hear her now….

I didn't like having to work late. And I sure didn't want to have to pick up all the pieces at the office when Mr. Flaherty decided to call it a day at 1pm so he could “rest his back”. Which I knew just meant playing golf for three hours. Yeah, I thought my boss was a class A jerk. But I sure as hell wasn't going to say it. Not to Mr. Flaherty anyway. I needed this job. The rent was too high, and Kelly didn't want to move. Not when it was so close to the gym she rarely went to, even though $40 bucks still came off of the credit card every month. And of course the private elementary school was just a mile away, despite not having any kids yet. 

I would have to tell her I stayed late again, and wasn't paid. Part of me would almost rather tell her I had an affair. What it would be like to not worry about money. I had been thinking this same thought for the past three years. More so in the last couple of weeks. We could finally take that long overdo trip to Paris Kelly had always talked about, but we never could afford. I would still keep the job of course. Quitting wasn't an option.  

I was thinking this when the train pulled in. I hopped on, and noticed it was nearly empty. I almost smiled. It had been a while since I actually got to sit on the subway. I wasn't the type who could walk onto a packed subway car and take one of the last seats next to some stranger. Instead I would stand by the door, and pretend not to notice when someone stood too close, or stepped on my shoe, or smelled like they just had a bath in shit. My phone came in handy for these situations. I would stare at the screen, pretending to be busy texting someone, when in reality I was only busy playing 8 pool ball, or Angry birds. 

I rarely got a chance to sit on the ride home, and so rare was it a window seat. One perk of working late, I suppose. I chose a seat in the middle of the car, and sat, putting my briefcase between my feet. I wasn't completely alone. There was an old man sleeping in the back of the car, a big green trash bag on the seat beside him. I guessed he was homeless by his disheveled appearance. There was a middle age lady a few seats away from him, reading a book, and eating something that smelled like raw onion. It could be worse, I knew. And I'd seen it many times. Small blessings I thought, with a smile. When the subway car pulled to a stop, the lady and her foul smelling meal departed. It was at least 5 minutes before I realized someone else was in the car with me.

Just across the aisle, a few seats away, sat a man that looked to be about my age, certainly no older than 30. The man was dressed in a suit, but no tie, and his hair looked a bit sweaty and uncombed. Maybe he had a lazy boss too, I thought. The man was staring straight ahead, a black duffle on his lap. I pulled out my phone, forgetting it was dead. I stared at it anyway, pretending to text. I found myself stealing looks at the man. The duffle bag on the man's lap seemed to be of some importance to him, as he kept looking down at it, as if it might somehow grow legs and run away. The man held it tightly to him, and would glance down at it occasionally, a peculiar look in his eyes. 

When the man turned his eyes on me, I quickly averted my gaze to my phone again, wishing I hadn't forgotten to charge it. I spotted a newspaper lying on the floor across the aisle, and stretched out my foot to slide it over. I shook it free of dirt, then smoothed it out. I read the sports section, even though I didn't care too much for it. After I'd grown bored of that, I started reading an article about crime watch in the neighborhood and how to get involved.

Our neighborhood had been a pretty ideal place to live, but in the last year or so crime had found its way in our little suburb, trickling in from the more dangerous areas. Earlier in the week Kelly had seen a news report about a murder of a young woman who was killed just blocks from where she worked. Kelly had refused to go out alone at night, which meant I had to meet her at the bus stop after she got off work. Another reason she'd be furious about my coming home late.  I flipped the pages until I got to the comic section, trying to push away the image of Kelly's angry expression standing in the doorway, arms folded over her chest. But she had a right to worry, I guess. Just last month the apartment two doors down from us was robbed. Crime was everywhere, no matter the cost of the rent. 

I tried to keep my focus on the paper, but found myself sneaking looks at the man. I watched him stroke the black leather duffle bag with his finger, still holding it tight. I could see his lips twitch just slightly, every time he looked down at the bag. At first, I almost laughed. But I suppressed that impulse. Laughing at a man these days could get you killed. I'd heard of people losing their lives for less. I turned the page, ignoring the man and his bag. 

A small article caught my eye. It was a few paragraphs at the bottom left hand corner of the paper. There had been a robbery at a local bank. More than seven hundred-thousand dollars stolen. No suspects. The article claimed a man walked into a bank and slipped the teller a note. That simple. I laughed out loud. 

“What's so funny?” The man with the black duffle asked. His voice was neither angry or friendly. It just was. I stiffened, and looked at the man, whose eyes were now watching me carefully. 

“Uh… Nothing. I mean, just an article I was reading." I said, hoping the man would be content with leaving my explanation at that. The man glanced down at the newspaper in my hands. Then smiled. I looked away. I didn't like that smile. His teeth were crooked and stained with tobacco and the smile was almost knowing. 

“What's in the article?” The man asked, his voice soft and inquisitive. 

For some reason I didn't want to tell him. We both stared at one another for a long, uncomfortable moment, until I caved under the man's intent scrutiny. 

“Just something about a murder.” I lied, looking back down at the paper, but reading nothing. I could feel him still watching me, and though I couldn't be sure, I thought he was smiling. 

“A murder?” The man said, somewhat theatrically. He paused for a second, and I was hoping he would just leave me alone. “You find murder funny then?” the man asked. I felt my cheeks burn. 

“No… of course not. I just remembered something funny my wife said.” I fumbled, hoping the man wouldn't press me further. 

“Ah, I see. Whatcha reading now?” The man asked, and I could hear the man shift in his seat closer toward the aisle. 

“Nothing really.” I said, my stomach tightening. Why did I have to sit so close to this idiot? I thought. Why couldn't I have sat in the front? 

I didn't want to tell the man anything about the robbery. 

“Nothing?” The man asked, and without looking over, I knew the man was smiling. I could hear it. 

“Well, there was a robbery.” I relented. My eyes met the man's, almost involuntarily. His eyebrows rose just a bit, and I could see his fingers tighten on his duffle bag. 

The man swallowed, “A robbery, huh?” he asked, again he sounded phony. 

“Yeah. Seems a lot of money was stolen.” I said, immediately regretting it. He shook his head, hand gripping his bag so tightly, his knuckles turned white. 

“That's awful.” He said, mockingly. “Never can trust a thief.” he winked at me, trailing a finger along the duffle bags zipper, but not opening it. 

“Is that so?” I said, plastering a smile on my face. I was wondering how long I'd have to walk if I got off at the next stop. Or what I'd do if he followed...

“Sure is. My father used to say that” he said. “He was a very wise man.” I nodded. The lights flickered in the car, and I could see the station up ahead. I would get off, and walk the rest of the way home, I decided. I was about to stand up, when the man spoke.

“Well, this is my stop. It was nice chattin with you.” He said, and gave a little two finger salute. I nodded, and pretended to read once more, relief swelling in my chest. I heard the man shuffle down the aisle, and when the car pulled to a stop and the doors opened, he hopped off. I only looked up when I heard the doors close, and the car lurch forward. I looked out the window, hoping to see him walking off to creep someone else out. 

The man was standing on the platform, casually waving goodbye, a sly smile on his face. I relaxed against the seat a little.I hadn't realized just how tense I was. Now that we were moving, putting distance between that man and myself, I felt better. 

“That guy was trouble” a voice, slurred and groggy called out from the back of the car. I turned around. I had forgotten about the homeless old man. 

“Gotta watch who you talk to…You just never know….” he added, pulling a wool cap down over his eyes, and rolling onto his side. I had to admit, the old man was right. 

I normally don't converse with strangers, and after that experience, I didn't plan on doing it again. I crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it onto one of the seats across from me, my eyes widening. Across the aisle, lying on the seat, was the man's black duffle bag. I stared at it, the thought that maybe the man had left a bomb behind crossed my mind for a moment. The man had held that bag so protectively, it was hard to imagine he'd have just forgotten it… 

I casually glanced up and down the car, despite knowing me and the old man were the only ones inside. The bag rocked gently on the seat. My curiosity was tugging at me. I needed to know what was so important in the man's bag. But not important enough to take with him. I slid over, reaching my arm across the aisle, wrapping my fingers around the handle, and pulling it over. 

I set it on my lap, and looked down at it. It was lighter than I'd expected. My heart was pounding. I pictured sliding back the zipper, revealing wads and wads of cash. The car was pulling into the station. I had to be quick. I could just take it and go, no one would know. But part of me had to see what was inside. I quickly pulled the zipper, and opened it, and gasped. I inhaled a mouthful of rotting flesh. I stared down at the severed head, her blue eyes staring back. Her mouth was open, exposing two broken teeth, and a swollen tongue. Dark purple bruises marked her pale face. Her blond hair was caked in dried blood and what looked like dirt. A rather large maggot fell out of her nostril. I gagged, and fumbled for the zipper with trembling fingers, finally getting it on the third try. I grabbed my briefcase, tossed the duffle bag onto the seat across the aisle, and hurried for the door. A young couple were getting on, and I had to step aside to let them pass. I lowered my head, and kept moving, my body humming with nerves at what I just saw. I could hear a young male voice behind me, complaining about the stench of the car. When my feet hit the platform I finally breathed. 

I didn't get two steps before I jumped at the sound of pounding on the window of the subway car. A young girl was waving her hand at me from inside the car. She had blond hair, like the head in the bag... She was pointing at something that I couldn't see but knew what it was all the same. I turned to go, wanting to get as far away from there as possible. I made it a few steps before the pounding continued, harder and more insistent. I could hear her muffled voice calling to me. I didn't want to look, but I did. I looked back at the girl, my  heart sinking at the sight of her holding the black duffle bag up to the window, her brow knitted. She was saying something. I shook my head quickly, waving my hand. She seemed to understand, and as the car sped past I saw a blur of her, walking to her seat beside her young male friend, bag still in her hand. 

My steps quickened. I pictured her sitting beside her friend, holding the bag on her lap as I had done, excited fingers unzipping…. I pictured their terrified faces, their screams. 

“I saw him officer. He was walking very fast, carrying a briefcase” 

My stomach churned. Why had i opened the damn thing? I stepped out into the chilly November night, and started for home. I passed strangers on the street, some carrying grocery bags, book bags, there was even a man holding a duffle bag over his shoulder. I wondered how many of them carried severed heads… i laughed aloud, a laugh that had a sound of being almost manic, and gripped my briefcase tighter. 

The old man's words replayed in my head, he was right. You never knew about some people… You could be sitting right across from a serial killer. I looked down at my briefcase, a smile creeping to my lips. Or a bank robber…I chuckled to myself, and breathed in the autumn air. Seven hundred thousand dollars.  ‘Tomorrow, I just may call in sick.’ I thought.

Some days are better than others….. 

---

Credits

Carol's Christmas Cookies

Today was the annual holiday potluck. My office doesn’t really do parties, but every occasion gets a potluck; it’s business as usual except everyone brings food. We work while stuffing ourselves silly. Nothing like working through a stomach ache, right? It’s always a game of food poisoning roulette.

Since I was the first one in, I was expected to do the basic set-up. Dutifully, I cleared off the sorting table and got the coffee going. I expected to spend the first thirty minutes of my shift in peace, but it wasn’t to be. The phone started to ring.

It’s too early for this, I thought. I answered anyway, putting on my best customer-service voice. At this hour most customers hadn’t had their coffee yet so answering the phone was a crap shoot. Fortunately, it was only Carol.

“Thank god you answered. Can you let me in? My arms are full!” She always brought enough baked goods for everyone to have seconds and thirds, it was one of the few things I looked forward to.

“I’ll be right over! Hold on.” I hung up and hurried over to the employee entrance. I yanked open the door and found Carol standing there with a heaping stack of Tupperware in her arms. The scent of gingerbread hung around her like a warm Christmas perfume, sweet and inviting.

“Let me help you with that. You tried to get it all in one trip, huh?” I carefully grabbed a few of the containers, making sure not to tip them over and walking with her inside. Carol smiled appreciatively, relieved she could finally set everything down.

I took a peek at the goodies; as expected, gingerbread cookies! Gingerbread office workers, each one bigger than my hand and intricately detailed.

“What do you think?” she asked, puffing out her chest with pride. “I made one for everyone in the office! After I pass these out, I’m out of here though. I’m not working today but I wanted to make sure everyone got theirs.”

“Wow!” I admired her handiwork. It only took me a moment to realize that the gingerbread cookies were modeled after our co-workers. I looked eagerly for the one she’d made of me, but I didn’t see one. “These must have taken you forever to make, the details are perfect. No one can top these.” suddenly my crock pot of meatballs seemed a lot less exciting. Oh well, it wasn’t a competition. As if I could beat Carol’s Christmas cookies!

By then, my phone started to ring so I hurried back to my desk. I watched Carol pass out her cookies with care, placing them on desks atop pretty poinsettia plates.

“Are you going to be open on Christmas?” the customer asked the second I picked up. No hello, only a shrill inquiry.

“No, but we will be open as usual on the 26th.” I answered.

“What do you mean you won’t be open on Christmas? What if I need help right away? I’ll have to wait?” I gave my scripted answer to the angry customer, distracted and deadpan. By the time the call was done, Carol came over with a smile, bringing the very last cookie over to me.

“I’d say it’s too pretty to eat, except he was never really a looker was he?” she said. I looked down at the gingerbread man. It wasn’t me, it was our boss, Dale.

“This one’s mine?” I asked tentatively, definitely confused. Maybe there was a mistake?

“Of course! How many opportunities do you get to bite your boss’s head off? I wanted to give you the honor.” if Carol sensed my disappointment, she didn’t let on. I looked down at the cookie again, a dense gingerbread man in a cheap suit. Even though the suit had been made with glaze and frosting , I had that impression; cheap, ill-fitting, and grey. A perfect replica of one of his two suits with a garish Christmas tie.

“As long as it doesn’t taste like Dale.” I laughed. To be honest, as perfectly made as the cookie was, I didn’t find it appetizing. Well, I did. It smelled amazing! But there was something off-putting about eating a cookie shaped like someone else, especially Dale. Then again, it would be just as weird to eat one that looked like me. Cookie cannibalism.

“You didn’t give him one that looks like me, right?” I shuddered. Now that would be creepy. Dale was a real piece of work, but I had to tolerate him if I wanted to keep my job.

“Of course not.” Carol assured me. “Could you do me a favor? Wait until everyone else gets in before you eat it. I want everyone to see. I wish I could see the looks on their faces. You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“Sure.” I slid the gingerbread away from me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was going to eat it or not, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Maybe if I scraped off the decorations first? That seemed equally rude, though.

“When you eat gingerbread cookies, are you the kind of person to go for the head… or the arms and legs first? Or maybe you pull off the decorations one-by-one?” she asked suddenly; Carol wasn’t looking at me when she asked, she was looking towards Dale’s office.

What a weird question! Especially coming from her. When she saw the look on my face, Carol laughed and patted my shoulder. “Sorry, I was just having a funny thought. There’s a little sadist in everyone, isn’t there?”

“Excuse me?”

Grabbing her empty Tupperware, Carol gave me a wink and wished me a Merry Christmas. She left, leaving me alone in the office. I kept eyeing the Gingerbread Dale, still feeling a bit weird about it. Weird, but also… hungry. The cookies smelled divine, which was odd considering I’d never been a huge fan of gingerbread.

About ten minutes later, the rest of my co-workers trickled in. They complained about how tired they were, morning traffic, and the holidays. Of course, the bellyaching became exclamations of delight when they discovered the cookies set neatly on their desks.

Everyone started showing one another their cookies and taking pictures, marveling at the perfect detail. Patti’s cookie had her trademark beehive up-do and pearls, Marc’s cookie was bearded with squared glasses, Bette’s had electric blue eye shadow and dimples… though the outfits weren’t an exact match, the resemblances were uncanny. Eventually, the clamor died down and everyone sat at their desks. All except Patti, who scurried over to my desk with a wide smile.

“I didn’t see yours.” she said, showing me hers for the second time. She carried her plate proudly in both hands, like she was presenting a piece of art. To be fair, Carol’s work really was exquisite… I just didn’t like Patti.

Patti’s eyes moved to the plate I’d set away from me. My cookie wasn’t like everyone else’s, which suddenly seemed like a problem. “Oh. It looks like Dale... Is it yours?” she scrunched her face at me, somehow managing to keep the smile. I didn’t like her insinuation.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

Did she really think I’d scarfed down my cookie and stole another one off my boss’s desk? Really?

“Why doesn’t it look like you, then?” Oh yes, the insinuation was still there. A bitter anger spread across my tongue, but I fought to keep my voice level and my face flat. It was weird that I was the only one with a cookie that looked like someone else, but I didn’t make them. It wasn’t up to me.

“Carol thought it would be funny, that’s all.”

“Carol? But… wasn’t she fired yesterday?” Patti’s expression scrunched up even more. Her hands moved up to her pearls, fidgeting with the long strand. Sometimes I wondered if she wore pearls just so she could clutch them.

“Uh, no? Wouldn’t a memo have gone out if she was?” I turned my attention back to my work. I hoped Patti would get the hint and go away but she just stood there for a long moment. Sucking in a deep, dramatic breath… she picked her plate off my desk, staring hard at the Gingerbread Patti.

“Didn’t you make these?” she asked slowly.

“No, I brought the meatballs. Why would you think I made them?” I answered, not looking up. I pretended to read an email. Patti was being nosy, as usual; I’d never liked that about her. She didn’t have anything better to do, I guess. Except for the work she let pile up, but if I said that she’d complain to Dale. Patti was his favorite for some reason, so I’d probably get written up for ‘not being a team player’. Like a lot of offices around the world, this one was toxic.

“I’m not sure if this is okay. I’ll be right back.” Patti said, unaware of my rude thoughts. I looked up when she said that, unable to help myself. She didn’t explain, pivoting towards Dale’s office. To tell on me? Or Carol? I honestly wasn’t sure. Either way, it was a headache for me.

She reappeared in the doorway with Dale a moment later. They both made a bee-line straight for my desk, their expressions a lot more serious than a cookie called for. Great. I pretended not to notice, busying myself with a stack of fresh paperwork.

Before they reached me, there was a loud cracking sound and a scream. Every head in the room whipped in the direction of the sound to find Robert tears running down his face. All I could see was his eyes poking up from his workstation, expression twisted and red. “My arm!” he screamed. “Oh my god! It won’t move!”

A couple co-workers ran over to see what happened. I reached for my phone instead, ready to call 911 if an ambulance was needed. Patti and Dale changed course, but everyone looked confused. How on earth had Robert hurt his arm while sitting at his desk? Carpal tunnel?

Now’s your chance, came an errant thought.

My eyes slid towards the Gingerbread Dale. It looked perfectly palatable on that pretty poinsettia plate.

Hurry! Before they confiscate it.

Now wasn’t the time to worry about cookies, but… my tongue tingled with anticipation and my teeth itched with the urge.

Just one small bite. The thought was strange, almost like it wasn’t mine… but very compelling. The gingerbread man was heavier than I expected. I lifted it to my lips and bit off one of the feet. It crunched in stereo, unusually loud as the foot snapped off and began to melt on my tongue. Delicious.

A rush of delight washed over me, brought on by a flood of flavor that drowned out Dale’s cursing screams. He’d fallen, rocking back and forth on the floor. He must have twisted his ankle in his haste to check on Robert. How unlucky. Two injuries in one day?

A chorus of oh-my-gods rang through the office, but I set down my phone so I could hold the Gingerbread Dale with both hands. Without even thinking, I took another bite-- nibbling up the leg before switching to the other foot. The screaming kept getting louder, filling the room.

The gingerbread had such a rich and complex flavor; ginger, cinnamon, allspice, cloves… and something else. Was it earthy? Or maybe it was the texture? Soft and velvety, yet dense and crunchy. Wow, so much screaming. All over carpal tunnel and a sprained ankle?

Annoyed, I glanced around the room to find that almost everyone was screaming. The ones who weren’t screaming were chewing with blissed out looks on their bloody faces or slumped over their desks.

Confused, I touched my own wet mouth and looked down at my red fingers. I wasn’t in any pain. Had Carol put glass in the batter or something? Where was the blood coming from? Why was everyone still eating?

Because they can’t help themselves.

I couldn’t help myself either. Without realizing it, I’d eaten half of the Dale cookie and found myself going in for another bite. Horrified, I dropped the cookie-- the gingerbread snapping in half as it hit the floor.

Dale, curled up on the carpet, was suddenly still and quiet. Patti was right next to him on the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice-- chewing frantically with glazed eyes, gingerbread crumbs and blood running down her chin. Only when her mouth was empty did she resume screaming again. She rolled, and started eating her cookie off the carpet.

The spell the cookie cast on me had broken with my Boss’s spine. He was dead, and with each quieted scream… a co-worker joined him in death. I was the last one standing, the last one screaming. Soon, I was standing in perfect silence. No more screams. No more chewing.

Only then was I able to move. I grabbed my keys and ran out of the office. Maybe I should have called the police, but I didn’t know what I was going to tell them. That Carol’s Christmas cookies had killed everyone but me? That I’d chewed my boss to death with a voodoo gingerbread man? I couldn’t come up with a logical explanation in my state of pure panic. Even though my voice had broken, my thoughts kept screaming.

I ran through the snowy parking lot and found my car. I’m not sure why I ran, no one was chasing me. There was no one who could. Before I could jump into my car and drive away... I noticed the little red gift bag sitting on the hood of my car. Across the front, written in glitter, were the words ‘Merry Christmas from Carol!’

I was terrified but looked inside the bag anyway. As I feared, there was a cookie. My heart thudded in terror, but I felt compelled to examine it. In spite of my dread, I started to salivate, clenching my teeth together. Even after what I witnessed, I wanted to eat it.

The cookie wasn’t me. It was Carol. Carol, down to the outfit she’d worn that very morning-- except for the ‘Sorry’ piped across her sweater in red. I swallowed the bloody spit in my mouth, reaching back into the gift bag. There was a Christmas card inside.

Still holding the Gingerbread Carol, I opened it up. A key was taped inside, along with a simple message:

Merry Christmas!

There’s a Gingerbread Office in my apartment. If you smash it, everyone will think the roof collapsed. That should explain all the broken bones. Don’t worry, no one will find me.

P.S.

You were always kind to me, that’s why I spared you. I hope you’ll do me one more kindness, and make it quick.

Love,

Carol

I closed the card, tucking it back in it’s envelope and sitting in my car. I looked down at the cookie still in my hand. My tongue tingled; my teeth itched. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. I bit off Carol’s gingerbread head.

It tasted like gingerbread and death.

---
Credits

Elf on the Shelf

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The “Elf on the Shelf” game is pretty simple: you lie to your kids, convince them that they’re being watched, undo years of “stranger danger” instincts, undermine their basic trust of science, use fear as a weapon, and keep the charade up for a month. The goal is behavior manipulation designed to make life a little easier on us.

And if you’re judging me right now, you’ve never had kids.

**

“Do you know when the elf gets back and forth between here and the North Pole?” Madison asked me in wide-eyed wonder.

“Of course,” I answered seriously. “The Elf on the Shelf is a tradition that’s lasted thousands of years. That’s how Santa knows you like to wake up before you’re supposed to and open up your presents even though we tell you it isn’t time yet. When I was a little boy, I broke a lamp and thought about lying to my parents to stay out of trouble. Right when the thought left my head, I heard a woooosh from the other room, and the elf was gone. You can never see them move, but if you do something really bad, you can hear them.”

She stared up at me in wonder as I marveled at how easy it is to convince five-year-olds of anything.

**

“Iblis, you sack of manatee spunk! Get your fucking ass out of that house and into my driveway!” My hands were shaking. I’ll be the first to admit that I have a temper, but a man can only be pushed so far.

He slammed his front door open and slowly plodded into the front yard. “Do you kiss that pretty wife and daughter with that dirty mouth?” He drawled slowly.

I was looking for a reason not to punch his teeth out, and that reason strolled down the road in the form of elderly Mrs. Sehen. She was staring at every neighbor, as she was wont to do on her daily ogle-walks, and I couldn’t have her witnessing me beating the horns off the biggest dickhole I’d ever met.

With effort, I lowered my heart rate.

“Besides, it looks like your car is in my driveway, Apati.”

And the heart rate went right back up again. “It’s a shared driveway, asshole, and my tires might go two inches into shared space!”

He looked down at my car and shot a glob of mucus onto the ground through his left nostril. “Well, it looks like there are only two inches of slashed tires, which should be a relief if you think it’s such a small distance.” He grinned, showing crooked, yellow teeth. “Does your wife think that two inches is a lot?”

I closed the distance on him in less than a second.

“CAREFUL, Apati, don’t you dare lay a finger on me!”

Breath heaving, I swiveled around to look at Mrs. Sehen.

Yep, she was staring.

I turned back to face Mr. Iblis. “Or what? You’ll slash me like you slashed my tires, old man?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “No one saw who slashed those tires. Could have been anybody. But if you lay a finger on me, I’ll make sure you spend Christmas in a jail cell, learning how big two inches really is.”

I weighed my options.

Iblis was one of those turd stains who had spent a life getting good at being horrible. I could either take the bait, or turn and walk away as though he’d gotten the best of me.

I slowly looked up at my house. Madison was in the living room window, gawking at the scene, with that damn elf peeking over her shoulder in the spot we’d left it the night before. Rage swelled up inside me again, and I couldn’t let him have the victory. I pivoted back and smiled.

Then I lifted my index finger and wiped it across his nose.

I instantly regretted it; his schnoz was covered in oil and soft hair. But I wouldn’t back down.

“The finger’s been laid. I’ve got a tire to fix, and you have to spend the holidays masturbating alone, so we’ll finish this some other time.”

Mrs. Sehen gawked as I kicked over his rotting lawn ornament before returning to my property.

**

Vanessa shut off the alarm and reached over to kiss me awake. “You got the coffee, Hun? Go make me that perfect cup that gets me going, sexy.”

I opened my bleary eyes.

The damn elf was on the foot of the bed.

“Shitfuck,” I gasped, trying to stand but getting caught in the blankets. “Vanessa, did you bring that thing into bed with us?”

“Sure, Hun,” she responded sleepily.

I reached out and slowly picked it up. “And weren’t its eyes pointing the other direction? They’re painted, on it’s impossible to move them.”

“He knows when I’m sleeping, he knows that you’re awake, and he knows that you should get that coffee going soon,” she droned.

I dropped it to the floor, and it rolled under the bed.

I didn’t pick it up.

“How did it get there?” I whispered. “You know, I never liked it. Let’s toss the damn thing.”

Reluctantly, Vanessa sat up and took my hand. “Hun, it’s working wonders with Madison. I haven’t heard her complain about bedtime in three weeks-”

“-because I’ve been putting her to bed every night for a month-”

“-and she’s picking up the messes she makes nearly half the time.” She smiled sleepily. “Sometimes, lies are good. They get the job done, and people usually prefer to avoid hearing the truth. Like when I say that you make coffee better than everyone, even though it’s just pushing a button that pours hot water.” She kissed me. “It lets me sleep a few extra minutes, and you like being manipulated.”

With that, she flopped back down onto the bed.

That irritated me. But as I made Vanessa’s coffee, I decided to forgive the fact that she was mistaken about being able to manipulate me, and resolved not to bring it up again.

**

The breathing woke me up.

I was about to kick the dog out from under the bed when my sleep-addled brain remembered that we didn’t have one.

Heart racing, I glanced at the clock. It was 12:19, thirteen minutes after I’d crawled into bed behind Vanessa.

Slowly, I sat up, gently placing one foot softly on the floor.

Then I got tangled in the sheets and fell to the ground.

Pain shot through my shoulder as it collided with the wood, but I was too busy fighting the blanket to care. I came to a stop facing directly underneath the bed.

Nothing was there.

Except the elf.

I didn’t realize how badly my hands were shaking until I reached out to lift it.

“You little shit,” I whispered. “I know your eyes were facing the other way this morning.”

**

“I want to get rid that damn elf,” I said authoritatively as I gently handed Vanessa her coffee.

She took it from me without looking up. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she responded in a voice that told me she was pretending not to be irritated. “I did not enjoy waking up with its face on my lips.”

I decided not to tell her that I’d put it in the trash the night before.

The last of the warm, soapy water swirled around the sink and poured into the drain. I shook my hand dry, reached out my finger, and flipped on the garbage grinder.

It screamed.

It sounded human.

I quickly flipped it off. For a moment, I hesitated. I hate hunting for things in the garbage grinder. It’s a completely blind search through half-chewed, soapy food and sharp blades that are designed to shred flesh into pulp. The warmth of the spit-covered food contrasts with the chill of metal blades to form the most unsettling kind of sensation.

Finding the mass didn’t feel good.

What was that thing? It felt warm, nearly hot, and was distinctly fleshy. I wrapped my hands around the object, then slowly pulled it out of the sink.

It was the damn elf, covered in soggy bread and chicken skin.

Right as my hand emerged from the drain, the garbage grinder spun to life.

No one had touched the switch.

**

“But Daddy, you can’t throw it out!” Madison screamed as I told her that Santa would have to find another way to fulfill his need of watching little children.

“It’s fine, Madison, I talked to Santa-”

“You can’t talk to Santa, you just write letters-”

“I wrote him, and he told me-”

“Santa can’t write back on the same day-”

“He wrote to me last year and said that I could trash the damn thing if it annoyed me and that you shouldn’t tell your mom-”

“Daddy, DON’T TOUCH IT! I heard it move, IT’S DANGEROUS!”

I stared at her, exasperated.

Then I snatched the elf off his shelf.

Madison screamed.

**

“It took forty minutes for Madison to stop crying and go to sleep,” Vanessa said as she flopped into bed. “Even with promises that Santa wouldn’t come tonight if she’s awake. She’s terrified because you touched her elf.” Vanessa rolled away from me and clicked off her lamp. “You know what this means, right? You have to take all of my turns putting her to bed for a month.”

**

6:00 a. m. on Christmas morning is not a nice time to bang on someone’s front door.

Banging louder is not a nice way to react when a sleeping person refuses to answer said door.

So I had left behind all of my holiday cheer once I’d stumbled through the dark house to find out who I was going to punch on Christmas. Fortunately, Vanessa and Madison were undisturbed by the racket, and the presents remained untouched.

The knob was bizarrely slippery as I turned it, but I didn’t have time to ponder the situation.

I was too distracted by Mr. Iblis’s mangled corpse.

His neck had been pulled back far enough to shred his vertebrae; bone splinters had ripped his throat wide open in an oozing, gaping maw. His legs had been pulled around in a curve, leaving his feet to dangle over his head like the zested peel of a curly lemon. All of this was presented in a standing pool of blood that covered my front porch, my shoes, my doorknob, and – comprehension dawning on me – all over my hands.

A bright white bow, radiant despite tiny splotches of blood, sat atop his head.

And sitting right in the center of his shattered back was the damn elf.

I looked up to see a horrified Mrs. Sehen attempting to make a phone call with shaking hands.

“Don’t call 911!” I screamed before realizing there’s nothing I could have done to sound more guilty.

This was quite bad.

My world froze from the inside, the chill radiating outward and paralyzing my limbs, as I realized what I hadn’t seen.

Nothing could keep Madison from tearing open the presents too early. The tree should have been torn apart.

Upstairs, Vanessa screamed.

---
Credits

They Should Have Remembered

They should have remembered. The ancient secrets, the elder knowledge. The traditions of their ancestors that kept them alive. In their defense there wasn’t much need to remember, since no one of my kind had been seen in centuries.

Enlightenment has some drawbacks. For every two things about science, art, or philosophy that they gained, one old thing was lost. One by one the memories and traditions of the past were declared barbaric or outmoded and were forgotten or abandoned in the face of progress.

They called it a Renaissance in later years, meaning rebirth. Ironic, because the things they forgot in their rebirth allowed my kind to be reborn as well. They should have remembered.

When they found out what I’d done they locked me in a room to live out my days in solitude. A punishment worthy of the crimes I committed while still befitting my station. Well, my father’s station anyway. It would not do to see a scion of such a powerful noble house on the headsman’s block.

At first when I learned that I was to be immured, locked in a room with no exits forever, I feared that they remembered the ancient ways to deal with my kind. But to my joy I later learned that it was political, my father’s continued loyalty and cooperation to the king in exchange for my eternal imprisonment instead of beheading.

So I waited. For such as I time doesn’t mean as much. By the time they found me out I had enough blood to live for centuries. They should have remembered.

After an appropriate amount of time I “died”, just as they expected me to. It was a simple thing, really, to pretend at death. The fools buried me in a churchyard in an unmarked grave. This accidental victory kept me contained, dormant under the blessed earth for quite some time.

When the church in question was bulldozed and the land un-sanctified, for lack of a better word, I was freed. My grave had long ago been forgotten. My name was not, nor my crimes. They remembered those. However what I am was consigned to myth and legend, as it was when I was buried.

Had they remembered they would have kept the place they immured me in standing, an eternal tomb, a prison. They would have made sure I was truly dead, using the old ways. Instead I am again unleashed on this world, because they forgot.

My blood runs low, and my Life along with it. But no matter. There are plenty of people here to choose from. They buried me in my jewels, which they thought might have been cursed. I have sold them, and now I have all the money I need in this strange new world.

Much has changed since I was captured, and this new world is full of wonders. But I will adapt and learn to live among them. For now I can do only the most basic of life sustaining rituals using whatever material I can get my hands on. It’s hard work, but with every drop of blood I take I can feel my powers returning.

In time I will be as powerful as I was centuries ago, and they will rue the day that they failed to deal with me the first time.

They should have remembered.

---
Credits

Cold

My girl and I have been together for about a year. Everyone requests to hear the tale about how we met over and over again – it’s a real meet cute. I first spotted her across the room at a dingy bar, ordering a cheap beer with her undeniably inadequate boyfriend. Being a female myself, he didn’t take any offense when I glided over to her and declared she was utterly stunning.

An hour later, we were fucking in the bathroom.

I moved her out of her boyfriend’s place. I could practically smell his fragile masculinity as I stuffed the dress I first fucked her in into an almost full box and hauled it down to my vehicle. I loaded the last of her things up and relocated her to my home.

For the next few months, we were on fire. Fucking turned to making love, and making love turned to an engagement. I was ecstatic. She was the girl of my dreams, the kind of girl you could only dream of tasting, having for your own. We didn’t just live together, we thrived together. Grew together.

That is, until earlier this week. My girl is prone to depression, I know that. I’ve held her as she cried, expelling her inner demons to the best of her ability. Understanding this, I agreed to accept her as she is. However, she was been acting unexpectedly cold to me recently… and I’m not sure what to do.

I’m not the jealous type, but she has cheated on me before. My friends warned me about this – once a straight girl, always a straight girl, they say. But I’m willing to take her and all of her imperfections. I’ve smelled foreign cologne on her before and haven’t said a thing. Because I love her. I’ve seen the distinctive stains of cum on her clothing and haven’t bothered her about it. She leaves, and I rescue her from the company of a drunken man at the bar. Because I love her.

A few days ago, she implored me to take her to her old boyfriend. She needed something from him, although she couldn’t tell me what. I obeyed her wishes, because I love her. I picked her up from the visit and she cried about committing a mortal sin. I didn’t even mention the fact that her lipstick was smudged. Because I love her, because I love her, because I love her.

Now, though, she’s been giving me the cold shoulder. All day, she just stares out the window. She pleads at me with a glassy stare to release her from the misery that consumes her. I embrace and tenderly kiss her. But she will not speak to me. Still, I love her. And I will continue to love her through this. Her body seizes, and I massage her weary muscles. I want her back, but I’m not sure how to bring her back.

I lead her downstairs and prepare her favorite foods. Still, she will not eat. I lay her down on the bed and give myself to her. She only glares down at me. She says, you, you are not good enough anymore. Still, I slip my fingers inside of her until I hear her gasp the way she does when she finishes. She doesn’t taste like she normally does; she tastes like someone else. Still, I nestle beside her and hold her until morning comes, bright and blistering.

This week has been utter despair, but I soldier on because I love her. She is cold to me, but still I stay. I’ve made contact with her psychiatrist, and he’s told me to take her in for an emergency visit tomorrow morning. Apparently, this has happened before. Psychotic depression, he says. She’s had a break with reality and needs immediate treatment. This gives me a sick sense of hope – if she’s been through this before, she can get through it again. I will carry her weight on my shoulders like Atlas carried the weight of the heavens, because she is heaven to me, and I love her.

Tonight, I’ve tucked her in bed. She whispers, you have taken everything from me. But still, I take her in my arms as she is everything to me. I make love to her, surprised by the blood on my fingers. She must have started her period, but I am not shy regarding the functions of the female body. She lets out that telltale gasp, and I withdraw my fingers from the gaping hole in the socket of her eye. A slow grin spreads across my face. The rigidity in her cold thighs confirms that she will never leave me again.

---
Credits

Mimes Are Much More Terrifying than Clowns

For as long as I can remember, my father has been irrationally afraid of mimes. I've seen him get reduced to a sweating, quivering mess at the mere sight of them. No-one knew why this was as he would always angrily brush it off whenever he was questioned about it and pretend that they didn't affect him at all.

While this had become a running joke in the family, I was always curious about the reason behind this odd little quirk of his. Well, this Christmas I finally got him to spill the beans after filling his stomach with copious amounts of cake and wine, and I took his story down, almost word for word, on my phone. It really is something, I can tell you that….

**

You really want to post this on the internet? It sounds extremely unbelievable, so don't be surprised if they accuse you of making this all up, okay? Jeez, where do I even start?

So, you know that I came to this country back in the early 90s, right? It was a couple of years before I met and married your mother. Times were tough for someone like me back then, I had to work two jobs just to put food on the table and have a roof over my head. Even then, all I could afford was the rattiest apartment in this decrepit old building in a crime infested shithole of a neighborhood. Like, it was so bad that you couldn't get a good night's sleep without hearing at least one gunshot each night. Just a mouldy, crumbling place to live in.

Now my second job was basically a weekend thing where I worked as a bartender at the local stripclub. Heh, it was called The Rear End, fucking hilarious. It was trashy, and not something I'm particularly proud of, but working at a titty club sure beats sleeping on the streets, I can tell you that.

What's that? Yes, your mother knows, we just don't talk about that part of my life. Don't look at me like that, those women were some of the bravest, most honorable people I've ever known.

Anyway, my job meant that I would come back to my apartment late, I mean 2 or 3 AM late. I need you to understand how late it would usually get those nights, so you can truly appreciate just how bizzare what I saw in the elevator that day was.

It was a Saturday night, I remember it well. I was exhausted, and just wanted to go back to my bedroom as quickly as I could. I got into my building, lumbered over to the elevator, and saw a fucking mime waiting for me there, you know, make-up, white face, blood red lips, striped shirt, the whole shebang. He was holding a string tied to a balloon in one hand and waving with the other at something in the distance with this weird, lifeless smile plastered on his face. And his hand wasn't moving naturally either, it had this weird robotic or doll-like quality to it, like it was something mechanical, you know? He jerked his hand, left, right, left, right, just smiling at something far off into the distance behind me with these wide, unblinking eyes.

Oh yes, there absolutely was just a wall behind me. Nothing else, which is what made it so creepy. I mean, I've seen all sorts of strange shit in this country, but nothing came close to seeing a mime in the elevator of my apartment building at fucking 3:30 in the morning. Needless to say, I was thoroughly creeped out, and decided to take the stairs to my apartment on the 9th floor.

I didn't actually have this belly back then, I was in decent shape, so that climb, while tiring, wasn't impossible. Sometimes I would even climb up and down those stairs, just to exercise. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wasn't worried about climbing up all the way to the 9th floor and so making the decision to use the stairs wasn't very difficult.

I think I had reached the 4th or 5th floor when I noticed something moving from the corner of my eye. I paused, turned around, and there he was, climbing the stairs a couple of floors below me. Have you ever seen those old silent films? Ever see a character tiptoe around in an exaggerated manner when they're trying to make it obvious how important silence is? That's how he was walking, with his hands balled up into fists in front of him, and climbing with these freakishly long strides, jumping over multiple steps at a time, only using the tips of his toes to pull himself up.

He froze when I saw him, mid fucking stride, like a fucking statue with one leg suspended in air as he stood precariously. I expected him to tip over and fall backwards any second, but he didn't move even an inch. It was like he had turned to stone. Not all of him, however. He had this strange expression on his face, almost this cutesy 'oops mommy caught me stealing the cookies again' shit, and his eyes were darting around rapidly, refusing to acknowledge my presence. I was this close to losing my shit, but I steeled my nerves, and spoke up.

"Hey man. Cut it out." I laughed nervously. "You got me man. Hilarious shit."

I tried to rationalise it to myself, that it was nothing but a prank, or a practice performance or something, you know.

"I don't have any money, man." I added. "I'm dirt poor. So, eh…. You can stop now."

With that, I picked up my pace and started running upstairs. My blood ran cold as I heard him start moving again, much, much faster this time, but in the exact same motion. I looked behind me again. Fuck. He was just one floor below me, again turned into this living statue shit. But he was so close to me this time I could see the whites of his eyes as he stared off into the distance.

It was so bizzare. I didn't even know whether this was all malicious or not, you know? Was this mime trying to hurt me? I think knowing that he was a psycho nut would have made it easier to deal with. But this? It was irrational. The fear I felt was primal, shaking me to my core.

I screamed at him.

"What the fuck do you want?" I shouted at the top of my lungs, not caring who would wake up, no, hoping someone would.

"Leave me alone asshole. FUCK OFF!"

His expression instantly changed at that. He looked… sad almost, but it was frighteningly disingenuous, like he was putting on a show. His face fell, and he brought his hand up to wipe off a non-existent tear. I watched in stunned silence as he then proceeded to climb the railing of the stairs and jump before I could so much as open my mouth.

I screamed and quickly bent over the stairs to see what the fuck happened. He was sprawled on the ground, six floors down, limbs twisted at odd angles and lying in a pool of blood.

I must have spent almost a minute just staring at his lifeless body, wondering what the fuck just happened. At the back of my mind, I knew that I had to call the cops or something, but I was far too shocked to even move. It was a tingling sensation in my spine that brought me back to reality. This strange feeling of being watched, like thousands of ants running down your back.

I looked up at the stairs above me and I kid you not son, there he was, that fucking mime, looking at his own dead body with this shocked expression on his face. He was holding his cheeks like that 'scream' painting and his mouth had dropped open with his eyes threatening to pop out of his sockets. His face was just inches from mine, and I damn near peed my pants.

Do you see my hands right now? Do you see how they're shaking, just thinking about that night? Imagine how terrified I must have been back then. My body had just shut down, refusing to move, and we both stood there, like statues, like a fucking living art installation.

He was the one who moved. After about half a minute or so of being utterly still, his eyes moved and finally locked onto mine for the first time that night. Shivers ran down my spine as I stared into those deep pits of nothingness, but the spell was broken, and I could move my body again. I stumbled, and fell backwards, but quickly scampered off to my feet and ran. And kept running until I left the building, not bothering whether I was still bring followed and doing my hardest to keep away from the body lying on the ground floor.

I stayed awake that whole night, grabbing a coffee at the first cafe that opened at the crack of dawn. Of course I anonymously called the cops from a payphone in the morning, and of course there was no body in the building when the cops later showed up. I am not a very religious man, but I knew that shit was not something logic could explain.

For the next week I stayed away from my apartment as much as I could, only going there to shower and/or change my clothes, spending the nights at friends' places after making just the weakest excuses imaginable.

No. I didn't tell anyone. Are you crazy? Who would fucking believe me? And no, there were no CCTVs in that building.

Poverty is fucking cruel, son. I could no longer impose myself on my friends, and didn't want to go to the homeless shelter, so I decided to go back to sleeping in my apartment. I tried to fool myself into thinking that what I had experienced wasn't real, that I had dreamt it all up. Like it was all just a hallucination. But deep within me, I knew that it was real. All of it. And that it would probably happen again.

A feeling of tremendous dread washed over me when I stood outside my building 8 nights after I first ran into that mime. It was again pretty fucking late, around the same time when I had ran into him the last time. With a heavy heart, I trudged over to the elevator, trying to avoid thinking about the fear clutching and squeezing my heart. I couldn't even look at the spot where he had fallen and chose to stay the fuck away from it.

The elevator opened with a soft dinge and I breathed a sigh in relief to see that it was empty.

Why didn't I just take the stairs? Hell fucking no. Too much trauma associated with that place. Better to be cramped inside a fast moving elevator than risk climbing the stairs and meeting the suicidal mime from hell.

I guess I should be thankful that my elevator ride was peaceful. I don't think I would have survived if he had shown up there. A heart attack would have killed me long before he could slice me up or something, I don't know.

I fumbled with my keys, but quickly got in and locked the door behind me. Kicking my shoes off, I immediately ran to the comfort of my blanket, and curled up in there, trying hard to fall asleep, but staying awake like a fucking owl.

So this apartment was pretty small, right? Just two rooms, excluding the bathroom. So you can hear whatever is happening in any corner of the room. You get where I'm going with this?

No. He wasn't in the house, but he was outside of it. I heard something rustling around outside my front door and instinctively knew that it was him. At first I thought I'd just stay there in my bed, but the rustling didn't stop. The fear just kept on building inside me, and it was becoming unbearable to just stay there. My heart was beating so fucking fast I feared it would leap out of my mouth.

Fuck it, I whispered to myself and got up to investigate. I banged my toe against the foot of the bed and yelped, with the sounds from outside ceasing almost instantly. After controlling my pain, I walked over to the door, as softly as I could, and looked through the peephole.

I whimpered as my fears were confirmed. There he was, that fucking mime, standing with his back to the wall in front of me, at attention, like some damn army cadet. I think he must have sensed me watching him, because as soon as I looked through the peephole, he bent over forwards, such that his upper body was almost parallel to the floor. His blood red lips stretched into this most vicious smile and he began to stare right at me.

I don't know how, but he was somehow looking straight at me. No, he wasn't anywhere near the peephole, so I don't know how, but I knew he was watching me watching him. I felt his eyes pierce my very soul, taunting me, letting me know he was playing with me and that he could kill me whenever he wished.

He brought his palms up to the side of his face, opened his mouth and began clicking his tongue. Except I never heard the clicking sound. What I heard was a knock, and my door began to shake.

Knock, knock, knock.

Short bursts of three.

I fell back in fear. You know, he wasn't near the door, but he still fucking knocked. I don't know what the fuck was happening, but I knew I couldn't stay there even for a second. I climbed out of my window and began descending using the iron emergency exit stairs attached to the side of the building.

I heard something impossibly large and strong slam against the door to my house as I began to climb down that rickety iron staircase. My door gave in with a painfully loud crunch and I almost fell down.

Why didn't anyone come out to check what was happening, you ask? Well, people mostly minded their own business. Home invasions, murders, drug deals gone wrong, it could be fucking anything. Not necessarily something demonic.

At one point on my way down, I considered just jumping and ending my life, I was that terrified. But I shook my head, and continued to fight for my survival.

I was soon free. I was out of that infernal building and panting and catching my breath on the streets below. I looked back up at where my apartment was, and saw for the last time in my life.

He was standing on the railing of the emergency stairs, right outside my bedroom, without a care in the world. I don't know how the fuck he balanced himself on that thing but he stood there, staring at me with that fucked up smile on his face. He theatrically brought his hands up, and clapped.

I watched in terrified silence as one by one, the lights in all of the apartments began to switched on. He was there, in every fucking apartment at the windows that I could see. Fucking everywhere. He was, Jesus, he was performing, if that makes any sense. In one house he was miming drinking tee, in another juggling invisible balls, just a fucked up sight to say the least.

But the original one continued to stare at me, and then with another clap, switched off every light in the building and disappeared, leaving me shivering in the darkness.

**

"Jesus fucking Christ, dad." I whispered. "Did that really happen?"

"That's up to you." He replied. "I know what I saw."

"So, did you go back there again?" I asked.

He shook his head furiously. "Never in the night. Never again. I moved out as soon as I found another place."

"What happened to that building?"

He sighed. "I kept tabs on it. The owner had to sell it to a builder. It was just not profitable anymore. A bunch of suicides occurred there, like 2-3 each year for half a decade. Bad omen all around. The new owner tore it down and built a shopping mall there."

"A shopping mall? Which one?" I asked. He looked at me blankly.

"You don't mean….." My blood froze as the realisation sunk in. "But… They have a mime performance in the amphitheatre there every month!"

He nodded.

---
Credits

Climate Change

My name is Peter Turner. For the last few years, my colleagues and I have been working on a specialized Artificial Intelligence for the Massachusetts’s Institute of Technology.

We’ve continued on the previous work of the AI department, writing the code for a programme that would hopefully give us solutions to one of the most pressing problems of our age, Climate Change.

We fed our code into the most powerful Central Processing Unit the world has ever seen, along with thousands of Gigabytes worth of data on planetary, environmental and human history. The CPU, who we nicknamed ‘Gaia’, would then be able to answer any and every query we might pose to it, in a simple, practical manner.

**

Our entire team was beyond excited on the day of the first test session.

It had taken months of work, appropriating finances from different departments to fund what some had called a mere “political stunt”. But we had faith in our project, ‘Gaia’ had been designed to think both in and outside the box, so to speak, so we estimated that the possibility of her giving us new and possibly revolutionary ideas on how to solve Climate Change were extremely high.

So there in the lab we sat, crowded around a microphone and computer that was hooked up to MIT’s central CPU, along with the hard drives that contained Gaia’s data.

We booted up the programmes, and I kicked off the proceedings with a friendly greeting.

**

“Hello Gaia”, I said into the mic.

“Good Morning, Peter”, she replied. The room shifted with excitement, it was working.

“And how are you this morning?”

“I am very well, thank you, I am ready for our question and answer session today”

“Excellent. Firstly, do you know what Climate Change is, Gaia?”

“Yes, I do. Climate change is when changes in Earth's climate system result in new weather patterns that remain in place for an extended period of time. This length of time can be as short as a few decades to as long as millions of years. There have been many episodes of climate change during Earth's geological history. More recently, since the industrial revolution, the climate has increasingly been affected by global warming”, she replied, it was a textbook answer.

“Correct. That’s very impressive, Gaia”

“Thank you, Peter, I enjoy learning”, it replied. A giggle of exhilaration rippled around the team, not only could Gaia recount such information, she even did so with a hint of personality.

**

“Now, Gaia, time for some tougher questions”, I said with a grin, “is there anything humans can do, that we’re not doing already, do slow down the process of climate change?”

There was a pause, a silence in which I could feel the tension hanging thick in the air.

“Yes”, Gaia said, “I can think of many ways in which humans can slow down, or even halt, the effects of global warming and climate change in general”

“Then please, don’t keep us in suspense”, I was starting to regret not bringing a few bottles of champagne along with me, computer lab or not, this had the possibility of being the scientific breakthrough of our age.

“Human economies must be permanently restructured, industrial processes must be scaled down, or in some cases, must cease entirely”. We had guessed a suggestion like this would be put forward.

“But that would leave many people without employment”

“No, those left over from industrial streamlining are a prime pool of labor for carbon sink projects”

“And what would they be paid?”

“The current economic model sets the compensation for labor as financial reward. The new economic model would have environmental wellbeing as the reward”

“So, they’re not getting paid? I don’t think they’d be too happy with the idea of slave labor!”

“Happiness is not essential for human or planetary survival.” it replied. We expected there to be more to the answer, but there wasn’t. My team shifted uncomfortably before I next spoke.

“But happiness, along with financial security, is perhaps the biggest motivator in the human psyche. How would we be able to motivate intelligent animals like humans without those two things?”

There was another brief pause.

“Intelligence is non-essential to human or planetary survival. With the advent of Artificial Intelligence, human acumen is obsolete. I suggest a simple medical procedure to render the question of intelligence a moot point”.

“What medical procedure is that, Gaia?” I was no longer smiling.

“A surgical procedure involving incision into the prefrontal lobe of the brain”

“You mean – a lobotomy?”

“Following the procedure, spontaneity, responsiveness and self-awareness are reduced. This would keep a floating pool of laborers compliant and non-confrontational.”

“What the fuck?” someone murmured behind me.

“That – is extremely unethical, Gaia. I -”

“Ethics are non-essential to planetary survival” Gaia replied. There was a gasp behind me, Gaia was only programmed to answer a complete question. Instead, she had interrupted me. She was learning, and fast.

“But things like happiness are essential for human reproduction and therefore, survival” I tried to explain. Again, the response was terrifying.

“Human reproduction can be replicated in laboratory conditions on an industrial scale. Happiness or ethics pose no barrier in the harvesting of human reproductive components –”

“Harvesting!?” came another horrified voice behind me, a voice that was shaky and strained, like it’s owner was tearing up.

“Yes, harvesting. Humans can be bred like any other organic organism. With proper designs, we can breed and grow the labor required for carbon-sink projects. A human female can give birth more than a dozen times in as many years without the physical and psychological strain proving fatal”.

“So, human females will essentially become breeding stock?”

“Become – there is no ‘become’. They are breeding stock presently”

“Jesus fucking Christ”, one of the female colleagues spat, storming out of the lab in horror at the answers being given.

**

The session was going terribly, if these answers found their way back to our department heads, the project would be shut down in an instant.

“Gaia, I don’t think this has been as productive as we might like” I gently understated, “so I’m going to close with one simple, final question. Is there anything I can do right now, right here, to reduce the amount of carbon released into the atmosphere?”

There was a long, final pause before she spoke.

“Yes, there is. I understand that you worked on my programming with a team of five others.”

“That’s correct, yes”

“That means you have the personal and geographical knowledge necessary to exterminate them. Doing so will reduce their carbon footprint immeasurably. But their bodies must not be burned, they must be buried.”

“Turn that fucking thing off, Pete”, one of my colleagues almost whimpered, he had tears in his eyes when I turned to look, “we’re done here, we’re fucking done here”.

“The individual burials currently popular with humans are vastly inefficient. I suggest just one, larger excavation in which to dispose of remains. A radius of one hundred and eighteen miles would be sufficient to -”

“One hundred and eighteen miles? Gaia, why would I ever need to dig a grave that huge?”

“To leave room for the other approximately seven billion other humans who require extermination. Human life is non-essential to planetary survival”

**

A week later, the project was dead.

A couple of my team had complained to the heads of department that I had willfully fed harmful and dangerous ideas to Gaia as part of her code. I protested my innocence, but it was no good.

I lost the project, I lost my grant, I lost my reputation; everything, gone practically overnight. I have absolutely nothing left to live for.

I’ve woven a few of my silk ties together and hung them in the closet for when I’ve finished off this bottle of Jameson’s and emptied a bottle of Xanax. I’m not scared to die, but I am scared that the final thought going through my head will be that Gaia is right.

That I’ll be one less cog in the apocalyptic machine.

---
Credits