by Shaun Meeks
I moved towards the desk and knew there was going to be a gun on it before I saw it. I hate guns. And in my line of work, they’re all but ineffective. Not unless you have bullets with the breath of a Shia’zz in them. If you have those, then I think your gun is just fine. Otherwise, they’re just loud and useless.
The gun wasn’t the only thing he had, though. In one hand he gripped a dark wood crucifix and he had a large black cross painted on his heavily creased forehead. His breathing seemed heavy too, and the hand holding the cross shook badly, despite the white-knuckled grip. I rarely if ever see anyone in that kind of state. Most people are a bit scared; more are just shook up, a little ruffling of the feathers. Chance, though, was in a state of absolute terror.
“Can I take your coat?” Ms Mittz asked me, and I passed it to her. She walked behind Chance’s desk and hung it in a closet at the back of the office. I sat down and looked at a man trapped in a state I’d never really seen before. Whatever he’d been going through, it seemed terrible.
“Mr Anderson, I think you can put that cross down. In most cases they don’t really do much to ward off the things that could be causing you to be afraid.”
“Well, I feel better holding it. I’m not even Catholic, but, well, it makes me feel safe. So does this,” he added, and caressed the symbol on his forehead. “They make me feel protected.”
“Okay then, but can we get rid of the gun? I know for a fact that the only thing that’s going to hurt is one of us.”
He looked down at it, as though it was some foreign object he’d never seen before. He began to nod, and then asked Ms Mittz to put it somewhere safe. Once she left with the gun, holding it as though it was a dirty diaper, Chance took a deep breath and looked a little more relaxed.
“Thank you for coming, Mr—”
“Just Dillon. After all, if you’re a paying customer, we should be on a first-name basis. Now, I need you to tell me everything.”
“Where do I start?”
“When did all it begin?”
Chance took a deep breath and his eyes fluttered for a second. He looked haggard, and worn out. Even though I’d just met the guy, I could tell this was not his normal state. It helped that his office and the area surrounding it was plastered with pictures of him smiling with his perfectly white teeth, every hair in place, and a spray-on tan as perfect as a fake tan could be. The photos showed a man who clearly thought of himself as powerful and important, projected a sense of trust. The man who sat across from me was little more than an echo of those pictures. There was an idea of the same person, but he was worn around the edges: dishevelled, a faded portrait of who he once was.
“It started about two months ago,” he began as Ms Mittz put down a glass of water in front of him. He thanked her and went on. “I was at a baseball game in Toronto with my friend Mike. We were having a great time in the box seats I have, and then it happened.”
He scowled and drank a large gulp of water before continuing.
“I went to get a drink and something to eat. When I came back and sat next to Mike I saw it. He’d been laughing at a post on his phone, and when he turned to me, he wasn’t Mike anymore. His face…it was wrong. It looked like, I don’t even know, like he was crying and drooling black ink, or a bit like he was melting maybe. The skin around his mouth, eyes and nose had turned a greenish-black colour and ran down his face. I freaked out, dropped my drink. He leaned forward and opened his mouth. He might have been trying to say something, probably asking me what was wrong, but all that came out of his mouth was thick muddy stuff. It was real wet muck; looked like soil full of worms and maggots. I screamed and fell backwards. Mike came towards me, and that only freaked me out more. I had to get out of there, away from him, so I ran. I just got up and took off out of there in hysterics. I must’ve looked like an idiot.”
“Did you talk to Mike after that?”
“He called me and I told him I was fine. I explained it to him—and maybe to myself too— that I was stressed out from overworking, and the heat of the day. I’d just settled deals on six properties in the last week, all multi-million dollar places, so it was no wonder. He told me he wanted to come by later in the week, make sure I was okay, but I told him I was totally booked up and couldn’t. To be honest, I was just terrified. I’d never seen anything like that, and I was worried if I did meet with him, it would happen again. He told me to call him later and we’d hang out, that he was so concerned about me. He’s always been like that.”
“And what happened when he came?”
“He didn’t. I put it off and off and then, maybe two weeks ago I found out he died. There was a work accident on one of the sites he supervises, a new condo being built in Toronto. He slipped and fell off an I-beam, fifty five floors. So no, I never got to talk to him again. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I was too scared to call or see him anyway. Before I’d heard about his passing, I’d already started to see others changing the way he had, so I’m sure it’s better that he never made it here. I would’ve just freaked out.”
Chance began to tear up and his secretary handed him some tissues. He wiped the tears away, and as he did I tried to process everything he was telling me. Nothing he said sounded anything like a haunting, a monster, or something in the realm of what I do. I’ve been doing this for a while, and even though I haven’t seen it all, I’ve seen a lot in my time. What this was sounding like was stress, some sort of nervous episode brought on by alcohol, overworking, too much on his plate at once, or all of it together. If anyone could relate to how stress can make you feel out of sorts, it’s me. With everything going on in my life, I felt on the verge of cracking too. So I knew where he was coming from. The trick would be to tell him what I thought as gently as possible to avoid him losing his shit on me, or breaking down even more.
“So you’ve been under a lot of stress when this all started? Is that normal for you?”
“Oh, he’s always stressed out,” Ms Mittz said from behind Chance, her hand on his shoulder. “It’s amazing his hair still looks so great with how much he’s always letting everything get to him. He goes through more Tums than is medically recommended.”
“It’s not that bad,” Chance said, trying to defend himself.
“Really? Remember when you were working on the Table Rock deal two years ago? You were barely sleeping it got so under your skin.” She turned to me, smirking. “There’s another agent in town who was trying to land the same deal. Gordon Symonds. He’s like Chance. Not just a real estate agent, but also a developer.”
“He’s nothing like me, aside from the fact that he’s always after the same places I am. It’s like he has my office bugged.”
That was a point I noted to look into if I decided to take on this case, which I was still uncertain about. It might not be monsters involved in any of this, it might be no more than stress and a guy who is out to get him, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t do the job. There have been times in the past I took jobs I knew were bogus simply because I knew it would make the person trying to hire me feel better. They come to me with a report of monsters or ghosts, bizarre creatures made of shaped lights creeping around in their home, and when I get there, it’s clearly nothing. I could turn them down and they’d go on feeling worse about it, maybe even have a breakdown. Or, I could pretend to help them, give them some sort of “talisman” to ward off a return, and they get better, they stop seeing things. That kind of thing won’t work if someone has a deep-seated mental illness, but when it comes to people who have something going on in their lives, a fear, a stress, the loss of a loved one that sparks a slight break in their comprehension of reality, it can help. The trick is to know who you’re dealing with, and how serious the cracks are. Is it a patch job, or do they need a full overhaul?
“I know this might sound insensitive, and you might be offended, but it’s something I have to ask. Part of my standard questions before I take on a
client,” I lied. “Have you or anyone in your family been diagnosed with any sort of mental disease? Paranoia, schizophrenia, depression, or anything like that?”
“Well, my mom got pretty dark when my dad died, but she eventually got over it. He was only forty-one when he died in a car accident, so it was unexpected. Other than that, no; nothing I was ever told about.”
“Do you take any drugs, illegal or prescribed?”
“No. Just Tums, but they’re only antacids.”
“Excessive drinking?”
“No more than four drinks a week. I don’t really have time to drink or party.”
Maybe you should start. Maybe your problem is never letting loose. Bottle things up enough and the pressure has a way of making you pop.
“You said you’ve seen others like Mike. Can you tell me about them?”
“Most of it was just random people. I’d be at the store and someone would pass me and their skin would darken, stuff pouring out of their eyes and mouth. I learned to sort of deal with it, to turn away and avoid it, but it’s been getting harder and harder to do. I can smell some of them now. Before I even see one of these melted-face things, I can smell them. There’s this strong reek of sulfur and something like my grandmother’s basement after it flooded. I catch a whiff of that, and then I see them. It’s starting to be like I can’t go out without seeing one of them, and now my business is suffering. I can’t deal with even the idea of having people come to the office. If they come here, I hide back here, let Ms Mittz start talking, and then I peek out. If they’re not melting, I go out, but every now and then, one of them shows up and I have to stay in here, cover up my face so I can’t smell them, and pray she can deal with it without my help. It’s just too damn much to deal with.”
He broke down then and Ms Mittz began to rub his back, clearly trying to calm him down. She whispered that everything would be alright, how I would find out what was haunting him and the world would go back to normal. I was glad she had the confidence in me that I didn’t have in myself, but she was right: I was going to help him. I felt like I had to. I really didn’t think any of this had to do with otherworldly beings, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t do my best to get him through this.
I asked him for a listing of all his holdings, most importantly the ones he had taken possession of and visited a month before the first incident with Mike at the baseball game. Ms Mittz said she would put a file together, and then left us alone. Chance took a deep breath. After a minute of saying nothing, he confessed something.
“It’s worse than she knows,” he told me. “I didn’t want to tell her, she’s so nice and sweet and innocent, but there’s more to it than that. It’s not just people I pass by and see like that. This morning, I woke up here. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been living here. Well, when I woke up this morning I saw another one. I felt my whole world shake, and then spin. I nearly fainted when my own face turned into one of these melting, rotted things. I saw it first in the reflection of my computer, and then when I went in the bathroom. She came in when I started to scream, but I couldn’t tell her what it was. She knows it’s bad, but not how bad. Now, I’ve been spending the rest of the day avoiding any reflective surface. Do you have any idea how hard it is being afraid of seeing your own face?”
I shook my head, realizing that was why he’d looked so much more dishevelled than he did in his photos. Not being able to look at yourself in the mirror in the mornings, or after a shower, not being able to check your face or hair must be hard, especially for a guy like Chance who’s clearly always had a love affair with what he sees in the mirror every day. Me, on the other hand, I could go either way. Some days I take on a more punk look and let my hair just live the life it wants to live. Why should I try and control something that clearly has other plans?
“I’m going to help you,” I told him, and for the first time since I’d walked in he smiled and I saw something of what looked like a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He thanked me, and I told him to just stay strong and I would have everything sorted out as fast as I could. “You might just want to lay low for the next few days. Don’t take any new clients right now or even see anyone if you can avoid it. Just take some time alone here or at home.”
He agreed and then Ms Mittz came in with six pages of the most recent holdings, as well as those he’d visited just before the first occurrence. I told them both I would get started on looking into it as soon as I left the office, and then advised them on my rates. Chance said he didn’t care, that if I fixed this for him he’d give me a million dollars. I wouldn’t argue with that. It’s well over my rate, but if he wanted to pay me that much, it’d be rude to say no.
“I’ll show you out, Dillon,” Ms Mittz said, and led me towards the front of the office. “I can’t thank you enough for this. Chance has been such a wreck and I just want to see him better. Do you really think you can help him?”
“I do. I haven’t really seen anything quite like this before, but if there’s something to find, I’ll find it.”
“You think it might be nothing though? That it’s all in his head, right? That’s why you were asking him about mental illness and drugs?”
“No, that’s just standard questions,” I lied again. “I do this with all my cases, just to cover all my bases and make sure I don’t waste my time and the client’s money. This might be nothing more than a slight breakdown from being overly stressed, but if it’s not, I’ll find out. There’ll be something at one of these properties that might give me some sort of clue. If there isn’t, well, I’ll find a way to get him back to where he was regardless.”
“I really do hope so. I’ve known Chance since high school. He was always the life of the party and the guy who shined wherever he went. I used to have such a crush on him, but he was always too busy with debate team, or playing for the school football team, or hanging out at parties to notice me that way. But we’ve been friends at least, and I miss him. I miss who he used to be,” she said, and threw herself at me. She hugged me with all the ferocity of a grizzly bear and I was surprised by her sheer strength. She was only five feet four inches tall and I’d be shocked if she weighted more than a hundred pounds, but she managed to crush me with that hug. I hugged her back and she kissed me on the cheek before she let go. “Please do what you can. I’d love to have my boss and my friend back.”
“I’ll do my best,” I told her, and went back to my car. I tossed the pages Ms Mittz had given me, and then used a tissue to wipe off the dark red lipstick she’d tattooed on my cheek. No need to let Rouge see it and get the wrong idea.
When I thought of Rouge, I took my phone out and dialed her number. I wanted to give her a heads-up on what I was doing. She picked up on the second ring.
‘I hope you’re not already done,” she said with a chuckle.
“Actually, I’m not.”
“Good. I’m just about to go and get a massage, and I mean to get it without being interrupted. Did you know they’re free because of the room you picked?”
“Of course I did.” I didn’t. I just picked that particular room because it had a heart-shaped tub, and she’d wanted one. “I’m just going to go do a bit of work, check out some leads for this guy, and I’ll be back in about four or five hours. Is that long enough for you to get your rub on?”
“There’s always more rubbing that could be done, but maybe you can take care of that when you get back here.”
“Challenge accepted. And I think I may extend our stay here a few more days. Did you want to stay with me, or do you have to get back to the city?”
“I think I can manage. I’ll give Sue a call and see if she minds watching the pup a few extra days. But other than that, I’m good to stay.”
“Perfect. I’ll do that when I get back to the hotel.”
“Can’t wait to see you,” she said, and then we said our goodbyes before I drove off towards the first locat
ion.
There were so many places on the list. They ran the gamut of business types as well. Two were horror funhouses, one was a wax museum of sorts, and another three were variety stores. He owned a Tim Hortons, a Swiss Chalet, and an IHOP. He owned two hotels, five motels, and shares in a co-op. He’d even bought a church which, according to the papers, he planned on tearing down to build a condo, permits pending. There was no real indication of which ones he visited or when, so I figured I would start from page one and move along until I finished them all.
I hoped not to need to stop by each and every one of them, though. That would be a lot of stops to take on, so I hoped to find the source of his issue as fast as I could manage. I’d hate to check them all out and find nothing, leaving it all in the court of Chance’s mental health. I knew how to beat monsters, not illnesses in perception. I kept my fingers crossed that things would stay in my wheelhouse.
The first place I stopped was Chance’s residence. Ms Mittz had explained he owned another property further outside of the city, closer to the wineries, but apparently he hadn’t been there since the spring, so that was unlikely. The house he lived in most days was close to the highway, well off the main strip. Huge houses lined the street. It took me over an hour to tour his nine bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a basement that looked almost like it could’ve been a BDSM dungeon if your idea of torture happened to be bad décor.
Aside from some strange, framed pictures of chairs and wagon wheels, the overwhelming smell of someone who suffers from athlete’s foot, and Chance’s apparent love of all things beige, there was nothing to note in the entire house. I left there, and headed to the first of his commercial holdings.
The first three places were all fast food chains restaurants. I went to each of them, ordered something small, and then sat there amongst the locals and the tourists for half an hour or so. The idea was to quietly observe each place and look for any signs of something being off.