Static

by Darien Cox

  Setting my wine glass down, I went to the window and pressed my face to the screen, looking out at the darkness. I heard some night bugs, and the sound of cars passing out on the highway in the distance, but nothing else. I was about to retreat when I heard that cat mewling again just before spotting a small dark shape dart away through my yard. It disappeared into the trees edging the property.

  I wasn’t certain why a sweat had broken out on my forehead and my pulse was drumming. It was just a black cat—I’d gotten a good look at it as it took off. But it seemed to have been lurking right beneath my window. I doubted this would normally concern me, even though I’d never seen a cat in my yard before. But that I’d been discussing cats with the mysterious stranger on my computer moments ago gave me a shiver.

  The computer still buzzed, the sound backed by vague static now. I picked up my empty glass and walked to the kitchen, a little wobbly from the wine. I didn’t usually drink this much or this fast. But I didn’t usually get my privacy invaded by a hacker that liked to watch me jerk off—and then wanted to chat about it.

  It looked like I’d be hungover at work tomorrow after all. Tough shit. Tomorrow was Saturday, hardly anyone would be there. I could wear jeans and not shave, and I needed more wine right now.

  A staticky whisper from the other room make me drop the bottle. I listened, but heard only continued buzzing. Looking down, I cursed and picked the bottle up. It hadn’t broken, but the last of the wine spilled onto the kitchen floor. I cleaned it up, opened a second bottle, and strolled cautiously back into the living room.

  Sitting back at the desk, I filled my glass, then put the bottle down. Something was different. My post-orgasm face was no longer on the screen. It had gone dark, but the luminescence pulsed and faded in time with the rhythmic buzzing. “Hey, hacker. You there?”

  “H-h-h-helloooo.”

  I flinched. The stuttered voice was distant and tinny like it was being broadcast from a tunnel. But it was definitely male. “Hello. Sounds like you’re having some problems with the voice thing. If you’re a hacker, you could just use your real voice.”

  “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I have no real voice. This is the best I can do.”

  My breath caught. The words emanating from my computer were louder now and no longer stuttered. Though it still sounded like it was trapped in a tunnel, it was a clear and cordial male voice. Soft but a bit husky. “If you’re a hacker, you’re going through a lot of trouble to mask your voice. Unless this is actually someone I know, fucking with me. Is that it? Are you afraid I’ll recognize your real voice?”

  I hoped this wasn’t true, but it made more sense than some random hacker targeting me with this nonsense. The idea infuriated me now that it surfaced. Was this someone I knew? Playing a prank on me? I didn’t think I had any enemies. I was too boring to have enemies. But I was on guard now, even more so than when I assumed it was an anonymous stranger.

  “You and I have never met, Jonathan.”

  The voice sent a shiver down my spine. I stared at the black screen, which made this feel even more ominous, like that voice was coming from pure darkness. “You seem to like saying my name. Is that an intimidation tactic? Trying to hammer home the point that you know who I am and I don’t know who you are?”

  “Do you prefer a nickname? Jon? Jonny? John-boy?”

  I took another sip of wine. “No nicknames. Just tell me how I can convince you to fuck off and stop attacking my computer.”

  “Talk with me this evening.”

  “That’s it? If I talk with you tonight, you’ll go away and leave me alone?”

  “If that is what you wish.”

  “Oh, that is definitely what I wish.”

  “Very well. Do we have an agreement?”

  Shaking my head, I sighed. “Whatever.”

  “Do we have an agreement, Jonathan?”

  “Yes. Sure. We have an agreement.”

  “Wonderful.”

  I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair, putting my feet up on the desk. “Okay, fuck-face. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Will you answer a question, Jonathan?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “I have noticed that when viewing pornography your tastes are quite diverse. Am I correct?”

  Groaning, I picked up my wine. “Really? You want to talk about that?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Pick something else. I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Are you reneging on our agreement? That would disappoint me, Jonathan.”

  My stomach went cold. “What if I am? Reneging.”

  “You already know the answer to that question.”

  Sliding my feet off the desk, I leaned forward and glared at the black screen, needing a focus for my anger. And for my panic. “You said you wanted me to talk. Now you’re saying I have to answer anything you ask or you won’t go away?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What if I destroy this computer right now? I’ll dump it in the fucking bath tub, and you with it.”

  “That will be ineffective. Now that I’ve found you, I can easily find you again.”

  “Yeah, well we’ll see about that. I may have been careless with this computer, but I won’t be careless again.”

  “I suspect you will be careless enough.”

  “Listen, you might have spied on me a little, but you don’t know me, so drop the smug act.”

  “I do know some things about you, Jonathan. On October third you congratulated Drew Bartlett via email for purchasing a hybrid electric car. You said you admired his environmentally friendly choice. But on October fifth, you sent an email to Allison Feinstein, in which you discussed Drew Bartlett, calling him a pretentious asshole for purchasing said vehicle.”

  “You…you’ve been reading my emails?”

  “Those two emails seem contradictory, Jonathan. Confusing. Perhaps I should contact Drew Bartlett so he may clarify whether he is environmentally responsible or a pretentious asshole.”

  I bristled. “You’re the fucking asshole, whoever you are. Stay away from my friends.”

  “Will you honor our agreement?” the sultry male voice asked.

  “Yes. Okay? Just stay away from my friends and stop reading my emails.”

  “That wasn’t part of our agreement, Jonathan.”

  “It is now. You want to talk? That’s the deal.”

  An electronic hiss sounded, almost a sigh. “I do enjoy reading your emails, Jonathan. But I will agree to your terms.”

  I relaxed, though it wasn’t like I could trust this jerk to be honest. “Okay, let’s talk then. Get this over with. What do you want to ask me?”

  “I would like to know what kind of man you prefer. What is your type, Jonathan? As I said, your preferences appear diverse. I find it confusing. Have a look. They are all quite different.”

  The laptop screen brightened and block-images began to appear, one-by-one until the screen was filled with pictures. I slipped my glasses back on and stared. Pornographic still shots of various videos I’d watched. In various sexual scenarios. Sucking, fucking, kissing, stroking. Light skin, dark skin, blond, brunette, thin, muscular—a diverse montage, as pointed out by my hacker.

  “Which man do you prefer, Jonathan?”

  I ignored the tinny voice as my eyes focused on one of the squares. Dead center in the montage was a face I knew. A head and shoulders photo of Tim Greenfield—the cute gay IT guy from work. It was his company photo. In it, he wore a dark blue polo shirt. Light brown hair cut very short, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes. Fair skin, a perfect jawline and cute half-smile. With his athletic body and boyish good looks, he’d caught my eye a year ago when I’d first been hired. When I learned he was openly gay, I’d gone out of my way to avoid him unless I had a computer problem. Because alongside his attractiveness, he was also incredibly nice to me. Every time he was close I became terrified he’d guess my secret.

  My secret.

&nb
sp; That’s what I was looking at right now. A mirror reflecting all my darkest secrets, right there on the screen. My mouth felt like cotton inside. “What is this one doing here?” I tapped Tim’s picture on the screen with my finger.

  The voice was suddenly silent.

  “Answer me please. Why is Tim Greenfield’s picture included?” I swallowed hard, then forced out a choked question, “Tim? Is this you?”

  “No, Jonathan. I told you. I have no name.”

  “Why is Tim’s picture there?”

  “You accessed the employee register exactly six times in the past month from your home. Each time, you viewed Tim Greenfield’s photo. In chronological order, you stared at the photo for twelve minutes, ten minutes, thirty-two minutes—”

  “Okay, okay, I got it.” I sighed heavily, taking my glasses off and rubbing my sweaty brow. “Still doesn’t explain why you included him with these…” I winced at the porn stills of naked guys screwing around. “With these others. I pulled up Tim’s photo for work stuff. I never…did anything while I was looking at it.”

  “True. You did not masturbate. Your pupil dilation however was—”

  “Okay enough,” I interrupted. “What is it you want from me?”

  “What type of man do you prefer, Jonathan? Is it Tim Greenfield?”

  “No!” With trembling fingers, I picked up my wine glass and drained it.

  “Which of these photos most makes you want to masturbate?”

  “I’m not telling you that!”

  “We had an agreement.”

  “I don’t know, okay? I…I like them all.”

  “Do you like them all equally? Or do you prefer some over others?”

  “I don’t know! Why are you asking me this? Who are you and why do you care? If you’re so into this, choose the guy you like best.”

  “I already have, Jonathan.”

  Chuckling softly, I picked up the wine bottle and refilled my glass. “Oh yeah? Which one? Tell me.”

  “I will show you. I prefer this one.”

  The screen faded to black. Slowly brightening, a new image appeared. Blood rushed to my face as I set the wine down.

  It was me again. From about two weeks ago. I recognized the red and white striped shirt I’d worn to work that day. In the photo it was unbuttoned, my bare chest exposed. Jaw slack, glasses steamed from my own hot breath. The image cut off below the waist, but the position of my arm made it obvious I was stroking my cock.

  I slammed the laptop closed and pushed away from the desk.

  “Jonathan?”

  God damn it. Closing the laptop did nothing of course. The thing still had access to the internal microphone. “Leave me alone.”

  “You haven’t answered all of my questions. I have more.”

  “I don’t care. Leave me the fuck alone!”

  Grabbing the laptop, I stumbled away from the desk. I made it to the garage door and opened it, my socked feet stepping onto the concrete floor, the musty air cooler inside. Opening my car door, I popped the trunk then rounded the back of my vehicle.

  “Jonathan, what are you doing?” came the voice from the laptop.

  “Stay away from me. Whoever you are.” Setting the laptop in the trunk, I slammed it closed.

  When I got back inside my phone was ringing, an anonymous number. I shut it off. After closing all the windows and double checking the doors were locked, I stumbled to bed. Despite all the wine, I stayed awake for a long time, cocooned in my quilt and wondering exactly who or what I’d been talking to tonight.

  And if it would still be there when I woke up.

  Chapter Two

  I woke up so dehydrated I had to peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth. It was a good thing my internal clock woke me up because with my phone shut off I’d not set an alarm. In the kitchen I downed some water. Consumed with my thirst, I didn’t notice the tiny bugs swarming around my head until one almost went up my nose.

  “Ack, what the fuck!” I waved the bugs away and glanced around. They were everywhere. Fruit flies, flitting around my kitchen. How the hell had so many of them appeared overnight? I glanced at the empty wine bottle I’d left on the counter. A couple inches of white wine remained at the bottom. “Shit.”

  There was my answer. Fruit flies loved wine even more than I did.

  I rinsed the bottle and tossed it in the recycle bin, then set about making a trap for the flies with a glass of vinegar and some plastic wrap. As I worked, I waved the annoying bugs out of my face, feeling dirty.

  After leaving the kitchen, I risked turning my phone back on. I had a couple drunken texts from my work colleagues sent last night, urging me to come down to the pub, calling me unflattering names that questioned my masculinity and insulted my parentage. It was expected. He that bloweth off pub-night shall reapeth intoxicated harassment.

  No voicemails. And surprisingly, no missed calls were registered, despite the anonymous one that came through last night before I shut it off. That was odd. For a moment I wondered if I’d imagined the entire thing.

  One of the amusing late-night texts was from my friend Drew Bartlett. He worked at my company but we’d known each other for years. He’d hooked me up with my initial interview there, and we were pretty tight. I bristled, remembering the hacker’s threats to inform him of my talking behind his back and calling him a pretentious asshole. It didn’t mean anything. Friends talked about each other all the time. Didn’t mean I disliked Drew. It was just gossip. But I gave Drew a quick call, just to feel him out and make sure all was good. I prayed he hadn’t received any bizarre messages about me in retaliation for my shutting down the hacker before he was done with me.

  Drew was hungover and wondered why I was calling so early. But the discussion was friendly enough. He invited me to go to a Halloween party at a club downtown on Tuesday night, and I accepted. I was relieved, but aware Drew probably hadn’t checked his emails yet.

  I tried not to succumb to paranoia, but the fruit flies already had me on edge. Sure, I’d left an open wine bottle on the counter overnight. But the correlation to my discussion with the hacker was another odd coincidence.

  ‘…fruit flies have genetic similarities to humans though they possess no internal skeleton.’

  Shuddering, I dragged my hungover ass into the bathroom. My need to be cleansed was overwhelming, and it wasn’t just the hangover. I felt violated, like my soul had been hacked along with my computer. And ashamed. Because there was a small part of me that had enjoyed last night. It was a very small part, but it was there. Like the hacker’s interest in me made me special. That I mattered to someone out there. I’d never been an exhibitionist, but had been ever-so-slightly turned on beneath the terror of seeing that image of myself masturbating. The one the hacker claimed was his favorite. The one he preferred above all the others.

  I’d always been comfortable with my secrets, but this one made me feel disgusting.

  After a scalding hot shower, I dressed for work, but paused when I reached the garage. Just knowing the computer was in my trunk made me queasy, like I’d left a poisonous snake in there and wasn’t sure it would remain contained or slip out to bite me while I was driving. Setting my briefcase down, I opened the trunk. My new black laptop sat where I’d left it, looking innocent.

  I considered just tossing it in the trash. But I didn’t think the device was the culprit. As my friendly hacker said last night, he…it…whatever could easily find me again if it so chose. I wasn’t sure I believed he would follow through on that threat, but it made me nervous. I should have someone take a look at the laptop. Someone who might be able to figure out what happened, and maybe even how to prevent such a breach in the future. Closing the trunk, I set the computer down on top of it and opened the lid.

  To my surprise, it appeared to have shut itself down at some point, and when I pushed the button, it booted up to my regular welcome screen. I logged in, and stared at my familiar desktop. There were no windows open. No frozen Netflix screen. No m
ontage of porn images. Everything seemed…normal. Like it never happened.

  I did a few searches, checked my virus protection, deleted cookies and my history, but found nothing unusual. It seemed to be back to normal. But I didn’t trust it, so while I had access, I went in and disabled the webcam and microphone. Feeling confident there was nothing incriminating now, I decided I’d take it in to the computer store after work and have them take a look. Hopefully someone could give me some helpful feedback.

  Sliding the laptop into my briefcase, I got in the car, stopped for coffee at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru, and made my way to the office. It was even emptier than I’d expected on a Saturday morning. I ran into one of the guys from finance, and a woman who worked in IT, pleased to see them both looking as scruffy and casual as I did. Passed a row of empty cubicles then settled into my own, setting my briefcase down before booting up my work computer. I half-expected to see a message bubble when I logged in, my hacker having found me at work to torment me further. But all was as it should be, and I pulled up an Excel spreadsheet I’d been working on and started my day.

  An hour later, I jumped when Tim Greenfield appeared at my cubicle. “Hey, Jonathan! We missed you last night.”

  “Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were in today.”

  “Yeah. Just getting a head start on some things.”

  Seeing Tim always made me nervous, because he was gay and I was into him. But after last night’s activities, the sight of him had me extra jittery. His light brown hair was short so there was no Saturday messiness, apart from maybe a lack of hair gel. In jeans and a burgundy polo shirt that hugged his biceps, Tim’s baby blue eyes drew me in as he gave me that cute half-smile—like the one in his employee photo I’d stared at many times. Six times, according to the hacker. “So you went out with the work crew last night?”