The Girl in the Video (ARC)

by Michael David Wilson

  “I guess.”

  “You know. Plus, we’ve been over this before, worked out the timing and everything. As long as I’m pregnant in the next few months, I’ll go on maternity leave and return to work before my contract’s up for renewal. The school might not pay maternity but they can’t refuse my leave. It’s set-in-stone. It’s the law.”

  “Such bullshit we even have to think about it. I mean, it’s good we’ve considered all the possibilities, sensible even, but it’s still bullshit.”

  “A lot of things in this world are.” Rachel picked up her iPhone. “Now pose with what’s left of the burger, I wanna take a snap.”

  “Want me to put my arm around it like we’re best mates?”

  “You dumbass—just hold it up or something.”

  “Give it a little kiss, maybe?”

  She sighed and gave me a look like perhaps she had reservations about the whole baby idea, after all.

  ***

  After taking a handful of photographs and uploading the best to Instagram, we finished our meals and ordered coffee. Rachel popped to the bathroom and I perused Twitter, minding my own business and keeping my head down. I snapped to attention when some customer’s ringtone sounded off: ‘Lost In Moments’ by Ulver. The damn thing made me jolt up so hard I almost fell out of my chair and smashed my bloody phone at the same time. I steadied myself, spun around to look for the offending customer but came up short. I scanned the rest of the restaurant: the patrons, the waiters, the bar staff, but couldn’t identify where or who the song came from. I even looked down at my own phone to check I hadn’t been a right dickhead and accidentally played the track myself—navigating to Spotify then Apple Music just to be sure.

  The song soon faded and Rachel returned.

  “Did you hear it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you hear it? The music.”

  Rachel strained to listen. “Nickelback, isn’t it?”

  “No. Well, yeah, but I’m not talking about that music. You hear the ringtone? Someone has Ulver as their ringtone.”

  “Oh. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Shit. I have to know whose ringtone that was.”

  “Have to, eh? Better stand up and make an announcement.” Rachel grinned. Her eyes widened as I made to do exactly that. She reached across the table. “Jesus, not really. Sit down. What are you doing? Who cares whose ringtone it was? It’s not like it’s important.”

  “But what if it is?”

  ***

  So maybe I overreacted and perhaps the alcohol exacerbated things, but that song after that video left me uneasy and what followed did little to calm my anxiety.

  My dreams were strange that night. Though strange downplays it—see, it was a bastardised remix of that damn video and that damn girl. It was as if the video had unzipped my skin, slunk inside my tapered flesh, and become one with me. I appreciate I might sound like I’m off my fucking rocker but that’s how it was.

  The dream began near identically to the actual video but there was something off-kilter, something I couldn’t place. It was the same and yet it was different—as if I was seeing the video through another lens, a filter where colours obscured and sounds scratched, slowed down, and amplified. As if they were grating up against my brain: neurological discombobulation. The fabric of the girl’s fishnets scritch-scratched—sharp razors on a blackboard, raw friction as her legs crossed and uncrossed.

  Crossed and uncrossed.

  Crossed.

  And.

  Uncrossed.

  Unsure if the video was slowing down or my brain shutting down.

  I soon realised the legs had detached from the girl, but they weren’t bloody or anything—hadn’t been severed—they were perfectly smooth and polished: rounded out at the stumps.

  Like they were meant to be.

  Like they were better that way.

  Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch, louder and louder and fucking louder, until my ears wept.

  I stuck a finger in my right ear canal, it squelched inside; sucked in by sludge—wet and slick. I removed my finger.

  Examined it.

  Smelt it.

  Tasted it.

  I didn’t choose to do any of those things. They just were.

  I had no control.

  Control was an illusion.

  Is, was, and always has been.

  Next were the white lines, obscuring my vision, like the ones you see on badly recorded VHS tapes. Only this wasn’t a recording, this was my actual fucking vision—my own eyes playing tricks on me.

  The girl’s legs reunited with her body and she danced.

  Though it wasn’t as I’d remembered. Wasn’t as alluring, as sensual, as downright sexy.

  Her movements awkward and rigid. As if the actions of her body were not those of her mind.

  Her legs disappeared and she fell to the floor.

  A cockroach on her back, arms frantically flailing.

  And then—like it was nothing, like it was all just an act—her legs re-emerged and she flipped back up: a gymnast.

  The white lines faded, my vision returned—brighter and better, saturation whacked way up—the girl began painting her lips, except this time I was the pot that housed her lacquer. My ear secretion, the varnish. Each time she dipped the brush in, it stung like vinegar on an open wound.

  Tears streamed down my face.

  She leapt forward.

  Lips bigger than the room.

  Opened her mouth and swallowed me whole.

  ***

  SUNDAY JANUARY 24, 2016

  By the time morning came the dream had receded to the back of my mind. I wandered downstairs, using the wall as a makeshift bannister to steady myself, trying to ignore the pounding in my head. Not in my twenties anymore—I was getting too old for this shit.

  When I entered the living room, Rachel passed me a cup of coffee. “You look like crap.”

  “Good morning to you, too. Want to go out for breakfast?”

  “I’d love to, but I’m running late—and surely you are, too. Isn’t your start time eleven-thirty?”

  I necked back some coffee, hoping it’d wake up my brain. “Start time? It’s Sunday.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, putting the finishing touches to her packed lunch: a chicken and walnut salad with homemade mayonnaise. “Two words: speaking clinic.”

  Bollocks, I’d forgotten all about it. Looked to my watch—double bollocks—I had to leave the house in half an hour. I gulped down most of the coffee. “Why didn’t you wake me? Must have slept through the alarm.”

  “Well, you’re thirty-one so should probably wake yourself . . . I did try, but you were out like a light.”

  “I feel terrible.”

  “I’m not surprised. If it’s any consolation I don’t feel so hot either, can’t have had much more than a few hours’ sleep.”

  “We didn’t get back that late. We were in bed by midnight.” I finished the coffee, knocked back a multivitamin with a tall glass of water.

  Rachel stopped making her lunch and fixed her eyes on me.

  “What? What did I do?” I said, looking at her properly for the first time that morning, noticing the grey shadows beneath her eyes.

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Erm, you’re gonna have to help me out with that one.”

  “You woke me up with all that screaming—”

  “Screaming? Get out of here!”

  “I’m serious, I’d never heard you like that before. Hysterical doesn’t do it justice. Fact is, you probably woke the whole neighbourhood.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I switched on the light to see what all the fuss was about—ready to give you a right what for—then I saw the blood gushing out of your ear.”

  “Oh, come on. Like that’s gonna happen in my sleep. Stop pulling my leg.”

  “You were wide awake. Don’t believe me? Check your right ear. Tell me, how is it today?”r />
  “Hurts like hell. But so does my left ear, my head, my back, my whole body.”

  “You see? I tried calling an ambulance but didn’t get very far.”

  “It’s only three numbers. You flake out at two?” I grinned, she didn’t.

  “I got through but they were asking so many questions and my Japanese isn’t great at the best of times, so I just screamed ‘kyuukyuusha’ and hung up.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I panicked. I was freaking the hell out and you were getting worse—I wanted to help you, not to spend time on the phone. I wasn’t thinking straight. Plus, I thought they’d be able to trace the call to our address but . . . ” Rachel looked down. “Well, they didn’t. I was so frightened. I had to shower and change you. You were near catatonic.”

  It sounded like an elaborate wind-up and yet Rachel looked serious, her hands shaking. I didn’t fully buy into what she was saying, it made little sense not remembering any of that. Fact was, I hadn’t even drunk that much. But it seemed an odd thing to make up. And besides there was no sense in lying about such things, no logic to it.

  “Check the washing basket, Freddie.”

  I did, and sure enough, there lay my once pristine white t-shirt, the one with the V-neck, all smeared in blood. I held it up to the ceiling, like the stains were a trick of the light, like if only I got the right angle I’d see it wasn’t bloodied at all.

  “I don’t understand. I really don’t remember. God damn it, this isn’t good. Isn’t good at all. What am I supposed to do? Should I see a doctor? Is that the answer? Fuck . . . ”

  “Maybe. See how you feel. But if anything like this happens again, then yes, absolutely you should see a doctor.”

  ***

  I never did remember the bleeding or the screaming or the way Rachel had showered me down, but piece-by-piece, as I rode the Seibu-Shinjuku line to work, I remembered the previous night’s dream, though it was a little hazy and merged with my recollection of the original video. My brain was getting scrambled, and I started to doubt myself, questioning what I’d seen in the video and what I’d seen in my mind’s eye. I got out my phone, located the original video, and pressed play.

  I felt voyeuristic watching it in public, and whilst the train wasn’t busy and nobody paid me any attention, I still made a point of shielding the screen.

  No blood. No dismembered legs. No girl on the floor shaking.

  A weird video, for sure, and without a doubt it had an unsettling air, but it wasn’t on the same level as the dream. I tucked the phone back into my pocket and rode the rest of the journey in silence, eyeing the other passengers—wondering if they’d seen what I was watching. Perhaps caught a glimpse in the window’s reflection.

  An elementary school kid with a yellow hat and Nintendo Switch kept peering up at me.

  He knows, he definitely knows.

  ***

  After some speaking clinic level-checks and a brunch of tuna onigiri, a banana, and black coffee, I felt more human. Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, I had a two-hour gap in my schedule and intended on filling it with episodes of Death Note. I’d already downloaded a batch from Netflix so wouldn’t have to use my fast-dwindling data. Getting comfortable, I poured another coffee, ripped open a bag of macadamia nuts, and loaded up the episode.

  Then I got the Twitter notification: a new direct message.

  A little odd given I’d disabled all social media notifications. Then again with near daily updates and frequent changes to terms of service I accepted with blind clicks, I might have accidentally turned them back on. Whatever the case, the message was brought to my attention and curiosity coupled with a weak will got the better of me.

  Like the Instagram message from a few months previous, this was from a random. The display picture an identical Hello Kitty image. Adrenaline surged through my body. I turned the heater off, the room suddenly roasting, took a large gulp of water, and clicked through.

  The text read: Does this excite you?

  Followed by a Bitly link.

  Given the anxiety the last message had given me I definitely didn’t want to click the link and yet how could I do anything but? I pushed my phone and headphones into my pocket. I’d take a look, but not in the classroom where someone might interrupt me. What if it was another video and worse than the last? What if Akane or one of the part-time secretaries burst in asking me to complete long-neglected admin? Or worse, another teacher wanting help with lesson planning? Matthew was always asking for stuff—had a big heart but no confidence. Worse still, if a student strolled in unannounced. Just because nothing was scheduled didn’t mean someone wouldn’t crash through the doors—especially the younger kids. The kind of kids whose parents should probably keep them on a lead—not out of cruelty or as a punishment, just as a way of knowing their whereabouts. A GPS chip would do it, too, but a lead’s more practical—cheaper, too.

  I left the classroom, gave Akane a nod of acknowledgement, and headed towards the communal toilets the school shared with a travel agency. I locked myself inside a cubicle and clicked the link. Another video. My heart beat faster as it buffered.

  A girl sat on a leather office chair, wearing a Hello Kitty mask identical to the one in the original video. Her lips were blood red, long jet-black hair draped to her left. She wore a plain black hoody, short black skirt, fishnets, high heels. Surely the same girl.

  Same girl, same chair, same room.

  This time the camera afforded a better view of the room. Posters on the wall, mostly musicians: Ulver, Scroobius Pip, Nine Inch Nails, Mastodon, Electric Wizard. An eclectic mix, yet all artists I liked.

  The girl stretched out on the chair, rocking back and forth with an open-mouthed smile.

  Posters aside, the room was minimalist and tidy. A western-style bed to the left, a simple wardrobe to the right. Presumably a desk in front of her. From the position and angle I reckoned the video was recorded via a laptop webcam.

  The girl stood and leaned closer to the camera. “Wait.” Her voice as soft as a kiss on the neck.

  She walked off camera. Returned with an acoustic guitar. She perched forward—still smiling—and strummed fast simple chords.

  Her face hardened and she broke into song, high-pitched punk screams:

  “What do you like? What do you like?

  “Tell me what you like? Tell me what you like?

  “What do you like, do you like, do you really like—tell me what you like, what you like, what you fucking like.

  “I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna know, I wanna—”

  I clicked my phone to check the video hadn’t crashed, but it was still playing as it should, she just kept repeating the same line. Over-and-over. Each repetition more twisted than the last, punky shouts becoming black metal shrieks.

  The girl picked something up from her desk, around the size of a hole-punch, which perhaps it was. Then nonchalant, like it was no big-deal, she drove the object into her head. I heard it thunk against her skull. A single stream of scarlet trickled from forehead to lips.

  She kicked her legs back with such force she crashed off her chair, the camera tracking her, though how I wasn’t sure. My guess was it had a motion sensor or there was someone else, behind the camera. But what kind of a fucking loon would watch and record all of this?

  The girl continued to sing and play the guitar, her screams indiscernible, piercing highs in time with erratic strumming.

  A jerky cut and the video looped back to the start of the song and played over.

  Identical.

  Almost.

  Until the end.

  When she fell off the chair the second time, the camera failed to track her.

  In quick succession:

  A scream.

  A deep voice, incomprehensible—a man’s voice?

  And a gunshot.

  I nearly fell off the fucking toilet seat. The sound levels were way off and i
t shit me up worse than a barking dog in a bad horror movie.

  After the gunshot, the video flashed forward to the girl, Hello Kitty mask covered in blood. She lay motionless on the floor, the camera lingered. Next to her sat a bloodstained machete. Which made no fucking sense given the gunshot, but did any of it?

  The screen faded to black and the girl whispered:

  “Reply and tell me what you like. It’s important.”

  The video ended.

  What the hell was I supposed to do with that? And who in the world was sending me these videos? And why? What was the point?

  I had a whole lot of questions and a whole lack of answers. So I did what I always did when I had questions without answers and turned to Professor Google. I had an inkling this was some viral video series, so put in all manner of search terms to see if I could uncover others who had viewed the video. Words and combinations revolving around ‘Hello Kitty’, ‘video’, ‘viral’, ‘anonymous’, ‘blood’, ‘gun’, ‘girl’, ‘fishnets’, ‘sexy’, ‘creepy’, and so forth. With a Google search history like that I was definitely going on some sort of watch list, but this felt more important.

  What I found were a lot of messed-up videos, numerous discussions on threads and forums about messed-up videos, but nothing on my messed-up video.

  I played the video again, taking a couple of screenshots. Her face was always obscured by that stupid Hello Kitty mask but maybe—just maybe—this could give me a lead. I uploaded the clearest image to TinEye Reverse Image Search. It took 0.7 seconds to search 36.1 billion images.

  No matches.

  Shit. Now, what?

  I considered uploading the video to YouTube, seemed like a good way to find out if anyone else had received the same video, and either way it might make me a little ad revenue—Christ knows the extra money would be useful, what with us trying for a baby.

  But ultimately I decided against it. If the video had been deliberately sent to me, it seemed a violation to share it with others, to make it part of the public domain. True, I hadn’t asked for the video, hadn’t invited it into my life, but then you don’t ask for gifts, do you?