The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

by Taylor Grand

  He’d reluctantly accepted Smythe’s advice, yet the questions nibbled at him like hungry ticks. Where did his money come from? What had happened to his family? Who the fuck was he, really? When the questions became too much to bear, his confusion grew into anger. Finally, he called Bob Wheeler in a fit of rage and threatened to fire him over the phone if he didn’t tell him every goddamn thing he knew.

  Wheeler finally acquiesced. He told him of a safe hidden inside a baby grand piano that sat covered in the music room of Matt’s mansion. He also provided him with the digital password to open the safe. Inside, he told him, was a video recorded 10 years earlier that explained everything.

  “Why all the cloak and dagger?” Matt demanded.

  “I’m merely following your instructions prior to your ten-year sabbatical,” Wheeler said. “I was told to inform you about the hidden safe six weeks after you had awoken, or if you demanded it—whichever came first.”

  Now, as Matt sat in front of his massive entertainment center, with a finger resting on the play button of his remote, apprehension seeped into him like water into sand. Perhaps he was better off not knowing the truth. He had tried to imagine any possible scenario that would explain why he’d gone into suspended animation—but none made sense.

  He pressed the play button, and leaned back stiffly on the plush leather couch.

  Thirty seconds of static later, a blond, balding man appeared on screen. His eyes were tired looking and familiar. And though his features sagged a bit, it was clear he had been an attractive man in his youth. Matt gasped when the man began to speak—for he realized he was looking at himself. The face was different but the voice and mannerisms were his.

  “Hello Matt,” he heard the stranger with his voice say. Matt immediately recognized the bookcase in the background; the video had been recorded in the study upstairs.

  “If you’re watching this video, then most likely, you’re looking for answers. What I’m about to tell you…well, it may not be easy for you to believe—or even understand. But Dr. Smythe has assured me that full memory recall normally occurs within 4 to 6 weeks of being awakened.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you straight. Your given name is Frank Kingston. You’re a reclusive multi-millionaire and you’re dead. Well, dead to the world, that is. Ten years ago you were in a fatal accident. Fell overboard while drunk on your yacht The Maximus. Your body was never recovered.”

  The VCR remote dropped and clattered onto the beveled glass of the coffee table sitting in front of him. He leaned forward, his mouth slightly agape.

  The video continued, “Of course none of that is true—that’s just the fabricated story. Don’t worry. I paid top dollar for professionals to handle everything. There’s no way to trace anything back to us. I say ‘us’ because, of course, I am you. I’m the you before your facial reconstruction…before the hair implants and the liposuction.”

  The man now named Matt Jackson reached up and touched his hair; gingerly ran his fingers through it. Was this some kind of twisted prank?

  “That’s right,” his former self said. “I’m what you used to look like. But thanks to the modern miracles of plastic surgery, you now look like you. All of the pictures and portraits you see of yourself in the house are doctored photos. They are just part of the tapestry created to bolster our new life.

  “It was necessary to start over with a completely new identity. As you can imagine, it would be much too difficult to orchestrate a multi-millionaire disappearing and then reappearing 10 years later. There would be too many questions—too many variables that could get us caught. Having us killed off and starting fresh was the cleanest, most efficient way.

  “Which, of course, leads us to the most important question—why?”

  Jackson was eager for information yet fearful of what he might learn.

  His former self was silent for a moment—as if preparing to deliver bad news. Finally he said, “Why I chose suspended animation is a bit more complicated. And after you watch this tape, make sure you destroy it right aw—”

  The image turned to white static.

  “What the fu—” Matt yelled.

  Frantic, he grabbed the remote and fast-forwarded through the entire tape.

  The rest was blank.

  It was like the punch line to some perverse practical joke. He noticed his wild-eyed reflection in a large mirror on the wall and began to tug at his unfamiliar features. Everything that had happened since he awoke seemed insane, and yet, as he studied his face in the mirror, he somehow knew it was all true.

  Desperation gripped him. He ejected the cassette, wound the loose tape back in with one of the spools, then shoved it back into the VCR and hit the rewind button. In his ten-year absence, VCRs had become outdated technology. This was no more apparent than at this particular moment.

  He watched the tape again, this time paying close attention to each and every word. But as before, the tape turned to static at the same place. Had someone erased it on purpose? And if so, why not erase the entire fucking thing?

  He fast-forwarded the tape again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. This time the tape froze. He was struck by the time code displayed on the bottom of the screen. It read 00:07:43:07.

  What was it about those numbers?

  Wait—Jesus. It was the pass code numbers to the hidden safe. Now that he thought about it, his street address had the same four numbers: 3747. If you didn’t include the zeroes, all three instances had the same numbers.

  Fuck this, he thought. I’m going to get some answers.

  ****

  The Ferrari F12berlinetta was a beautiful machine. And according to the Ferrari website, it was the fastest and most powerful in its history, with a top speed of 210 mph. Matt pushed the Ferrari as fast as he could on the streets of Los Angeles without risking arrest, but it wasn’t fast enough.

  Finally, he reached Olympic Blvd and looked for the address he’d found online. The Internet had become a frighteningly useful tool in the years since he’d been asleep. A simple web search turned up Bob Wheeler’s address in seconds.

  It had taken a few minutes to get used to driving again; all of his muscles were still sore from disuse. But it was hardly a chore driving a $300,000 dream machine with all the bells and whistles.

  He pulled up in front of Wheeler’s home, parked, and glanced at the clock on his dashboard. It was nearly 10:00PM. He didn’t care. He’d taken a peek at his accounting books and seen the ungodly fees he was paying the man. As far as he was concerned, for that amount of money he could show up whenever he damn well pleased. As he stomped up the front walkway, he thought about all the cryptic doubletalk he’d heard from Dr. Smythe and Bob Wheeler since he’d awoken, and he was sick to death of it. It was time to find out what the hell was going on.

  Wheeler wasn’t surprised to see him at his doorstep. In fact, he said he’d been expecting him. After all, Matt had no family or friends to speak of. Wheeler was his only real connection to the past. Coming to Wheeler was the obvious choice for a man desperate for answers.

  The inside of the townhouse was comfortably spacious. There was nothing extravagant about the furnishings, yet Matt could see that everything was of exceptional quality. This was the home of a man who had nothing to prove. From his furnishings to the books on the shelf, everything seemed functional yet tasteful. Bob Wheeler was a man who spent his money wisely.

  Now Wheeler handed him a glass of wine and sat across from him in the study.

  Matt nodded his thanks and took a sip. Like everything else in the man’s home, the wine was perfect.

  “I’m sorry about the video tape,” Wheeler said, sitting across from him and crossing his legs leisurely. “Very unfortunate, but out of my hands. You have to understand, I’m on a need to know basis with all of my clients. What they have or haven’t done in the past is their concern. My job is to handle your present needs and to ensure your financial future.”

  “So
you know nothing about me?”

  “I’m not paid to ask questions. You gave me three specific jobs when you hired me ten years ago: manage your estate, maintain the illusion of your lifestyle for tax and accounting purposes, and arrange for you to be woken up precisely ten years after you went to sleep.”

  Matt polished off the rest of his wine in two large gulps and sighed heavily. He felt so helpless without his memories. His voice cracked with emotion, “It’s just so…frustrating not knowing who you are. I feel like I’m hiding from something. It scares me.”

  Wheeler studied him for a long moment; and then something changed in his eyes. Matt couldn’t tell if it was compassion, resignation, or perhaps a little of both. “I can imagine your frustration,” Wheeler said. The good news is that, from what Dr. Smythe tells me, your memories will return within weeks.

  “What I can tell you is that you have no criminal record and no obligations to any family or friends. Your slate is clean and your wealth is spread out globally through low risk, high return investments. It is an enviable position to be in, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Some would say that, yes,” Matt countered.

  “You don’t approve of your lifestyle?”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition.”

  Wheeler laughed at that. But rather than warming his face, the laughter somehow made him look colder, crueler.

  Suddenly Matt felt the need to get out of there—and fast. Wheeler might have been efficient, professional, and a damned genius at financial planning, but one thing he wasn’t—was likable.

  “Thanks for your time,” Matt said without offering his hand. “It’s late. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  Wheeler rose as leisurely as he’d sat down and gestured toward the front door. “For what you’re paying me, Mr. Jackson, it’s never a bother.”

  As Matt took his first steps down the short path toward his Ferrari, Wheeler cleared his throat and said, “There’s one more thing.”

  Matt turned back reluctantly, not wanting to linger a moment longer. “Yes?”

  Wheeler’s eyes were intense. “You and I only met a few times before you went into stasis. But during our initial meeting at your house, I noticed a leather-bound journal on your desk. You were very protective of it. In fact, you closed the book hurriedly the moment I went near it. If you’re looking for answers, I suspect that journal may have some for you. That is, if it still exists.”

  “That may be helpful. Thank you,” Matt said with a terrible attempt at a grin. He turned and walked briskly toward his car.

  He felt Wheeler’s eyes on his back as he made his way to the driver’s side door. Before climbing in, he glanced back at the man standing in the doorway, who was sipping his wine, which under the light of the moon looked thick, dark, and viscous.

  ****

  Two hours and numerous tequila shots later, Matt had managed to wash away much of the uneasiness that had driven him to the dive bar in the first place. The bartender wore an untucked chambray shirt, and had the sleepy, indifferent manner you’d expect from a man who had spent too many nights witnessing the goings on of such a place.

  When he had first asked Matt what he wanted to drink, the answer had come naturally and without any thought. He recalled that he enjoyed tequila and Mexican beer. It was the first sign his memory was coming back, and it had provided him with a modicum of relief.

  Another welcome distraction was the 40 something year-old woman sitting next to him. Far from a glamour puss, she was attractive enough; probably a knock out in her 20s, he guessed. She had a great rack, blonde hair from a bottle, and as a twice-divorcée living on alimony, admitted that she spent too much of her free time with a drink in her hand. On the plus side, she was sharp, had a sarcastic wit, and was clearly open for seduction. When Matt mentioned that he was independently wealthy, her eyes widened slightly, and curves formed at the corners of her collagen-injected lips.

  The bartender began wiping down the bar near them with a knowing look that told Matt he’d seen this scene play out on more than one occasion. “Last call, Mary Beth,” he murmured, folding up his grungy bar towel.

  “Thanks, Joey,” she said and gave the tall man a wry grin.

  First name basis, Matt thought. That can’t be good.

  Then again, he was terribly lonely and horny—mostly horny—and didn’t much care about the woman’s past. He wasn’t in the market for a wife; he just wanted to avoid another night alone.

  Mary Beth leaned in seductively and whispered in his ear. “You okay to drive?”

  ****

  Matt had no respect for Mary Beth, but he had to admit she was a lot of fun. She even managed to make him laugh a few times with her off-color jokes. But that laughter ended suddenly when a naked, blood-covered black man leapt out into the street—right in front of them. Matt slammed on his brakes, causing the Ferrari to shudder violently until it stopped—missing the large man by inches.

  Mary Beth slammed back into her seat. “What the hell?” she yelled.

  Matt gazed into the man’s terror-filled eyes. They seemed to be pleading for help.

  A gunshot rang out. The left side of the man’s head exploded, spraying the windshield with a fine red mist.

  “Jesus Christ!” Matt punched the accelerator, hurling Mary Beth back into her seat again, tires screeching in protest.

  “What is wrong with you?” she demanded.

  “Me?” He shouted back, louder than he meant. He downshifted and turned onto the first residential street he saw, trying to get as much distance as possible from what he’d seen. “We could’ve been killed back there!”

  “What? I didn’t see anything!”

  “You didn’t—” It was clear from the look on Mary Beth’s face that she was telling the truth. This was, of course, impossible, since at the very least she should have seen the blood splatter across the windshield.

  What blood? another part of his mind asked, as his eyes searched the glass for even a speck of it.

  The windshield was spotless. It didn’t make any sense. What the hell just happened?

  “What did you see?” Mary Beth asked. “What was it?”

  But Matt couldn’t think of how to respond without sounding like a lunatic. If what he’d seen was real, there was no way she could’ve missed it. And since there was no blood residue on the windshield, he questioned whether he’d seen anything himself.

  Hallucination? Dr. Smythe had warned him hallucinations were a possible side effect, but a remote possibility at best.

  So he said, “I’m not feeling too good. I should take you home.”

  And he did.

  ****

  Mary Beth lived adjacent to Beverly Hills in a small, but well-kept two-story condo. Matt’s intention had been to drop her off and go home, but she’d insisted he come in for a drink. He wasn’t sure if she was an unusually forgiving person or just desperate to get laid—but he decided not to examine it too closely.

  A night with an attractive stranger sure as hell beat going home to an empty bed. And if he were lucky, it just might take his mind off that man’s exploding head. He and Mary Beth enjoyed a couple more drinks together, which helped take the edge off.

  Matt was lost in thought when a seductive whisper from behind him said, “Care to join me?”

  He turned just in time to catch a glimpse of blonde hair and Mary Beth’s black negligee as she wafted into the master bedroom.

  He downed the rest of his drink like a shot and set the glass down—right next to a stack of letters on a vintage patina table. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of the numbers in Mary Beth’s address: 3747.

  Those same four numbers again. A different order—but they were the same four numbers all right.

  Matt wasn’t superstitious—at least he didn’t think he was—but something wasn’t right. Every shred of intuition told him to get out of there. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and prepared to ask for a rain check.


  The master bedroom was dark and quiet; the moon cast eerie shadows through the window over a large four-poster bed that took up most of the space.

  “Listen…” he said, and his voice cracked when he said it. “I’m not feeling well and—”

  The blood everywhere stopped him cold; it looked as if someone had sprayed the walls with it using a hose.

  But that wasn’t the worst part.

  Mary Beth’s body was splayed across the bed; it had been split open from her neck down. Her glistening intestines were stretched out from her abdomen and had been used to tie her arms and legs to the bedposts.

  And then somehow, impossibly…the dead woman turned her broken neck into an impossible angle, until her bloated face was grinning at him with a knowing look.

  It wasn’t Mary Beth.

  Matt fell back and screamed; he smashed into a bookcase and caused it to collapse with a crash.

  The door to the master bedroom’s bathroom flung open and Mary Beth came scrambling out, wild-eyed. She was still wearing the black negligee and holding a silver-handled brush matted with blonde hair.

  Matt glanced over at the bed and saw it was empty, and perfectly made.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Mary Beth yelled.

  He didn’t answer her; he was too busy running from her home.

  ****

  Matt spent the next two days at home in a drunken haze, taking advantage of the full bar at his disposal. But no amount of alcohol could wash away the hallucinations, which had become increasingly gruesome; every conceivable kind of torture and mutilation, visited upon an array of ghostly victims, and without any context. He had placed several frantic calls to Dr. Smythe, but according to his unhelpful answering service, the good doctor was out of the country for several weeks on business.

  In between drunken rages and bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, Matt searched every nook and cranny of his sizable mansion for the journal Wheeler had described. Not finding it only spurred more outrage and drunkenness.