The Man From Taured: A thrilling suspense novel by the new master of horror (World's Scariest Legends Book 3)

by Jeremy Bates

  “Gaston!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you! I tried calling but immediately got the message bank.” She laughed. “Late night?”

  “Huh?” I said, confused.

  “The glasses.”

  “Ah, yes…” I said. “Bad headache. You are looking good,” I added, to move on.

  “Awww. You’re so sweet.”

  Sweet? When was the last time she’d called me that?

  “Thanks,” I said a little uncomfortably. “How is everything? You seem…happy.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. I am happy. Swamped with work, but everything’s going well. What about you? How did you lose your wallet and your phone? Were you robbed?”

  “I might have forgotten them in a taxi.”

  “Damn. What are you doing for money? Do you need me to send you some?”

  “I would love you to,” I said. “But I do not have ID. I could not collect it.”

  “What? Nonsense. My parents sent me money when I was robbed in Thailand. I didn’t have ID either. You just need to answer a question with a passphrase.”

  I sat straighter. “That is it?”

  “Simple, right? How about my middle name?”

  “Mariel?”

  She laughed again. “You sound unsure!”

  In fact, I hadn’t been confident in my answer. If my father could be dead in one dimension and alive in another, Blessica’s middle name most certainly could have been something else entirely. “Great!” I said. “The sooner you could send the money, Bless, the better. I am still here for a while, and the hotel is not paid for, so I will need a fair bit…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Gaston. I’ve got you covered.”

  “Umm—can you tell me your phone number in case I have any problems and need to call you?”

  “You don’t know my phone number? I’m insulted! You are so good with numbers.”

  “It has always been in my phone. I have never needed to know it.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. You’re forgiven.” She told me her phone number, which I immediately memorized. “Anyway, another week,” she added. “I already miss you so much!”

  I blinked. Miss me?

  I opened my mouth but was at a loss for words. Bless was still speaking.

  “…we should do something when you get back. Like a trip. Somewhere fun. Maybe Bohol. We haven’t been there for years. How adorable were the Tarsiers!”

  And with abrupt conviction, I realized what was going on.

  Bless and I are still together!

  “What’s wrong, Gaston?” she said, brow furrowing. “You look funny.”

  “I just remembered…something is on the stove.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my hotel room.”

  “Your hotel room has a stove?”

  “It is a contained apartment.”

  “Aren’t you at the Hyatt?”

  “I—no… Ummm…” My mind was racing. How did you ask someone—your wife, no less!—if you were in a relationship. “Can I call you back?”

  “Can you show me the apartment?”

  “What? Why?”

  She was getting that crafty look in her eyes I knew all too well. “I want to see it.”

  “I need to go. I will call you back.”

  “Why are you acting so weird, Gaston? Show me the apartment!”

  “Say hi to Damien for me. Tell him I’ll talk with him soon.”

  “Who?”

  My heart stopped. “Damien,” I repeated carefully.

  “Who the hell’s Damien, Gaston?”

  “Damien!” I pleaded, dreading what I knew I was going to hear. “Our son!”

  “Our son? Our son? What’s wrong with you, Gaston? Did you hit your head? Do you need—”

  I slapped the laptop closed.

  ∆∆∆

  I rushed to the toilet and disgorged the watery contents of my stomach several times over.

  Chapter 33

  Damien.

  Gone.

  No, not gone.

  Much worse than that.

  He was never born.

  He had never existed.

  Chapter 34

  No wonder Blessica had initially been so bubbly and happy during the call, and why it appeared our relationship was still intact and thriving.

  It had been Damien’s birth in the Tauredian timeline that had driven us apart.

  Damien was not to blame, of course. Blessica and I were. We were compatible as husband and wife but not as mother and father. Having a baby to care for redefined our relationship and created a widening schism between us. We had to develop a new way of relating to each other, of running the house together, and it didn’t work. Part of the problem, I believe, had been Blessica’s naïve expectations of what parenting would entail. During the pregnancy she had been gushing nonstop about how much she was looking forward to becoming a mother. Her idealized version of this role included hanging out with all her other mom friends in the park, shopping with them for designer bodysuits, and posting cute photos on social media.

  The reality that first year was diaper changing, around-the-clock feedings, and disagreements with me over how to handle raising a newborn.

  When I came home from work, Bless would immediately list everything she’d done that day—from feedings, to tummy time, to cleaning spit-up from the floor—and say, “He’s yours now.” I enjoyed spending the time with Damien. What I didn’t like was Bless keeping tabs on everything she did and everything I did and constantly claiming she was doing more. She was, granted. But she didn’t have her events company then. She had many more free hours in her day than I did. It seemed she simply wanted a target, someone on whom she could dump all her frustrations. It got to a point where if I forgot to pick up orange juice on the way home from work, she would go nuclear. My business trips made everything worse. Bless got it into her head that I was making up the travel just to get away from the house, even though I was spending less time overseas than I had at any other point in my career.

  On Blessica’s thirty-fourth birthday, I took her to an Italian restaurant for dinner. Eating out had become a rare occurrence for us, despite the fact we had a live-in nanny to keep an eye on Damien in our absence. During the meal, it became painfully obvious we no longer knew what to say to each other. We were so accustomed to arguing we forgot how to be civil. We didn’t speak in the car on the way home. I slept in the spare bedroom that night. In the morning, I slipped off to work without saying goodbye.

  We both knew it was over.

  I moved out a week later. Damien had been two and a half then. I missed him tremendously and made every effort to ensure my overseas business trips didn’t fall on my visitation dates.

  He seemed to grow so fast. Within months, he began to walk, talk, and develop a semblance of a personality. The first time he called me “Dadda” broke my heart.

  Watching him develop over the following year and a half had made me not only incredibly proud but genuinely fulfilled in a way I had not previously believed possible.

  And now he’s gone, I thought with empty terror. My boy. Never born. Never existed.

  I’m never going to see him again.

  ∆∆∆

  By the time Okubo returned I’d composed myself for the most part. I was a dead emotional wasteland on the inside, but outwardly I was able to assume a sane face. It had crossed my mind to tell Okubo about the video call with Blessica, but I didn’t think she would be thrilled to know that my wife still loved me in this dimension. More than that, I simply didn’t think I’d be able to talk about Damien without cracking up.

  Okubo set the groceries on the table and began listing off everything she withdrew from the plastic bag, as if to elicit my approval: soy sauce, miso paste, dashi stock powder, panko bread crumbs, soba noodles, shirataki noodles, umeboshi, yuzu juice, sencha green tea, bancha green tea…

  “Eggs?” I asked, peeking over her shoulder into the nearly empty bag.
>
  “There are already eggs in the refrigerator.”

  “Bacon?”

  “Sorry.”

  While helping her put the food away, I said, “Thank you for letting me use your computer.”

  “Did you get through to your brothers?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Your mother?

  I shook my head. “I did not try her. We spoke yesterday.”

  Okubo turned to me, holding a jar of pickles in her hand. “She’s living in Andorra, right? You told me your family is living in Andorra. So does that mean you’re from Andorra too—in this world?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Where’s that version of you then? The one that was born in Andorra?”

  “I have wondered about that,” I told her. “My mother was not surprised when I explained to her I was in Japan, so perhaps the other me has the same job as I do, or a similar one. Perhaps he is here in Tokyo on business. Then again—who knows? He could be in…Alabama.”

  “Alabama? In the US?” Okubo looked amused. “Why Alabama?”

  “It is far away. That was my point.”

  “Point taken.” She pressed her lips together, thinking. “What if he’s in your dimension? What if the two versions of you swapped places?”

  “Cosmic foreign exchange students. Yes, maybe. Or maybe he poofed out of existence when I arrived.”

  Okubo’s face dropped. “I hope not. That would be terrible.”

  “Why? You do not know him. You have never met him.”

  “But I know you,” she said. “And you’re him. Anyway, what was I getting at? Right. If the version of you in this world—”

  “Can we give him a name? ‘Version of you’ is disturbing.”

  “How about Paul?”

  I frowned. “Why Paul?”

  “Paul McCartney.”

  “No, Paul is my brother’s name. What about The Other?”

  “That’s a bit spooky, but your double, your call. So if The Other is from Andorra, then why not visit the Andorra embassy today? If you explained to them you lost all your identification, they would be able to reissue you a new passport”

  “Trying to get rid of me already?”

  “No! I’m just trying to help you. If you had a passport, you’d be one step closer to recreating your old identity.”

  “That would be nice, chérie,” I said. “But remember I am in the country illegally. Even if the consular section issued me a new passport, they are not above the laws here. I could not remain under the aegis of their diplomatic powers. They would be compelled to hand me over to the police.”

  “So what are your long-term options, Gaston? Remain an illegal immigrant in Japan for the rest of your life?”

  “No, I need to get back to Andorra.”

  “But that’s impossible without a passport!”

  “I am aware of the difficulty of the position I am in, ma choupette. I will think of something.” Changing course on my earlier decision not to mention Blessica, I said, “I was able to contact my wife on your computer.”

  Surprise flashed in Okubo’s eyes but all she said was, “Oh?”

  “She is going to send me money today,” I added. “I will not be a burden on you for much longer.”

  “You are not a burden, Gaston. I’m not trying to get rid of you. I promise. I like having you here.”

  “I appreciate that, though I feel like a burden.”

  “Did you leave anything behind at the manga kissa?”

  “No, nothing. I do not have anything aside the clothes on my back.” I shrugged. “I suppose I could stay one more night…”

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”

  “I am sorry, chérie. I am confused. I feel like a pawn in a game far beyond my control. It is frightening and…yes…confusing. I am not myself.”

  Okubo chewed on that. “Where are you going to pick up the money?”

  “A Western Union.”

  “What time?”

  I shrugged. “After lunch?”

  She put the jar of pickles away in the cupboard and returned to me for the plastic bottle of mayonnaise I was holding. She took it from my hand and said, “I think you should talk to someone, Gaston.”

  “A shrink?” Panic floored me. “You said you believed me—”

  “I do believe you, Gaston! I don’t mean a shrink. I mean someone who knows about space and interdimensional travel and all that stuff.”

  I relaxed. “Do you have someone in mind?” I asked her.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. My brother.”

  “Your brother?” I repeated skeptically. “Is he a scientist?”

  “No, but he is really, really smart.”

  Not only did Okubo’s suggestion sound like a waste of time, I didn’t know how comfortable I would be telling a complete stranger I was from another dimension. “I don’t know…”

  “What else are we going to do today, Gaston?”

  “Western Union…”

  “We’ll go there this afternoon.”

  “Does your brother live nearby?”

  “He lives in Tama Center about an hour from here.”

  “All right,” I relented. “Give him a call.”

  “He doesn’t have a phone.”

  I chuffed. “Who does not have a phone in 2020?”

  “My brother. He’s a little…different.”

  “What if we travel all the way there and he is not home?”

  “He’ll be home. Trust me.”

  “But how can you know?”

  “Because he hasn’t left his room in ten years.”

  Chapter 35

  During the walk to Ebisu train station, and the quick three-stop ride to Shinjuku, Okubo explained that her brother was part of Japan’s infamous world of the hikikomori, which she translated to mean “withdrawn.” To qualify for such a dubious label, you had to have shuttered yourself away from society for at least a year. Most of these people were male, many lived at home with their parents, and there were up to a million of them hidden around the country.

  After making our way through Shinjuku station, Okubo and I boarded the Keio New Line train. As we traveled west, we talked more about her brother’s condition.

  “Japan is a country of contradictions,” Okubo explained. “It’s both modern and traditional. The cities are bustling but also lonely. Restaurants and bars are always filled with customers, but if you look closely, most of them are eating by themselves. Customer service is impeccable, yet it’s incredibly impersonal. A supermarket checkout cashier might perform her duties flawlessly, but she would never in a million years make small talk. We are fascinated by Western culture and Western people, but we are wary of them too. And in the streets, no matter the hour, you can find exhausted office employees who’ve worked themselves into the ground. The opposite, or balance, to this workaholic lifestyle…”

  “Is the hikikomori,” I said. “So these young men, instead of working, just sit around in their parents’ house all day long doing nothing? Their parents should kick the lazy bums out to the street!”

  “You don’t understand, Gaston. They are not lazy. They suffer from a mental illness. They have profound social anxieties. Do they want to go out in the world and meet friends and lovers? Of course they do. But they simply can’t.” She fiddled with the zipper on her handbag. “When my brother was a teenager, he was like everyone else his age. But then he had a falling out with my parents. My father is a salesman at Hitachi. He wanted Akira—that is my brother’s name—to find a similar job. But the last thing Akira wanted to be was one of corporate Japan’s army of ‘salarymen.’”

  “What did he want to be instead?”

  “A games artist—for video games. He is very artistic. He always has been. So when my father demanded he apply for a job at a large firm, he retreated into his room in protest.”

  “Why not just go out and apply for a job as a games artist? To hell what your father thought.”

  “Becaus
e that is not the Japanese way,” Okubo said stiffly. “We have a collective-minded way of thinking. We don’t rebel. At least not vocally. Rebellion comes in muted forms…like the hikikomori.”

  “I can understand that,” I said, knowing just how dominant group-thought was from the interaction I’d had with my Japanese colleagues and clients. “But your brother has not rebelled in his room for a week or a month. You said he has been there for ten years!”

  “As you probably know, Gaston, outward appearances and reputations mean everything to Japanese. We call it sekentei—the pressure a person feels to impress others. The longer a hikikomori remains secluded from society, the more shame he feels at his social failure. He loses whatever self-esteem and confidence he once had. His room becomes his only safe place. The prospect of leaving it becomes ever more terrifying.” She shrugged. “It’s a kind of vicious loop, right? The withdrawal from society becomes the source of the trauma, and the trauma prevents a hikikomori from returning to society, which in turn makes the trauma worse.”

  “Oh la vache!” I blurted as an alarming thought smacked me in the face. “Are we going to your parents’ house?”

  Okubo smiled at me. “You do not think they would like you?”

  “No, I mean…I…look what I am wearing,” I stammered. “And I do not have anything to bring them. And we have only been on one date—”

  “Relax, Gaston!” Okubo said, patting me on the thigh. “We are not going to my parents’ house. When they accepted that Akira was not going to leave his room or change his behavior any time soon, they bought him his own apartment.”

  “His own apartment?” I said. “So he lives alone…?”

  “Why do you look so skeptical?”