Push the button, push the button, push the button…
She awoke with a jolt, a short yelp escaping her lips as she knocked the almost empty vodka bottle to the floor, where it spilled onto the rug. She was immediately aware of the searing headache and dry feeling in her throat. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after four in the morning. The room was illuminated by the flickering of the television, which was now showing the weather for the coming day. She had hoped her dream would fade away like nightmares often do, but this one stayed fresh in her mind, its vividness even worse now that she was awake. Ignoring the Smirnoff induced dizziness and headache, she dragged herself to her feet, flashing the box a quick glare as she staggered to the bathroom, then to her bed where she collapsed onto the welcoming covers. This time her sleep was dreamless.
9.
Awoken by a steady pounding she thought was her headache, she slowly realised there was someone at the door. Sunlight streamed through the windows now, which only served to increase the intensity of her hangover. Every time she moved, a fresh wave of nausea would sweep over her, and as she dragged herself out of bed she wondered what life would throw at her today. She unlocked the door with clumsy hands, swung it open, finally silencing the persistent knocking. It was Mark.
“Jesus, Terri. What the hell happened to you?”
She had no strength left to fight him, and motioned for him to come in. He had his suitcase, the one she had bought him to replace the tired old sports bag he used to carry. Striding into the room he turned to look at her, an expression of genuine concern on his face.
“Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong?”
As much as she hated to show him weakness, she couldn’t help herself and began to sob hysterically. He held her in his arms and although she initially tried to fight, she gave in, enjoying the safety of the embrace.
“I just saw the news about Bob. I came right over.”
He was stroking her hair, and she hated herself for being so weak. In the end, it came down to need. He was all she had left— her cheating lowlife boyfriend.
“Let’s stop this nonsense, Terri. Let me come back and I’ll help you through this. We can do it together.”
She was starting to believe his soothing words, and realised she couldn’t last on her own; she had tried and failed miserably. Burying herself deeper into his chest, she allowed him to keep up the sweet talk.
“We don’t need to be like this with each other, baby. Come on. Let’s finally put this behind us.”
She looked up at him then, and before she could stop herself she was kissing him passionately. He responded, and the next thing she knew they were in the bedroom, joined in frenzied lovemaking. Later as she watched him dress, she felt deeply ashamed; despite her best efforts to be strong, he had won.
“I have to run, or I’m going to miss my flight.”
“Where are you going, I thought you said you were staying with me?” she said, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.
“I have a business trip to Rio—I can’t get out of it.”
She nodded, too drained to get into any kind of argument. His shoes now tied, he picked up his jacket and shrugged into it.
“If Mr. Mashima goes for the deal, then I stand a great chance of becoming junior partner. I should be back tomorrow night if all goes well.”
She didn’t care, and now felt even worse for allowing him back into her life as well as her bed.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care,” he said, and was gone without another word. She waited for the sound of the door closing, and feeling used and alone with her life in tatters, she wept.
10.
Jane’s funeral was held at Shady Oaks cemetery, with a few close family and friends in attendance. Although she was devastated by the loss, Terri found she had no tears left to cry. As the casket was lowered into the ground , she couldn’t get the Jane-ghost image out of her mind; the one with the put-back-together jigsaw face. She had gone through the standard pleasantries at the wake, making polite small-talk with people she didn’t know who all wanted the author’s opinion, and in one awkward case, asked for the details of Bob’s accident. As time dragged on, and the childhood stories became too much to bear, she made her excuses and went outside.
The air had taken a cold turn, and great rolling clouds of lead grey threatened to unleash their fury. She pulled her jacket around her, thrusting her hands into her pockets as she walked with her head down. Even though it was supposed to be about her saying goodbye to her oldest friend, all she could think about was the box. The box with the button that could set everything right in the world. As she approached her car, she was surprised to see a man standing beside it waiting for her. He was dressed in a suit that looked as if it cost more than the car itself. She put his age at around sixty, and he had fine white hair that shimmered in the wind. His eyes were pale green, and had hardness to them she immediately disliked. His face had unmistakeable waxy look of having undergone too many operations in the pursuit of youth. As she approached she noticed he was leaning on an ornate walking stick and noted that even money couldn’t buy good health.
“Miss Browning,” he said curtly as he held out a black gloved hand.
She shook it wearily.
“Yes. And you are?”
“My name is Sykes. I’m here on behalf of Webster & Fisher Publishing in regard to your current contract.”
“Mr. Sykes, this is hardly the time.”
“I do apologise for the timing. However, due to Robert’s unfortunate demise, we’re anxious to know if you’ve finished the manuscript as agreed.”
Careful here, Terri.
She didn’t like the old man. His eyes were keen and sharp, and he seemed poised like a coiled snake. She wasn’t sure if she should lie or tell the truth.
“Bob had the pages. He saw them.”
“My apologies, Miss Browning. I should be more clear. I’m afraid my reason for being here is to inform you that, due to the unacceptable delays and resulting losses, we will not be renewing your contract, and would ask that the remaining pages be turned in within forty-eight hours as per our previous arrangement.”
He reached into his coat and handed her a copy of the contract she had signed two years before.
“Look, this is completely unnecessary. Bob saw the pages, he took them with him.”
The old man paused, and smiled awkwardly. “Miss Browning, I apologise for my bluntness, but it is the only way I know. We can no longer afford the hefty costs involved with the irregular flow of your work.”
“But you just said you want the pages!”
“Indeed, but only so we might recoup some of the losses we have accrued.”
“Fine, ill re-print them and post them later today.”
“We would prefer it if you would e-mail them, Miss Browning. We wouldn’t want them to get lost in transit, now would we?”
There was a condescending tone in his voice that made her furious, but she somehow swallowed her rage. She couldn’t handle another confrontation.
“Fine. I’ll email them later today.”
“Very good. I look forward to receiving them.”
He walked past her, leaving a smell of soap and expensive aftershave.
“Miss Browning,” he said over his shoulder. “I would advise you to make haste in delivering those pages. We would have no qualms taking legal action against you for breach of contract.”
He left her standing there, furious and in shock. In her head, she could hear the disembodied ghosts of Jane and Bob from her dream.
Push the button, push the button, push the button…
11.
She usually enjoyed driving. She used to do a lot of thinking in the car, and many ideas had been born within its leather-seated confines. Usually she would be listening to music, maybe something by Coldplay. Or if she was feeling particularly nostalgic, she would whip out Meatloaf’s greatest hits and croon along to those epic ballads, even though her singing voi
ce was atrocious. Today was different however. The radio was off and she travelled in silence. She was on the same stretch of road where Bob had been killed, and her mood was sombre. Despite her best efforts to divert them, her thoughts kept coming back to the Box. Although she couldn’t blame it entirely for everything that had happened, things had certainly deteriorated since it found its way to her door—she knew that much for certain. She wondered about its origins: where it came from, and more importantly, why it came to her. She moved the car into the outside lane and noted she was about to pass the scene of Bob’s accident. The wreckage had been removed, but the evidence was still on the blacktop. Several sets of tire marks were still visible where the vehicles had tried to stop. She stifled a yawn as she passed the site, and although she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help taking a quick glance in the rearview mirror as she rolled away from it. The burned image of the Bob from her dream appeared in her mind.
“Why don’t you push the button and give me my life back?”
Although she had said it out loud to the empty car, she guessed the words might be fitting coming out of the lipless face of dream Bob, the one who wouldn’t stop invading her mind and accusing her, blaming her, pointing his blackened stub of a finger at her. She was overcome by how alone she felt, and despite the fact that she still hated him, she decided to call mark. Frowning, she picked up her phone and pressed the speed dial for his number, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could keep both hands on the wheel. She waited, and was about to hang up when the line connected.
“Hello?”
He sounded distracted, preoccupied.
“Hey, it’s me. I needed someone to talk to. I’m just on my way home from Jane’s funeral. How did the meeting go?”
“It went pretty well, actually. I think I’m close to closing the deal. How are you holding up?”
“Not great... I’m afraid to be alone.”
With the box, she almost added.
She got the impression that her call wasn’t exactly welcome, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might be with another woman.
“Well, I’ll be home tomorrow. We can talk about it then,” he replied irritably.
“Tomorrow?” I thought you said it wouldn’t take long?”
“I’m sorry, baby, but I have to look after these clients.”
“What about me? I need you to look after me right now.”
She hated how weak she sounded, but was now convinced he was up to no good. She could almost see the frown on his face as he tried to cover his tracks.
“This could be a big case for me. It’ll be worth it in the end if Mr. Mashima hires me.”
“I’m really struggling here, Mark. I need you. I think I’m losing my mind. When will you be home?”
She was crying now.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home. I may stay in a hotel tonight and head back tomorrow morning.”
She hated him for this, but hated herself more for needing him so much.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said, not hiding the fact that she was upset. Mark either ignored it, or didn’t notice.
“Ok, baby. Ok, love you. Bye.”
Before she could respond the line disconnected, and she tossed her phone onto the passenger seat in disgust. She saw a man on the side of the road just ahead—he had the classic unwashed and weathered appearance of the homeless. He was holding a crudely drawn sign, black marker on cardboard. She suspected his chances of hitching a ride were slim, and she certainly didn’t intend to pick him up. She could imagine how he would smell, like body odour and cheap wine. He flashed her a gummy grin as he held one hand out to the road, his filthy thumb poking out of a tattered glove. His sign indicated where he wanted to be. It simply read:
End of the road.
As she passed him, she felt icy fingers dance up her spine. The place the old hobo wanted to be was exactly where she felt she was heading.
Maybe you should stop for him. You can go together.
She wondered if the decrepit old man would push the reset button if he had the chance. She was considering doing so herself.
12.
Against her better judgement, she picked up another bottle of vodka on her way home, and tried to ignore the shame of being so weak. The rain had rolled in, pounding the windows with its maddening patter. For the last two hours she had been sitting in the near darkness of the apartment staring at the box. It would be so easy to just reach out, flip open the lid and press the button. But something in her restrained the desire, and it remained a standoff.
She knew she should at least try to do some work, but every time she thought about powering up the computer she remembered the message she had found, and wondered what might be waiting for her this time. Nonetheless, she had work to do. And since the weather outside matched her mood, she supposed this was as good a time as any to get the book finished.
She looked at the two evils on her coffee table, the bottle of vodka and the box, and with a surge of determination reminiscent of the old Terri, she stood quickly, crossing the room and plugging the computer back in at the wall socket.
What if there is another message?
She considered this, and then decided that the obvious answer was the best. If there was something there, she would simply delete it and then get on with her work, because that was all she knew how to do. No adulterous partner or mysterious wooden box was going to stop her. She pressed the circular power button on the computer’s silver tower, expecting the familiar sound of the system growling to life, but instead was met with a strained, ill-sounding internal chug. Her heart leapt into her mouth as she looked at the monitor, dismayed at the words on the display.
She thought it had said push the button, push the button, push the button. She was about to scream when she blinked, and saw that it read something else. Her trusty computer, the one she’d had for the last six years, was obviously sick. Now it displayed a blue screen with the words:
SATA HARD DISK DRIVE FALIURE. PRESS F1 TO CONTINUE OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.
She felt sick to her stomach. Her work, her book, her life—everything was on that computer. Like a slap in the face, it hit her. You have no backup. No hard copy. Are you fucking stupid? What the hell are you going to do now?
She wasn’t particularly computer savvy. She knew how to use Microsoft Word, access her emails, and use the internet, but that was the extent of her knowledge. She poised her fingers over the keyboard, licking her suddenly dry lips as she considered how to proceed. She pressed the F1 key, hoping it would allow her to boot into the desktop and retrieve her files. She waited as the computer struggled to process her request. Next she was met by a new line of text, as straight to the point as the first.
NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.
She hated this one-sided binary communication with the computer, and wondered if it was finally getting back at her for the recent neglect. She could imagine it speaking to her, chastising her.
You really fucked up now, didn’t you girl? Who doesn’t back up their work, especially in your field? I bet Sykes is laughing his wrinkly old ass off right now and already calling the lawyers. They are gonna take you for everything you have and then some. They’ll own you until the day you die. Why not just push the fucking button and get it over with?
“Shut up!” she croaked to the empty room. Her voice felt too high, like an over-tuned guitar string. She pressed the F1 key again, praying it would work. Again the computer thought about her request, and spat back the same message.
NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.
You don’t listen, do you Terri? That’s always been your problem. You and I are similar: fucked up on the inside, not functioning properly. Go ahead, keep pressing retry. Round and round we go. This is all your fault anyway, pulling the plug on me instead of shutting down the proper way. EVERYONE knows that’s a no-no. There is only one-way out of this, b
ut you know what that is, don’t you?
She was shaking now, her eyes hot with tears. She didn’t care. All she cared about was retrieving her work. She pressed F2, trying to ignore the imagined computer voice in her head. The rain on the windows was suddenly very loud, she could almost hear it singing to her—
Push the button, push the button, push the button….
“Shut up, all of you just shut up!” she shouted at the empty apartment. She knew how crazy she sounded, how crazy the situation was, but sometimes crazy felt right. Sometimes crazy fit like a fucking glove. She waited, hunched over in the darkness as she listened to the familiar rhythm of the computer’s internal clunking and whirring. The sound was not filling her with hope. The next message didn’t even provide helpful options, nor did it suggest any course of action. It simply read:
CRITICAL ERROR HARD DISK FALIURE.
She pressed the enter key, then the escape key but the message remained unchanged on the screen. Screaming with rage and blinded by tears, she grabbed the computer tower with both hands and picked it up, ignoring the sounds of the keyboard and mouse clattering to the floor, the sound of the monitor falling and landing screen first on the hardwood. Sobbing, she carried the tower awkwardly across the room, its wires and accessories snaking out behind it. She staggered to the balcony door, pulling against the resistance of the power outlet, which the machine was still plugged into.
It’s no coincidence that everyone around you dies, is it Terri? First Jane, then Bob, now me. What did I ever do to you? I was always there, always stood by you. And this is the thanks I get.
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 19