Merchandise - A Short Story
Page 6
WHEN JIM went back down the sale the next day, he was more than just a little hesitant about it. The feeling in his chest was like a vice locked around his sternum, and then there was the electric tingle in his stomach. He knew that he shouldn’t be so nervous, having been there so many times, but it couldn’t be helped, he still felt extremely nervous.
The sky overhead was a mottled gray, dips of blue were visible every now and then, but the blinding gray of the atmosphere was almost overwhelming. It was almost blinding, the strength of it was unmatched, and it caused him to squint if he looked up directly at it.
There were a lot less people that day, he could see that, already. There were only two or three cars perhaps parked by the yard, ready to collect their things. Not a single person was walking on the road with a backpack, coming to feed their hunger.
Jim saw the sign ahead of him, it was still the same simple sign that he had seen Bram hammer into the ground weeks ago, but it had a far more ominous feel to it. Like the sight of it infected him somehow. That phrase at the bottom: “We Sell Anything” three word darts that poisoned his mind. It was like something was breathing it into him, a contaminate that would be the end of him.
Dear God, please help me.
He slowed his pace and felt the feeling begin to recede. It was as if evil had jumped on his back and then simply jumped back off. He breathed a prayer of thanks as he moved down the driveway and into the back yard with the towering white picket fence. The feeling was still strong in the air, he could still feel something very wrong—but it didn’t feel like it was weighing on his shoulders as it had been before.
The driveway was a lot smoother than it had been before, as if the pebbles had all be cleared away, which they probably had by all the foot traffic that it had received, and the grass on the sides of it seemed to be dying away, and scuffed up. The lawn itself didn’t look quite as well cared for as it had been. There was something different about the whole place, as if something was changing.
Jim was sure that something was.
He could see that there was a man wandering around from table and table, the look in his eyes was the same that he had seen in the others’: that hungry deadness.
The man was tall, wearing a white button-up shirt, and jeans. He looked very fit, a man who could really have a long life ahead of him. His eyes though, were shadowed by deep, dark circles, and thick bags that were underneath, like he hadn’t slept in days—his lips moved every now and then, mumbling to himself, almost desperately mumbling.
Jim saw him grabbing things out of the bins—things that had no practical value at all, especially not for a man like that—and Jim knew deep down that the man had to have those things. He was putting them in his sack, counting each object, placing it in there as if it were a delicate animal, carefully setting them down in there, maneuvering them so they set neatly within. Jim didn’t want to watch him continue, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away. The man was moving a little quicker from bin to bin, pulling just a bit of everything out, sorting through it seeming to be the last thing on his mind, he just had to have the things—he needed the stuff. The look in his eyes, that lustful coldness, burned brighter and brighter the more he pulled out. The stuff was becoming part of him, he could see the attachment forming in the man’s mind, worse, and he could discern the connection deep down in the man’s soul.
He managed to look away and glance at the large tent at the back that he had noticed on his last visit, though he had yet to understand its function. It was tall and bright, a white tent that looked like it belonged to a fair or carnival. The shape was a typical rectangular box with a raised top.
He glanced at a woman who was moving around among the items, her long coat was somewhat unseasonable, and the hood over her head seemed very unnecessary, but Jim didn’t see much of a point in criticizing those kinds of choices people made. If they wanted to be impractical, that was their choice.
Bram was manning the table this time. His head was bobbing to the music that streamed through the tiny earbuds in his ear. Jim couldn’t help but note the ever-present smile on his face was strangely absent. His mouth was drawn in a thick line, something that seemed foreign to his appearance.
The laptop was still in front of him, that and the cashbox. The shining metal surface gleamed back at him, bright and reflective. It was strange though, try as he might, Jim couldn’t see any people in the reflection—only the merchandise was reflected.
Jim walked past it and moved for the table with the books, his usual spot and began to scan the yard, looking for her—
Help me
—looking for Beverly. But he didn’t see her yet. He felt down inside that she was there, but he wasn’t sure where she was. It was like the fog that was over the place was hiding her.
That was very absurd, he knew that much, but he wasn’t going to ignore the possibility that there were more forces at work—it was completely possible that Bram and Linda were dabbling in things that were far more than just a good marketing strategy and stellar customer service. Jim was beginning to think there was a little more to the little never-ending yard sale than was apparent.
He glanced back at Bram, noting that he was still very busy, lost in his own little musical world.
The man with the pack had moved for the tent, the dead appetite still burning in his eyes.
It was then that he saw her. The hood and long jacket had thrown him off, but as soon as he saw her eyes he knew it was she, with her hair tied back in the hood. She saw him, and he saw a glimmer in those cobalt orbs, a glimmer of hope. She gave a small, weary smile. Jim felt his heart jump, not in boyish nervousness, suddenly aware of a girl paying attention to him, but in fear. The image of a nightmare creature clutching his leg, with a razor grin, flashed through his mind.
The smile only lasted for a split second and vanished. She suddenly looked down, glancing at Bram as she did so.
What’s wrong, Beverly? He wondered.
The man had gone into the tent.
Why are so you afraid?
Jim moved away from the books and slowly walked over to the table where she was standing. He saw her flinch, and her body jerked in the direction of the tent that she had fled to last time he had seen her, when Linda had chased her away. The jacket framed her in such a way that Jim realized how slight she was. The truth was that Beverly was a small woman, very petite, and extremely vulnerable. The hood hid her face, as if she were trying to conceal herself, hiding from the world—hiding from him.
He stopped on the other side of the table, and feigned interest in one of the boxes that was there.
He could see that that Beverly was debating whether or not to run. There was a question in her mind—a worried question. What did he want?
Jim glanced behind him and saw the man had come out of the small tent and he still had his pile of stuff. A little girl was with him. The little girl looked very familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he had seen her before—probably wandering around the sale with the man before, he just hadn’t paid enough attention. Best of all, they were both talking to Bram, keeping him occupied.
He slowly slipped a yellow piece of paper out of his pocket with a whispered rasp, and he reached for a box, and carefully dropped it on the other side of the table.
Please, God, don’t let him see.
The note landed face up, and he knew Beverly saw it. She shifted her eyes in his direction, they screamed with the question: What are you doing?
He could hear Bram talking behind him.
“…yes, we’re almost out of stock…”
The man said something unintelligible.
“…getting some more soon, we only have one left. As you can probably understand this is a…” a car blasted by the house. “…product. We only get a few.”
She looked down at the note. Jim felt his pulse rise, and his forehead broke out in a slick sweat.
She looked just as nervous, but he gestured for her to read it.
“…of course you understand the risk that comes with this particular item.” Bram droned on. Jim vaguely wondered what the devil he was talking about.
Beverly read it. Jim noticed that he was holding his breath. Her eyes widened, and he saw the fog grow heavy in them, misting over that bright blue. He knew that the three words that he had scrawled on the piece of paper.
I can help.
He glanced at the note and waited for her eyes to meet his, and he gently nodded. The note was true, he meant it, and he only hoped that she would understand that.
She seemed not to believe him for a moment, and then he saw understanding dawn on her face. It was a strange mixture of fear—the kind of fear that went deep and paralyzed you late at night when you’re sure that someone else is in the room—and joy, the kind of joy that you felt when seeing someone you love again after a long absence. Inside he felt a twist in his chest, constricting his breathing, but sending shots of excitement through him at the same time.
“I had a dream,” he said, dropping another piece of paper. “It was about you.” His voice became a whisper.
“…if you are caught with this, we cannot be involved directly. If there is any trouble, you won’t find us here. You won’t find us anywhere.” Bram’s voice was softer in the background, but Jim could still hear him going on to the customer.
Her