Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

“Who?”

  “Samuel Greenburg. He wants you to write a piece on him to, in his words, ‘undo the damage you’d done by writing that New York Times article,’” he said, stroking a gaudy gold necklace floating on a puffy morass of gray chest hair.

  “Okay,” Jenna said, sulking.

  Like many baby boomers, De Genova had stumbled into his position without much effort or talent when jobs were as plentiful as sand grains. But what De Genova lacked in intellect he more than made up for in reading people.

  “What’s wrong? This assignment too good for you?” he said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your fancy shmansy Ivy League degrees. You work for me, hon. You’ll write what I say.”

  Jenna put her hand on his desk to avoid passing out. Sam Greenberg, media mogul extraordinaire. The same old arrogant bastard who’d gotten her fired from The New York Times for writing the truth.

  “Okay,” she said, grabbing a clump of hair she uprooted a bit too easily.

  “Forget what you’re working on now,” De Genova said, “If we don’t publish this piece, Greenburg’s gonna buy our paper and fire us both.”

  “Fine,” Jenna said, dejected. “I’ll reach out to his assistant tomorrow to set up an interview. For now, I’d like to do more work on that ‘cult house’ piece.”

  “No. You’ll interview him now. He’s waiting outside.”

  ***

  Clad in a navy blue suit, Egyptian cotton shirt, and a mauve power tie, Greenburg held court in his limo.

  “You’re late, Miss Williams,” he said, scowling.

  “If you expect me to be on time, try calling me before you schedule a meeting,” she said. “Why am I here?”

  “You’re here because you want to keep your job.”

  Jenna clenched her jaw. She had to keep it together. She loathed Greenburg. But if she didn’t cooperate, he’d spend millions on a worthless tabloid just for the satisfaction of firing her.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Greenburg?” she said, fighting back an urge to empty her stomach.

  He smiled. “Now that’s a better attitude.” He pulled out a highlighted copy of her New York Times article. “I wanted to spend our time correcting the many errors you made here.”

  For the next hour, the man droned on about his business principles, which, from Jenna’s point of view, only made sense if one started out with extreme wealth.

  Finishing, he said, “If there’s one principle every American should understand, it’s this: being poor is a choice.”

  Waking from a stupor induced by Greenburg’s narcissism, Jenna said, “Wait, what?”

  He groaned. “Haven’t you been listening? I’ll say it again because it’s important. Being poor is a choice. People are poor because they choose to be.”

  It was easy for him to say. Some are born with silver spoons, but Greenburg was born with a sliver kitchen. Rather than call out his ignorance, Jenna held back her rage, managing a noncommittal, “I see.”

  Greenburg grabbed a tuft of her hair, and it came off without resistance. “Miss Williams, are you sick? Your hair’s falling out.”

  She had been having a lot of hair and skin problems ever since her first trip to Chandler’s Hollow, but she refused to give the man an inch. “No, I’m fine.”

  He smiled. Then he reached out and fondled her breasts.

  She froze. It was so surreal she didn’t know how to react. Then, she slapped him and made for the limo door.

  He grinned. “I sure can’t wait to read all the wonderful things you’re going to say about me.”

  Jenna stormed out of the limo and slammed the door.

  ***

  At dusk, Jenna drove her rusty cherry 1998 Corolla along the potted roads leading to Chandler’s Hollow. She parked her car in an empty field hidden behind a line of oak and maple trees. An icy wind whistled through their branches. Jenna pulled out a map she’d pieced together from her research and made her way toward the shed.

  As she ventured deeper into the old growth forest, a faint metallic chirping echoed in the gloom. The sound crescendoed. She stopped. Dusk faded into darkness. The moon cast a pale glow on the dark woods.

  Something rustled in a thicket ahead. She strained her eyes. Moonlight glinted off its slick black form. A cloaked thing lumbered toward her.

  The chirping intensified. A man-thing darted from the trees. A whirling mass of tentacles, it was a mix of insect and cephalopod. The proboscis and antennae on its insect-like head quivered.

  Mother! Its thoughts infested her mind.

  It raced toward her. She screamed. Then it vanished, fading into the ether.

  Flashlights!

  “Who’s there!” a woman shouted.

  Jenna sprinted to her car. She fumbled with her keys. After unlocking the door, she rolled into the driver’s seat. Shaking, she rotated the key in the ignition. The engine cranked, then puttered out. Engines roared to life in the murk.

  She pumped fuel into the engine. Nothing. She turned her key again. “C’mon,” she said, staving off panic. The engine cranked, then whimpered to a dull hum. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The car’s wheels kicked up clumps of wet mud in their wake.

  Lights behind washed out her vision. She struggled to see the road ahead. They drew closer. She accelerated. She glanced back. Two black Broncos with stadium lights.

  One truck surged into the opposite lane. It roared past her. Cutting back into her lane, it boxed her in. She stomped on her brakes. Shadows poured out of the truck. She locked her doors.

  A flashlight rapped on her window. She froze, terrified. Another rap. Then a metallic click.

  “Wait! Don’t shoot her,” a woman yelled. “She is of the brood.”

  Jenna revved her engine and sped away, glad to be alive.

  ***

  Doctor Eli Rosen’s patchy beard looked like a cluster bomb had exploded on his face and given birth to a staph infection. He was bald. He wore a plaid suit straight out of the seventies. It was so wrinkled it might as well have been laundered in a dishwasher. His office was a disorganized stew of coffee stains, stacked books, crimpled papers, and scrawled mathematical equations. There was no place for Jenna to sit. The room smelled of popcorn, sweat, mildew, and meat.

  After Jenna recounted her tale, she said, “Dr. Rosen, I’ve been rude. I was so upset by what happened last night I never asked about your background.”

  Rosen smiled. “I’m an Assistant Professor of Quantum Parapsychology. Until 2007, Quantum Parapsychology was part of an interdisciplinary effort between the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory and the Department of Astrophysical Sciences. My research focuses on understanding parapsychological phenomena at the quantum level. I’m trying to reconcile quantum mechanical principles with gravitation theory at the quantum scale to learn more about the behavior of dark matter and dark energy.”

  “What’s that got to do with the paranormal?” she said.

  “My paranormal work centers on my theory that most supernatural activity can be explained by the interaction between matter and dark matter. Most reported extrasensory phenomena operate on higher dimensions than we’re capable of perceiving. Humans sense the world in only four dimensions—height, width, depth, and time. Paranormal entities are nothing more than hyper-dimensional beings composed of dark matter.”

  Confused, Jenna scratched her head, uprooting another patch of hair. “What does this have to do with the shed?”

  Rosen hesitated. His eyes widened. Then he said, “Well, Miss Williams, I’m familiar with Chandler’s Hollow lore. Most of it is bunk, but bunk based on real phenomena.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, some of the lore describes the shed as a satanic cult house. But there’s nothing in the historical record that lends credence to those stories. However, Chandler’s Hollow apparition sightings stretch back over ten thousand years. Your story is just the most recent one.”

  “Well, what did I see out there?”

  Rosen grabbed
Jenna by the shoulders, and said, “Despite what you might think, you didn’t see a ghost. It was something much worse.”

  She shuddered. “What do you mean?”

  Rosen stroked his beard. “The being you saw occupied an adjacent dimension leaking into our own. For a brief time, that dimension resonated at the same frequency as ours.”

  Rosen’s phone rang, rattling Jenna. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said, “I’m sorry, but I have to take this. Perhaps we can catch up later this week?”

  She nodded. A swirl of emotions tugged at her ranging from morbid curiosity to sheer terror.

  ***

  After she left Princeton, Jenna didn’t return to her desk until late afternoon. Seconds after she sat down, De Genova hovered over her cubicle like a Predator drone.

  “Let me see the article,” he said.

  “Which one?” she said, feigning ignorance.

  “The Greenburg piece,” he said, frowning.

  “Why the urgency? Why now? Why can’t I get it to you later this week?”

  “Because Greenburg keeps harassing me. And publishing that article is the only thing that’ll shut him up.”

  “Fine. I’ll get it to you first thing tomorrow morning.”

  De Genova wagged his finger at her. “Okay. But it had better be on my desk. First thing.”

  “Will do,” she said. Apparently satisfied, he left her cubicle.

  She took a deep breath. She fired up her laptop and opened a new file. Staring at a blank screen, she struggled to write something redeeming about a distinctly unredeemable man.

  Jenna typed to get the words flowing. Then she stopped; then she started again. By eight p.m., she had only written a paragraph.

  The phone rang.

  She answered. The electronic screeching and wailing on the other end sounded like a fax mixed with a Tibetan chant without words. Yet, somehow, she knew she had to go to the shed.

  She dialed Rosen.

  “We need to go to the shed tonight,” she said. “I can’t explain how I know, but something’s calling me there.”

  “I wish I could join you,” Rosen said, “but I have a prior commitment this evening. And there’s no way I can get out of it. Let’s catch up tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said, disappointed. “I’ll call you with an update tomorrow.”

  ***

  Jenna saw the shed for the first time amid a row of gnarled and sickly oak, ash, and maple trees. Their trunks twisted away from the ancient, dilapidated log cabin as if straining to avoid some unseen malady. The starry vastness of the evening sky cast a pale glow over the shed’s dark edifice.

  Nary a blade of grass grew within a hundred feet of the structure. Windows shaped like inverted crosses stamped the shed’s timber flanks. A tiny human sentinel stood vigil before the shed’s double doors.

  Jenna crept forward. A rough semicircle of jagged things lay behind the shed. As she drew closer, the objects resolved to translucent forms of the strange being that had hunted her during her last visit. It was as though they had molted, shedding their chitinous exoskeletons. The solitary figure watched Jenna approach.

  Lily!

  Once Jenna was within earshot, Lily said, “I’m here to serve.”

  The shed’s double doors burst open. Things, terrible things poured out. Their tentacles smothered the child, then ripped her apart in a riot of blood and viscera.

  Jenna wanted to scream. But the sight also evoked far baser instincts of hunger, of violence, of longing.

  The creatures and their carapaces evaporated.

  ***

  Jenna drove to work at sunrise. She’d been unable to sleep. Her mind raced, trying to process what she’d seen.

  She called Dr. Rosen at seven thirty. He sounded groggy, but after she’d related her experience, his voice grew animated.

  “Did Chilcott tell you about the cave paintings?” he said.

  “Yes, but what’s that got to do with what I saw?”

  “Everything. Are you familiar with a cicada’s lifecycle?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Rosen, but what do ten-thousand-year-old cave paintings have to do with the lifecycle of a cicada?”

  Rosen flashed a mischievous smile. “Why everything, Miss Williams.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, to be more precise, your ten-thousand-year-old cave painting is actually ten thousand three hundred and thirty three.”

  Jenna raised an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly know that.”

  “Sure I can. Uranium-thorium dating gets you to ten thousand three hundred years. The more precise number is ten thousand three hundred and thirty three because it’s both a prime and an apocalyptic number.”

  “What’s that got to do with cicada lifecycles?”

  “Cicada broods emerge once every thirteen or seventeen years—both primes. When cicadas surface, they do so in overwhelming numbers. Their predators can’t possibly eat enough of them to drive them to extinction. Etymologists believe cicadas’ prime number lifecycles are an adaptation that prevents predators from synchronizing their own generations to divisors of the cicada emergence period.”

  “Okay,” Jenna said, skeptical.

  “Now, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with what you encountered in Chandler’s Hollow.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “In brane theory, physicists conjecture that there’s a multiverse of an infinite number of universes. These universes vibrate at different frequencies in higher dimensional space. Some resonate at the same periodicity but are slightly out of phase. You see, there’s an adjacent universe that intersects our own at Chandler’s Hollow. This nearby dimension is out of phase with our reality by ten thousand three hundred and thirty three years. My theory is that the shed acts as some sort of hyper-dimensional tuning fork.”

  “Are you saying what I saw was real?”

  Rosen nodded. “Yes. But the two realities aren’t quite in phase yet, so what you saw probably seemed like a mirage. In the coming days, these sightings will become more anchored to our reality as we, in turn, become more anchored to theirs.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Well, based on the cave paintings and the broader North American archaeological record, it doesn’t bode well. When our world was last in phase with theirs, there was a mass extinction. Whatever inhabits that reality has a lifecycle whose cadence is resurgent every ten thousand three hundred and thirty three years. And whatever emerges from that realm when it is in superposition with our own eats large mammals.”

  Jenna felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned to see a grimacing De Genova. He pointed at the phone, motioning for her to hang up.

  Disappointed, she said, “Doctor Rosen, can I call you back?”

  “Sure,” Rosen said.

  She hung up the phone.

  “Where’s my goddamn story?” De Genova said, flaring his nostrils.

  Her heart sank. In all of the excitement, she’d forgotten about her promise to get him the Greenburg article.

  “I’m so sorry, Nick. Something really weird happened last night. So strange that I’d like to bring Marty with me next time to get some pictures,” she said, alluding to the paper’s one and only photographer.

  “Really?” he said. “You blow off our single most important story, and then have the balls to demand more resources?”

  “I know. I’m really sorry. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

  “If Greenburg weren’t so insistent that you write the article, I’d fire you on the spot. The good news is he wants to discuss the article with you tomorrow evening over dinner. So you still have time.”

  Jenna was both horrified and relieved. On the one hand, she had to suffer Greenburg again. On the other, she’d still have a job.

  De Genova stared at her, his face registering concern. “By the way, you also might want a dermatologist to check out that rash on your face.”

  Self-conscious, she touched her face. It
had the texture of sandpaper. “I will,” she said, half-heartedly.

  ***

  Jenna fidgeted with her black velvet dress’s straps at the entrance of The Excelsior, a high-end restaurant on Pennsylvania’s Main Line. She hated dressing up for social occasions. Especially when the only outfit she could afford came from a thrift shop.

  “There she is!” Greenburg said, gloating, as he entered the restaurant. His overstated white tuxedo definitely sent a message. She just wasn’t sure it was the one he’d intended.

  He eyed her up and down, giving her a creepy vibe. “You know, you really should have dressed better,” he said. “People are gonna think you’re my whore.”

  “That implies you only have one.”

  He glared at her. “Watch it. I’m trying to educate you. Successful people dress well.”

  Before Jenna could respond, the maître d’ escorted them to a table against the restaurant’s far wall. Jenna tried to sit against the wall, but Greenburg blocked her with his arm. “That’s my seat.”

  It wasn’t worth fighting over something so juvenile, so she let it go. “Why did you summon me?” she said.

  “I want to make sure the article you write is fair and accurate.”

  “I already wrote a fair and accurate article in The New York Times.”

  “You know nothing about good business, Miss Williams. Journalism is a world of gray, not black and white.”

  “No, Mr. Greenburg. Journalism aims for truth. My article was entirely factual.”

  He wagged his finger. “Your article was a character assassination filled with baseless allegations. You misquoted me in every respect.”

  Jenna guffawed. “Really? You weren’t accused of sexual misconduct by at least ten of your former female employees?”

  “Those were unproven allegations. When you’re a successful billionaire, people constantly try to exploit your wealth.”

  “So you don’t deny those allegations.”

  His face reddened. “That’s not at all what I said. Are you really sure you went to Harvard?”

  “I’m sure. Given your daddy’s wealth and connections, why couldn’t you get into Harvard? What’s your excuse?”

  He glowered at her and then said, “Being poor is a choice. And it’s clear from your sinking career trajectory that you’re an untalented shrew.” He pulled out a cigar, lit it, and blew smoke in her face.