by Zooey Smith
From behind her came panting, the sound of something colliding with a wall.
What the fuck, she thought, what the fuck.
There was the door. She was almost there. That’s when the smell registered, hit her like a slap. Had she simply missed it before? It was obvious now that she was taking in heaving breaths. It was horrible. She couldn’t even place it.
She burst through the still open door and skidded to a stop, turning as quickly as she could and slamming the door shut. She fumbled with the handle and twisted the tiny knob that locked the door, then braced herself for impact.
“Abby?”
She jumped.
“Fuck!”
“Talk to me!”
“I’m fine. Jesus Christ.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Abby’s throat suddenly felt like it had something lodged in it. “What?” she choked out.
“Whoever was down there. We could barely see him on the cameras. We don’t even know if it was a him.”
“What else would it be?”
“Well, it was really too dark to tell. Given how little visibility we had, it could easily have been a women or even a child.”
“Oh.” Abby stepped away from the door and stared at it. She doubted it was a child. The game being played was not one for the likes of those.
The room was quiet when she held her breath. Her gaze was fixed on the door. It wasn’t going to burst open, she told herself. “I hope the folder wasn’t there, because I am not going down there again.” In fact, she had the very strong desire, an urge, to just get out of here.
“There’s only one room left, just check it on your way out. We’re sending units there now just in case.”
Abby nodded, realized Fe couldn’t see this, added, “Yeah.” She waited seconds, expecting something to slam into the door, or a shout, or noise of any kind.
Silence.
Standing there, the moments stretching out like a melting rope, she was struck by the idea that they had gone the other way, some way she hadn’t seen, and were doubling back to take her from behind.
She turned.
The kitchen door was open. There was no one here but her.
The kitchen looked old, but clean. The center of the room was taken up with an island, the white tile counter gleaming in the pale light washing in. This room was much brighter than the rest of the house, or building or whatever it was (Hell, she thought), due to the three uncovered windows. One above a large sink, and two others without much to reference them by.
She checked all the cupboards, and the street light that leaked in was enough to show her they were empty.
“There’s nothing.”
“Check the oven and fridge.”
Abby did. There was a dead rat in the oven. There was something plasticy about it, so she just told herself it was a toy. The barely glimpsed things that crawled in the dark upon it belied this.
“Was that a rat?”
Abby didn’t answer. She checked the fridge and the freezer. Both were empty. The inside smelled new, like it had never seen food. That was odd.
“Okay, I’m gone.”
“Wait. Check the freezer again.”
Abby stopped, already almost out of the room, almost out of this nightmare place, steeled herself, went back to the freezer. Peering inside, she said, “What?”
“That panel. Yeah, you see?”
On one side was a panel, distinct from its surrounds, and obviously concealing something. Abby nodded, and reached toward the bulge and pried the panel off. Taped to it was a folder, which itself was sealed with more tape. She peeled the attaching tape off, which came free easily since it was only stuck to more tape, and not the folder itself. She checked behind the panel for anything else, but there was nothing.
Abby set the folder on the center island. “Open it?”
“Uh. Just be careful.”
This would be an easy way to kill her, she thought. She somehow doubted even They would go through so much trouble, and so began opening it, slowly peeling the tape away.
“Go slow,” someone whose voice she hadn’t heard before said into her ear. She was so focused on the process of opening the folder, that by the time she registered the voice wasn’t Fe’s or Emily’s, the impulse to be surprised by an unexpected presence was gone, and her brain had informed her the voice had come from inside her ear. “No shit,” she mumbled.
She put her palm on the edge of the folder as she peeled the final strip away to prevent it from popping open.
“Get down at eye level, and slowly lift it.”
“If this blows up, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“Too thin,” that same unfamiliar voice assured her.
It looked empty. She opened it some more, then straightened. Inside was a single sheet of printer paper.
This is important. Give it to Barbara Walters. She lives at one Cherry Lane!
“Oh my god,” the champagne woman says. “That’s me.”
“Your name’s Barbara Walters?” the thirteen-year-old asks.
“No, it was a joke, from high school. And that’s my address. Well, sort of.”
Abby squints at her, says, “It was an office or something?”
“A theatre.”
“Okay,” Abby says, nodding slightly. “Interesting.”
“Where did you leave it?”
“The folder?” Abby looks to the door. “I didn’t.”
“Wait, this was tonight?”
Abby nods. “Just about caught up to real-time.”
“Holy shit. Do you still have it with you?”
Abby shakes her head. “It was just that sheet of paper anyway.”
“Was it normal paper?”
Abby thinks for a moment. “You know, no. It was… I don’t know. But yeah, I guess it wasn’t normal. I’d forgotten, but your question triggered something. It was brown, I think. Brown printer paper?”
“So what happened after? How’d you end up here?”
Abby’s Story, Continued
“1 Cherry Lane, you’re sure? There’s no such address.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Abby asked. She did so as she was passing a homeless man, who stared at her.
She was outside now, out of the horrors of that place, and in the still unsafe, but familiar nighttime streets of her city.
She paused, waiting for a reply from the voice in her head.
“Was it the word ‘one’, or the number?”
“I don’t know, the number.” Abby got out the paper. “No, the word.” She shoved it back into her pocket. The homeless man still stared at her. She absently realized she was staring at him.
“Alvereze thinks it might be a name. Give us a sec.”
“Hurry up.”
“Hey lady,” the homeless man said. “I don’t want your crazy. This is my spot.”
Abby focused on his eyes, then glanced around at the area. “It’s a sidewalk.”
“And this”—he slapped the concrete next to the blanket he was settled on—“is my spot.” A dog Abby hadn’t noticed jumped at this, and looked at its master, then at Abby. It looked pathetic.
“Goddammit.” Abby took out some money. It was a twenty. “Mother fucker.”
The man was wide-eyed, staring at her in apparent horror. He looked to be working himself up to say something. His lower jaw moved around, his lips compressing and uncompressing.
Before he could do anything, Abby tossed the bill near the dog’s paws. “Here. Buy some food with it. At least for him.”
“He’s a she,” the man said as he inched his hand toward the bill. He held it up. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe you are my kind of crazy.”
“Thanks.”
Abby walked away before he tried hitting on her, or tried pawning the dog off on her. The former wasn’t an issue, that she could handle; she wasn’t sure she could turn down the latter.
She walked around the
block once, then stopped in front of a park. “Anything?”
“What?”
“What do you mean what? Did you find anything about the not-address?”
“Yeah. Thought that’s where you were heading.”
“I’m not psychic, you need to tell me where.”
“I did.”
“You did— Whatever, tell me again then.”
She did, and Abby headed east.
The building blended in with the others, but the huge sign declaring CHERRY LANE THEATRE helped distinguish it.
“Here?”
“That’s the place.”
There was a sign taped on the brick next to the shiny red doors. It read, simply, Welcome to Candyland.
“You sure? It looks closed. I don’t even see a mail slot.”
“Like I said, that’s the place.” A pause. “This doesn’t make sense. The folder’s empty, there’s something more going on. It’s not about the folder. That seems like a red herring.” Pause. “Abby, we have something. Just get back here.”
“Should I just leave it here then?”
As if in answer, her phone rang. She took it out and looked at it, but the screen was black. “Shit.”
There was commotion in her earpiece, then, “We’re trying to remotely activate it. But Alvereze says it has voice commands. Just say ‘answer’ into the phone.”
“Answer phone,” she said, then put it to her ear. “Hello?” It rang again.
“Try it again, but louder, sometimes the mike—” the voice in her ear was cut off by Fe telling him that was enough.
“Answer!” Abby shouted at her phone, the place she thought the mike was against her mouth. She put it to her ear.
“Well. Well well, Ms Abby, it looks like you’ve made it. Thank you so very much for your service. Now, if you’d be as kind as to hand over the folder.”
Abby had the phone to her right ear, and the earpiece in her left, so she didn’t hear the car pull up.
What alerted her to the presence was the reflection in the poster box to the side of the theatre’s doors.
She turned. A black car with black windows stood idling on the street in front of her. The driver’s window rolled down, and as it did, Abby knew she was about to die.
“Are you all right?” a voice said in her ear. She didn’t know which one.
The window stopped, a quarter of the way down. Inside the car, Abby saw nothing but black. Black leather, black plastic, no lights of any kind.
“Don’t look so scared. Go ahead and put the folder in the window.”
Abby didn’t move.
“Abby,” the man said, “You need to hurry. We wouldn’t want to make a scene. And it is so cold.”
She moved. “It’s empty,” she said when she reached the car. The only light inside was that entering through the open driver’s window. There was a partition to her right, separating the back of the car from the front, but that was black too.
“Go ahead Abby. Hurry now, time is short. You have a train to catch.”
Abby had been about to drop the folder inside, but froze at this. “You said I’d be done.”
In her ear, Fe’s voice said, “We’ve got you, keep him talking, units are on their way.”
In her other, there was a sense of a pause, then the man said, “You are. Think of this as leaving work, as going home. And the train fare is on us!” He laughed. “Now go ahead and drop that folder please.”
The window began rolling up.
Abby dropped the folder and leaped back, a vivid image of her amputated arm flashing in her mind. She stumbled, but managed not to fall.
“Now, you have a train to catch.”
Abby hesitates, looks around the circle.
You frown. “So you did leave the folder?”
Abby looks at you for a moment before answering. “No, I gave it to them. I meant I hadn’t left it at the theatre.”
“Oh,” you say. The way she responded, there’s something off there. You can’t put your finger on it though.
“What did they want you back there for?” the quiet woman asks. “Were the police able to track them?”
Abby doesn’t look at her as she responds. “No.” She pauses; it’s brief, but you’re sure she’s hiding something.
Then again, after everything that happened, maybe it’s just hard for her to relive.
Abby takes a deep breath, goes on. “After that, they told me I’d be seeing Ecks soon.”
“Wait,” the champagne woman says. “Did you hear that?”
You want to tell her to shut up and let Abby finish—this is almost it, this is the part you’ve been waiting for, the part where you find out what the hell had happened to Ecks, this is the end—but then you hear it too.
“Yeah,” the long-haired man says.
“Rescue!” the thirteen-year-old shouts, shooting up, story forgotten. She runs to the door and flings it open and is gone into the smoke.
“Oh,” the doctor’s wife says, “it’s gotten worse.”
You glance at the quiet woman, then get up and check. The thirteen-year-old is climbing through the hole as you get outside. “Need help?” you ask.
“Fine,” she calls back, then drops through. Several of the others join you out here. Through the hole the girl dropped through, you hear a man shouting, then her saying, “Lots, back here!”
And then there is a lot of shouting, and expressions of joy and relief.
The firefighters, with the help of police and medics, widen the gap enough to allow everyone to pass though without having to climb. One blow triggers a large arc of electricity, and your mind goes back to when you wiggled through it right after Abby found you. You glance at her. You need to keep track of Abby Melcer.
But in the chaos that ensues, you lose sight of her, are guided by someone with the best of intents, are climbing, through a shaft, hands gripping and pulling, and then you’re on the surface, and you have an oxygen mask, and you feel calmer about everything than perhaps you should.
At the hospital, you try to find Abby.
The thirteen-year-old gives you a hug as she’s leaving, the people with her apparently her parents. She introduces you to them, doesn’t specify their relation, just names, and they smile and shake your hand, but you’re not really paying attention, and the names slip from your mind almost as soon as they enter it.
Once you’re free, you wander again in search of Abby. When you ask a nurse, she forces you to go back to your room and rest until the doctor comes in. You apologize and say, “Of course, what was I thinking?” and smile stupidly at her and head back in the direction of your room.
You pass it without stopping. There’s nothing of value there, and no evidence, yet. You exit though the automatic double doors, boldly, like you have every right. No one tries to stop you.
The quiet woman is waiting for you already, beside a white car.
“Get in,” she says.
You do.
She drops you off at your current apartment, and gives you a scrap of paper. You read it and nod, then exit the car without a word.
The building’s door has a piece of paper wedged in it to keep it open. You remove this as you pass through. Your door is unlocked, but you lock it behind you.
You look to the little LED set next to the light switch. Red, which means safe. You smile.
You plan on taking a shower, but as soon as you hit the bed, or so you will recall later, you are asleep.
…
You awake to a phone call. It is the man Abby referred to as faceless, which, you decide, is apt.
Someone will be by to pick you up and debrief you in one hour. He tells you to take a shower.
As always, you try to slyly search the bathroom for where a camera might be hidden. As always, you fail to locate anywhere one might be. You remain convinced that there is one, and that it is watching you now.
Your phone rings one and a half times, and you exit your apartment, leaving the door ajar, since this
will be the last time you use it.
Your driver says nothing to you the whole way.
He drops you off, and then leaves. You watch him go. He hits a red stoplight, and you decide to wait until it turns green to enter.
It changes. The car moves, and so do you.
You proceed through three doors on the third floor, and come into a room that has nothing but the faceless man. He points to a spot on the floor, and you take a seat. You try to get comfortable by crossing your legs, and don’t let the discomfort of the hard floor show on your face.
He begins questioning you. You tell him Abby’s story matched what you already knew.
“What do you mean, almost?”
Did you say ‘almost’? you wonder. You must have accidently said it. “Some details, small things. Nothing important.”
You think the man stares at you, but it is hard to tell.
After a period of time, he seems satisfied; though it really is difficult to tell with him.
He tells you to leave, and you do. Outside, there is no car waiting for you. This means you will have to walk. At least you get to go home, you think. You breathe in, take in the darkening sky. The moon is already visible. A slight smile begins on your face. You exhale, and head into the approaching night.
…
A figure watches you as you walk away. The figure stays hidden in shadows. There are glimpses: the movement of a shadow, the fluttering of cloth briefly in streetlight, perhaps a cape, you might think, if you had seen it.
The figure follows you all the way to your destination, and you have the vague sense you’re being watched.
But no, your job is done now. There is no reason for that anymore.
…
Your house is in sight, and it fills you with something that’s hard to put into words. The key is right in the planter where you expect.
“I’m home,” you call. Your voice echoes, and when it reaches you again, something inside your chest drops. “Hello?”
There is no answer. You check one bedroom, then the next. Empty, no one occupying them. Maybe they’re just out, you think.
Your bedroom door is shut. You consider knocking, but there need be no privacy between the two of you. Even now, you hope, expect even, to see someone you love. Yet what you see is not that person, nor any person at all.