“Donnie’s no cheat,” Donna said. She smiled. “He knows what I’d do to him if he ever did.”
Amanda laughed. “Out come the scissors. Oh, hey—I should get going. Quinn just got home.”
“Give my love to my favorite nephew,” Donna said.
“I will. And hang in there, okay? Call if you need me.”
They said their goodbyes. Donna hung up the phone and looked at the mixing bowl. After spending most of the day in a restless fervor, she decided she would bake a chocolate cake—from scratch, with peanut butter icing. It was Donovan’s favorite, and would serve as her olive branch. She couldn’t stand for him to be mad at her. She’d gone over every possible reason as to why he would act in such a manner toward her, and their argument was the only logical solution.
It didn’t help that she had been plagued by sporadic migraines all week. That was another odd thing. The headaches came out of nowhere, in strange, buzzing surges that filled her head with a dull, blinding pain. They made it hard to concentrate on anything, and always erupted at the most inopportune moments.
She’d tried explaining it to Donovan, but he was distant and quiet. Some nights she thought he was with her in the living room, but when she would look over, his chair would be empty. Sometimes, when he was there, he said strange things that didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t remember what they were. She went to bed alone, and her concerns grew as the days went by.
Had she gone too far? The more she strained to remember the details of their argument, the more they seemed to slip away. She remembered her tone, and regretted it. She remembered the gist of what she’d said, and that it was honest. She was tired of always saving, always scrimping for a goal that he kept pushing farther back. It disappointed her, seeing her husband slowly transform into the man he was, when she remembered how vibrant and lively he was in college.
Donna smiled. Those were better days. She loved Donovan with all her heart—always would—but she admitted to herself that this week tested her resolve. It simply wasn’t like him to ignore her. That morning he hadn’t even said goodbye. She’d called her sister to vent, and now suspected Amanda was already on the phone with their mother, spilling the latest gossip.
One of the headaches crept into her forehead. She winced, steadied herself against the kitchen counter, and waited for it to subside.
When the migraine passed, she looked at the clock. Donovan would be home in an hour. She turned on the radio and went about preparing his cake.
There came a knock at the door. Donna turned down the radio, listening. They were quick knocks, paced evenly in threes.
Knock-knock-knock.
She wiped flour from her hands and left the kitchen. There was a man at the door, his features distorted by its segmented windows. He wore a suit. Great, she thought, a salesman.
Donna unlocked the door, and pulled it open. When she saw the look in his eye, she caught the door with her foot, wishing she’d not opened it. There was something wrong about him, the way he looked at her, and it was even more apparent when she saw his clothes. He wore a large, green coat over a tattered suit. His tie was torn in half and hung limp, its threaded entrails stretching the length of his stained, white shirt. His hair was long and matted, peppered with slick, silver strands. The thick lenses of his glasses were smudged, giving his large eyes a cloudy appearance. He could’ve been a salesman, if he wasn’t so dirty.
Her breath caught in her throat. The smell was terrible. The man looked beyond her, into the kitchen. Donna tightened her grip on the doorknob.
“Afternoon, ma’am.”
“Can I help you?” She forced a smile. The stench made her eyes water.
“Are you Donna Candle?”
“Yes,” she said. His eyes darted back and forth, focusing on her and something behind her. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you, mister?”
His lips curved into a nervous smile, and before she could react, his hand was on the door. He shoved his weight against it with such force that it sent her sprawling. The room danced for a moment as she fell, and when she collapsed, the world went dark.
• • •
Donovan caught the middle of another interview with Dr. Albert Sparrow while inching along the highway. As traffic ground to another stand-still, Donovan turned up the volume to drown out the surrounding noise of idling engines and horn blasts.
“—sometimes, when we’re at our very limit, we may find ourselves in what I have labeled a state of liminality.”
“Liminality?” asked the host.
The line of cars in front lurched forward a few more inches. Donovan flickered, and for a span of seconds he saw the white figures wandering between the rows of traffic.
“Yes, liminality. A state of transition. Think of it as if you were standing in a doorway, with one foot inside and one foot out.”
“So you’re saying mediocrity places us ‘in the doorway,’ so to speak?”
“Something like that, yes. In this so-called doorway, a person stands on the threshold of two states—one of complete, dissolute anonymity, and one of profound activity. In my book, I—”
Here comes the sales pitch, Donovan mused. He switched off the radio. Traffic eased up, and ten minutes later he pulled into his driveway. He parked the car, took a breath, and approached the door. On a whim, he called out to Donna as he turned the knob and stepped inside.
“Honey, I’m—”
His voice failed him, his brain refusing to accept the message relayed by his eyes. For a moment, every mental function shut down, and he forgot to breathe. His aborted greeting echoed across the entrance and into the kitchen. He had an unobstructed view of the disarray. Once his mind thawed enough to allow simple thought processes, he began to absorb all that he saw.
The garbage can was on its side, leaving trash strewn across the tile floor. Package wrappers, soda cans, and potato peels mingled with an overturned canister of flour and a puddle of milk. Some eggs remained on the counter, while others were crushed into a runny, yellow amalgam on the floor. Donna’s mixing bowl sat on the counter next to a jar of peanut butter.
What the hell happened?
He imagined Donna in the process of baking something when all this happened. He took a step forward and saw the scattered pattern of footprints in the dusting of flour. A cold shard of ice shot down the length of his spine.
It was the ensemble of cutlery scattered across the floor at the end of the room that finally jarred him from his panic. The wooden block, home to all of Donna’s sharp knives, was overturned in front of the refrigerator door. His blood pressure rose as he looked at their chaotic placement across the tile. His heart beat a tribal call in his chest. He knew from the assortment that there weren’t enough knives. Some of them were missing.
In his panic, Donna’s name became a constant thrum, creating an inner vibration that urged him to move.
“Donna?” he called out. He didn’t like the sound of his voice. It sounded too small, too weak, and he realized it didn’t matter because she probably couldn’t hear him, anyway.
Might be best shut your mouth, hoss. S’pose you ain’t alone?
If he wasn’t alone, then who might still be in the house with him? His imagination built the scenario. Donna was preparing to bake a cake when someone—man or woman, it didn’t matter—burst into the room, catching her off guard, and—
He looked at the knives again. The mental scenario played on in the back of his head. He pictured a person in a black ski mask lurking in their bedroom closet. Donna was on the bed, bound, and gagged. Seeing her there in such a state, he would rush in with his guard down, and then—
He swallowed, and his throat clicked. His heart beat with such force that his whole body shook. Donovan blinked. He knelt, plucking a steak knife from the floor, and followed signs of the struggle into the dining room.
Donovan froze. Blood dotted the table cloth. He moved along the edge of the table, whispering a silent prayer that it didn’t belong
to his wife. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult.
He saw Mr. Precious Paws on the other side of the table, and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees and found that he could not blink. The first thing that came to mind was a simple, absurd thought: So that’s what happened to the knives.
Mr. Precious Paws lay sprawled on the floor, the largest of Donna’s butcher knives buried in his back. Another jutted out the back of the cat’s neck, indicated by a stream of arterial spray that hit the opposing wall and formed a dark trail leading back to the dead animal. Mr. Precious Paws’ eyes were dilated, affixed on a point in space beyond the room. He looked terrified.
Donovan bit his lower lip and grimaced at the taste of bile at the back of his throat. His efforts couldn’t last, and he retched.
“Mr. Precious Paws,” he whimpered. The reality of the situation struck him. “Oh God, Donna!”
Blinded by panic, Donovan dropped the knife as he scrambled out of the room and up the stairs. He called out to his wife as he ran, his heart exploding in his chest. He threw open the bedroom door, ignorant of the scenario concocted by his imagination. She wasn’t on the bed, nor was there a masked man waiting to ambush him.
“Donna!” He screamed until his throat burned, the words scratching their way out of him like a frightened animal. The bathroom was empty, as were the office and spare bedroom at the end of the hall. Donna, his mind raced. Donna, Donna, Donna. Spots of black and purple blossomed across his field of vision, and he teetered on his feet.
When the splotches of color dimmed, Donovan found himself filled with a new urgency. The cops. He had to call the cops. On his way into the office, he realized he’d trampled right through the crime scene. They’ll get over it, hoss. Hopper’s words cooled him. He sucked in his breath and reached for the phone—when it rang.
It startled him. He looked at the black cordless as though he’d never seen it before, its screen lighting up to say UNKNOWN CALLER. Donovan pressed TALK. He lifted it to his ear and tried to speak, but his quivering jaw did not make it easy. The tears were already streaming down his face.
“H-Hello?”
A hiss of electronic noise filled his ears, and the drone took shape as a man’s voice.
“Hello, Mr. Candle.”
He recognized the soft-spoken voice. Realization spread through him in the form of a chill. The hairs on his arms and neck stood at attention. He shook so badly that he almost dropped the phone. How? he wondered. How could that man get my number? He had to hang up and call the police. He didn’t have time for this, he had to—
“Are you with me, Mr. Candle?”
Donovan dry-swallowed. “I’m here.”
“Good.” The nameless man chuckled. “How is this for interesting, Mr. Candle?”
For an instant, the man’s reference was lost on him, but it all came racing back to Donovan in a heated reverie: I guess if something interesting doesn’t happen to me soon, I may disappear for good.
Everything clicked. An icy feeling settled in the bottom of his gut.
More electronic noise filled the line. When it subsided, the man was chuckling again. It made Donovan’s heart stop.
The unknown caller’s voice changed, imbued with the white noise of the line.
“Is this interesting enough for you?”
• 5 •
PUPPETS
Donovan gaped into the phone. Words failed him.
“Well, Mr. Candle?”
The stark, electronic buzz rose up again, accenting the man’s words. Donovan gripped the phone while thoughts raced laps around his head.
“Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
“There will be time for introductions later, Mr. Candle. Please answer my question.”
Donna, he thought. Oh God, Donna, what has he done to you? A thick cloud of heat surrounded his face. Donovan’s knees buckled, and he sank into his office chair.
“Mr. Candle.”
“What question? Look, I—”
“Is this interesting enough for you?”
He swallowed air. The lump tightened in his throat. “Yes.”
“Good.” The soft-spoken man seemed pleased. His tone lightened, now almost jovial. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Aleister Dullington.”
Donovan closed his eyes. “Mr. Dullington, did you take my wife? Did you hurt her?”
“Do not despair, Mr. Candle. I assure you that your wife is quite safe—for now.”
For now. The bottom dropped out of Donovan’s gut. Keep it together, hoss.
“Where is she?”
“In due time.”
Donovan shot out of his seat. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“You tell me where she is, you son of a bitch. You tell me now.”
“Now, now, Mr. Candle. It is not wise to curse the one who determines whether your precious Donna lives or dies.”
The sudden rush of adrenaline left him. He felt weak, feeble. He sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. Whether your precious Donna lives or dies. The words tumbled and spun in his head, bouncing off images of the kitchen and dead cat. He’s hurt her, oh God, he’s hurt her or he’s going to hurt her, or—
“Calm yourself, Mr. Candle. What I have to tell you will be most displeasing.”
Sweat dotted his forehead. The air in the room was suddenly very suffocating. Donovan took it all in with one prolonged breath. He held it in his chest, letting it burn through his lungs, before slowly exhaling. His heart calmed.
“I’m listening.”
“You are a boring man, Mr. Candle.”
“Boring?” he snorted. His wife was missing, and this guy on the line had the gall to criticize him? “Where is Donna? I want to talk to her right now—”
“I ask for your patience, Mr. Candle.” Aleister Dullington remained calm, his voice reflecting no emotion. He spoke in measured syllables, with a flat intensity which ran beneath every vowel and consonant. “Do not push me. Or else.”
Donovan shut his mouth. He tried to ignore the thoughts racing through his head, and took another deep breath. He held it inside longer than the last one.
“You are boring. You have spent the last nine years of your life in a job that stifles you. You slave toward empty goals making empty promises to yourself and your wife.”
“Mister, I don’t need your insults.”
“These are not insults, Mr. Candle, these are truths. If you find them insulting, I implore you to consider why that might be.”
Donovan choked back a bitter reply.
“The transparency afflicting you is what I refer to as the ‘flickering.’ It is the result of your supersaturation with mediocrity.”
“What?” The exasperation in his own voice startled him. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this bullsh—”
“Mr. Candle, if you interrupt me again, I will see to it that your wife’s non-vital organs are separated from her body.” His voice darkened, tinged with electronic resonance that made the phone hiss. “We will start with her ovaries.”
Donovan fought back tears. His mounting frustration broke and withered under the man’s threat.
“Do I have your undivided attention now, Mr. Candle?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Your life is saturated with mediocrity. As a result, you are flickering out. You are experiencing odd things, seeing things that should not be, your vision reduced to shades of gray.”
“Yeah.”
“Indeed. You are seeing the world behind the world, a place I call the Monochrome. This is where you will end up, should you fail to cure your banality.”
His head spun. The strange man’s words tumbled through his mind as he tried to process everything. Monochrome? A world behind the world? The words sounded ridiculous when spoken aloud, and Donovan would have discounted them as the ramblings of a mad man had he not experienced things exactly as Dullington described them.
But there w
as something else, something far worse than his own absurd affliction. Donna was gone, and Dullington was behind it. That was all Donovan needed to make him forget himself. It was all about Donna now, flickering be damned.
“Are you still with me, Mr. Candle?”
“I am.”
“You may speak. I am eager to hear your response.” Aleister Dullington’s voice was cold, proper. Professional.
“What have you done with my wife?” The words numbed his lips.
“Mrs. Candle is well.”
“Answer my question.” His temper rose, but he tried his best to keep it under control. To ignite Dullington’s own fuse, which he suspected was quite short, would be a grave error—not just for Donna, but for himself.
“Your ire is encouraging.” The upward pitch in Dullington’s voice gave Donovan the image of a smile on an otherwise expressionless face. He couldn’t fathom how someone could smile in such a situation, but then again, this man hardly seemed normal.
“I like a good show, Mr. Candle, and you seem like a man with the potential to deliver. For this reason alone, I offer you an opportunity to redeem yourself.” He paused. Static filled the line for a moment, then subsided. “Forgive me. You asked a question, and I will answer. Your wife is bound ankle and wrist. A bag covers her head. Before you ask, Mr. Candle, no. No one has had their way with her—yet.”
Donovan clenched his teeth at that last detail. Thinking of Donna in such a predicament made his helplessness in the matter even more unbearable. He pictured her smiling face instead.
“Go on,” he said.
“As to where she is, I am afraid I cannot tell you right now. All you need to know is that she is safe, and as comfortable as her situation allows.”
“Why are you doing this to her?” His throat clicked when he swallowed, and he fought against the nausea stirring in his stomach.
Dullington went on, ignoring Donovan’s question. “I am a reaper of boredom, Mr. Candle, I feed on it. It is my sustenance, and the Monochrome—the world behind your world—is my realm. The flickering brings you here.”
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