“Don, I can’t decide if you’re crazy or not.”
“Funny.”
Michael smirked. “Y’know, I thought you were joking when I got your message earlier.”
“Joking?” Donovan set down his glass with a loud clank. “Donna is fucking gone, Mike. My wife is—” He bit his lip. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, and wasn’t certain he wanted to.
Michael frowned. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it like that. All I meant was, nothing unexpected ever happens to you.”
Donovan opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short. His brother was right, nothing unexpected ever happened to him. He’d lived his life in a safety net of his own construction, going about his days without so much as a variation in routine or structure. It had led him down this path, and now Donna’s life was at stake because of it.
“Anyway, you’ve got a point about the cops. They’d have you locked up under suspicion while they search your house.”
“That’s why I called you instead. At least you’d hear me out before calling the men in white coats to carry me away.”
Michael smirked. “Jury’s still out on calling the men in white coats; your story’s logic doesn’t add up.”
“My story’s logic?”
“Yeah.” Michael poured himself a glass of whiskey. “If you’re flickering out, how come I can see and hear you? You said no one else could.”
Always looking for the con. Donovan had to smile, but it quickly faded when he remembered Dullington’s words. My Cretins will not inhibit your progress.
“I had reservations about coming here, about calling you, but Dullington knew that. The best I can figure is, you can see me because he wants you to see me.” Donovan shrugged. “Otherwise, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Are you doing it now?”
“Doing what? Flickering?”
Michael nodded. He leaned forward, tumbler in hand, his eyes alight like a child waiting for a magic trick.
“Not right now. It’s random. Sometimes it will be hours, and it will start up out of nowhere. Just like—”
Hiccups, he wanted to say, but the sensation silenced him in mid-sentence. His stomach knotted as color drained from the room. Michael lost detail and form, reduced to a shadow, and no Cretin stood on his shoulder. This observation confirmed Donovan’s suspicions: the Cretins made people oblivious.
When he flickered back, Donovan found his brother staring in shock. Michael’s hands trembled.
“Mike?”
“You vanished. How did you do that?”
Donovan shrugged. “I told you, it’s random. I can’t shut it off.”
Michael sat back in his chair. He drank his whiskey in a single gulp, grimacing as it burned its way down. He scrutinized Donovan, his eyes narrowing to an intense gaze. He doesn’t believe it, Donovan realized. Even after seeing it happen, he still doesn’t believe it. For a moment he was angry, but when he put himself in Michael’s place, he realized he couldn’t blame him.
“Mike, I know this might be difficult to believe—”
“Do you remember when we were in high school, and you had a hell of a time with calculus? You couldn’t wrap your brain around it, no matter which way it was explained to you.”
He did. Simple arithmetic was one thing, but math with numbers and letters still perplexed him.
“What’s your point?”
“Whatever just happened to you,” Michael went on, filling his glass, “well, I saw it. And I’ll be damned if I understand it. Like it doesn’t compute.”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to understand it.”
“Maybe not, but it does tell me one thing about all of this.” Michael took another drink. “It means you’re not nearly as batshit crazy as I thought you were. Or if you are, it’s contagious.”
Donovan offered a faint smile. “Or genetic.”
“That, too.” Michael set down his glass. His hands were still shaking.
Donovan wanted to believe he was crazy, that this situation was a delusion concocted by his sick mind. That meant everything was fine, Donna was still home, safe and sound, their cat was still alive—
But that ain’t the way it’s goin’, hoss. You know it, ‘n I know it.
Donovan did know it, and the knowledge left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink.
“So let’s say you’re not crazy, and I’m not crazy.” Michael paused, smirking while Donovan tipped back the glass. He drained it in two swallows. “Go easy on that.”
“I’m fine,” Donovan said. He wiped his mouth. “You were saying?”
“Right. If we’re not losing our minds, then it means what’s happening is really happening. That means you’re not bullshitting me.”
Donovan nodded. “I wouldn’t make this up.”
“I know. That’s what scares me.” Michael paused, thinking. “This guy who took Donna, what did you say his name was?”
“George Guffin.”
Michael rose from his armchair and left the room. He returned a minute later with a notepad and pen. He sat, scribbling across the top page.
“This Dullington guy—” Michael kept writing. “—did he give any indication as to who he’s looking for?”
Donovan shook his head. “His protégé. No name. I think we’ll find out tomorrow.”
He watched Michael write, filling the page with a quick scrawl, pausing every few words to check the previous lines. His eyes darted up and down, double-checking himself. Donovan found it fascinating, watching his brother work, and he felt comforted by it. He recalled writing scenes with Joe Hopper, wondering how Michael might go about his work. He’d been too timid to ask, and he was happy to see that he got it right.
A few minutes and a full page later, Michael paused, looking up at his brother.
“Anything else?”
“No.” Donovan gestured to the notepad. “What’s all that?”
“My curiosity.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Donovan watched Michael rise from his seat. He capped the bottle—now almost empty—and returned it to the kitchen.
“It means I’ve got work to do. Have you eaten anything?”
Donovan realized he hadn’t since lunchtime, but all the panic had ruined any sort of appetite he might have had. The whiskey burned in his empty stomach. His head swam.
“No,” he said, “but I’m not hungry.”
“Well, there’s food in the fridge if you do get hungry.” Michael motioned to the stairs. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re going to bed. I’m going to check on some things.”
“I can’t—”
Michael smiled. “You need to sleep, Don. I don’t know what you went through to get here, but you look like hell now. Go sleep. You need it.”
Donovan fought back a yawn. He didn’t like the prospect of sleep—not with Donna in captivity—but his brother had a point.
“Go to bed. I’ll wake you first thing in the morning.”
He followed Michael upstairs to the guest room. They stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to say to one another. Donovan wanted to thank his brother, and the words were on his lips to do so, but Michael silenced him with a simple gesture. He put his hand on Donovan’s shoulder.
“She’s going to be okay, Don. We’ll find her.”
Donovan tried to smile. “I hope so, Mike.”
He turned away before his brother could see the tears in his eyes. He closed the door, choking back the sadness and the sobs, and waited to hear his brother’s descent before letting it out.
• • •
Michael went downstairs, checked the locks, and turned off the TV. He stood over the coffee table, staring at the tablet and his page of notes. George Guffin. The name had a familiar ring to it that wouldn’t relent. It was somewhere in his head, buried deep enough that he couldn’t quite retrieve it, but it nagged enoug
h to let him know it was there.
The other name, however—Aleister Dullington—raised no flags. It was an odd name, almost too self-aware to believe given what his brother told him tonight. He still had a hard time buying it, but then he’d seen his brother disappear before his own eyes.
I’m just tired. Or maybe it’s the liquor.
Maybe, but even that did not sit well with Michael Candle. He’d not hit the liquor until just before Donovan pulled his little vanishing act, and no amount of bourbon could affect him that quickly.
So what, then? Michael ran his hands through his hair, staring at his notes. He kept thinking about the way Donovan faded, the way he could see the sofa’s texture through his brother’s body. A chill crept its way up his spine.
Michael shook off the chills, took the tablet, and went into his home office. He flicked on a light, illuminating the tiny room. Each wall was lined with filing cabinets packed with stacks of files representing years of work. At the opposite end was his desk—heaped with files piled as tall as his computer monitor.
He’d long thought about expanding the business and renting office space, but had been too busy to follow through. Not that he minded. The money made being busy worth the lack of free time.
“Guffin,” he said, turning to the cabinet drawer labeled “G.” He opened it, rifling through the mess of folders until he came upon the name. “There you are.”
The folder’s contents were scant. It contained the requisite paperwork—filled out by Darlene Guffin, the man’s sister—a few handwritten notes, a copy of the final invoice, and a single photograph clipped to the inside of the file. He moved into the light, stared at the man’s pallid face, and thought about what Donovan told him. This Guffin fellow didn’t even look capable of doing such things. He looked like a sneeze might knock him over.
Acts of coercion can change a man. He chewed his bottom lip and sat down at his desk, turning on his computer and waiting for it to boot.
Michael closed the folder and set it aside. Donovan, he thought, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?
He was used to his brother’s fantastic stories. As children, Donovan used to tell Michael the wildest tales after bedtime. They were stories of superheroes, vigilantes, and inhuman creatures.
Monsters.
He frowned. Descriptions of this “Monochrome” reality seemed like something his brother might concoct from his imagination. Donovan’s insistence on wondering What if?, despite simpler, logical explanations, did not help matters. These Cretins, the Yawning, even Aleister Dullington—it was all too far-fetched, and yet—
He just vanished in front of me. In and out, completely transparent. Michael had read about tricks of light, even scientific experiments to bend it, but such things were the stuff of illusions and laboratories. Yet somehow, he had seen it happen less than four feet in front of him, in plain sight.
So what was it, then? Not a trick, certainly. And, he figured, it didn’t matter. Regardless of this thing he’d witnessed—for which there had to be a logical explanation—the life of his sister-in-law was at stake. He’d never seen Donovan so troubled before in all their years. He was the most devoted person Michael knew, and his love for Donna was sacred. This was not something he would joke about. Its effect on him was apparent; Donovan looked like shit.
Michael leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He yawned. The liquor was getting to his brain, making things fuzzy around the edges. Change tracks, he thought, putting his hand on the mouse. He opened his web browser and searched for “Aleister Dullington.”
Zero hits. He looked down at his notes, then tried another entry: “Monochrome.”
There were too many entries to sort through.
What did Donovan call it? Right, the “flickering.”
Michael searched for the term. Again, it yielded too many results. It was already late, and the whiskey was pulling at his eyes. He tried one more phrase: “Monochrome + Flickering.”
Another grouping of results popped up, but halfway down the page, one caught his eye. It was from a book excerpt: “It is the point at which a man throws off his shackles and declares ‘No more.’ He must justify himself in the face of flickering anonymity, lest he be subjugated to an eternity of monochrome oblivion.”
Michael’s curiosity was piqued. He clicked the link, which directed him to an online retailer offering a discount on the book A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity. The same quote was farther down the page, along with a photo of its author. He was a smug-looking fellow with salt-and-pepper hair tied back into a ponytail. His eyes were a cool blue, and he wore a smirk that left Michael frowning.
He scribbled some more notes on his tablet. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
• • •
Sleep came instantly, but Donovan was haunted by a myriad of dreams that dug up the day’s remains. He saw Aleister Dullington’s grinning face, its lidless eyes peering out at him from a shroud of blackness. At first, his dream-self thought the face was just an image, a tapestry hung upon some vast wall. Then the eyes moved and the mouth opened, bellowing laughter both mechanical and human. It was the sound of the Cretins, their voices like records played backwards, coupled with the grinding, screeching sound of rusted metal against metal. A low, electronic drone filled the spaces in between, twisting together, culminating into an ominous wave. It thickened the air, and Donovan felt himself swallowing quicksand he could not see.
Dullington opened his mouth, spilling out a seemingly endless sea of Cretins and Yawning like gobs of mucus. Donovan stood, rooted in place by an invisible hand which squeezed him, expelling the air from his lungs. He found he could not blink, and his heart pounded with fury, threatening to burst from his chest.
Looking down, Donovan saw his skin bulge. There was no pain. He watched in silence as his chest cracked, splintering into thin red lines that crawled outward. Each breath spread them wider, allowing his heart to beat its way out of captivity. It flopped down onto the black floor below.
The open wound sealed, yet Donovan’s heart continued its rhythm, beating a counterpoint to the terror coursing through his mind. He tried to speak, but found he could not. Dullington leered at him, a disembodied face against the darkened shroud. Donovan wanted to look away, but no matter where he looked Dullington was there, grinning.
Who are you, Mr. Candle? I will tell you. A nothing-man, with a nothing-face and a nothing-life. A liar unto yourself; you are a great deceiver.
No, Donovan thought, I’m not a liar.
Dullington’s face bulged and broke, splitting at seams around his eyes, down the sides of his nose, and into his mouth. A pale, gray sludge gushed out of the seams as his skin peeled back, revealing meat and muscle underneath.
You are, Mr. Candle. There are no greater lies than those you tell yourself.
His black eyes fell from their sockets and rolled over a throng of Cretins. Donovan watched as one of the eyeballs moved past and into the darkness. I see you, it whispered, and you see me, see you, see me, see you ...
Donovan felt a sharp tug at his face, followed by a low, wet, tearing sound. A piece of his skin fell from his cheek, landing with a sickening plop.
Donovan wanted to scream, but his mouth would not move. His lips detached from his skull to join the pile of flesh at his feet.
I will show you, Mr. Candle. You will see there is nothing underneath you but a waste of flesh and a wealth of lies.
I’m not a liar, Donovan wanted to cry, but his body’s actions were no longer his own. He stepped outside of himself, becoming an observer as his body tore itself apart one piece at a time. The visage was one of meat and bone, devoid of flesh, eyes inset in a state of constant shock.
From these ghoulish remains came a voice. “I am perfectly content.”
There came an airy pop as each of his eyes plopped from his head and dangled just below his nose.
Don, he heard a voice say.
Donovan.
He tried to scream as his former self decayed before him, but he found himself unable to make utterance. There existed only the hushed sound of movement, of little legs scampering across the black divide.
“Donovan, wake up.”
The Cretins swarmed the pile of flesh at his feet, consuming his remains. The last thing he heard before consciousness pulled him from that black abyss was the sound of Dullington laughing—not from somewhere else, somewhere above or around—but from within.
• • •
Donovan squinted, rubbed his eyes, and looked up. Michael stared down at him, a mug in his hand.
“You okay?”
Pale light filtered through the window. He looked around the room, confused about how he got there. Fragments of the dream clung to his conscious mind, taunting him with flashes of Aleister Dullington and his monochromatic minions. Donovan ran a hand across his face, feeling for scars left by his nightmare, but it just came away wet with perspiration.
“Don?”
The previous day rushed back to him. He frowned, shook off the dream, and let out slow yawn.
“You were struggling in your sleep. I heard you talking.”
Donovan thought of the nightmare, fighting back a chill.
“I’m okay,” he said. “What time is it?”
Michael placed the mug on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.
“It’s almost ten.”
“Did anyone—”
“No one’s called.” Michael pointed to the mug. “I made you some coffee. I hope you like it black.”
Donovan sat up, leaned against the headboard, and reached for the mug. It was bitter and burned his tongue, but he didn’t mind. Michael yawned, and Donovan noticed the scruff on his face.
“You look like shit.”
Michael smirked. “Thanks. I’m usually not up this early on a Saturday.”
“Still a night owl?”
“Always.” Michael got up, went to the door. “I did a little digging last night, found some things. It’s downstairs, for when you’re ready.”
Donovan took another sip of the coffee. He climbed out of bed and stood at the window, gazing out at the overcast morning. The surrounding neighborhood was affluent, with SUVs and sports cars in the driveways of cookie-cutter homes as far as he could see. He remembered his dream—I am perfectly content—and frowned, thinking about how he used to pine to live in such a place.
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