《The Aemeth Circle》 Line 6: Voicemail Ring... Ring... Ring... (I don''t want to take calls right now. I''m on lunch break.) Ring... (Besides, it''s probably nothing interesting.) Ring... You have one (1) new voice message: "Hello?" "I don''t know if this is the right number, but I have a friend who said you guys can help. I, uh, don''t know how to describe this..." They always start with something like that, "I know this sounds crazy, but..." or "You''re not going to believe this..." or "I don''t know where to start...". This is why I don''t like to take those calls anymore. That, and I''ve got a company to manage now, you know? Rent''s due in a week and HR''s on my case again about the reports, not to mention the damn coffee machine''s broke again. "My husband died a week ago, the funeral was yesterday. And the...the crying hasn''t stopped. I can hear it when I''m alone in the showers, and when I woke up this morning...I found tracks leading into the bathtub...down the drain. I don''t know if it''s some kind of wild animal that had gotten stuck in the pipes, or some kids messing with me. I went to the doctors to get a brain scan, just in case it''s something weird going on with my ears, but they said everything looked normal. I don''t care about the hair on the mirror or the dead petals everywhere now, I just want the crying to go away. I can''t sleep at night because of it, and no one at work is going to believe me if I called in sick for this, so..." Yeah, that one goes to Line 2. He''ll know what to do. We still get these "False Carpideiras" once in a while, but they''re manageable. Ring... "Hello? Is anyone there? I mean, am I here? Am I speaking to someone? I don''t know if I''m hallucinating this entire conversation - I mean, I wouldn''t know if I did, you know? It''s all so subjective, makes me wonder if sensory experiences are the only ways we can interact with things outside of our consciousness. I can''t even see anything anymore. I''ve been down here for so long, I''m pretty sure my eyes are vestigial at this point, so are my lungs. I really want to shed again, but I''ve already lost so many layers. Should I metamorphose instead?" This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Not the first guy who thinks he''s an eel living in a water cistern. Line 1 can talk him out of it. "Help! It''s eating my alphabet! It already took the _, _ and _, and now it''s t_king the _. Oh god, it just _te the letter _. Wh_t shoul_ I _o? I w_s just pl_ying _ g_me of h_ngm_n with my frien_s, but it kept going-" Well, that one was a little hard to make out, but I think she was missing the letters a and d. Pretty decent guesses for a game of hangman, but I don''t know what the other letters are. If Line 3 can get there quickly enough, the hangman won''t be completed and manifest into a bigger problem. Ring... "So I just redid the wallpaper in my nursery, and there are handprints coming from behind the paper-" Line 2. Ugh. Ring... "Do you do exorcisms? If you do, is it only demons covered under the Lesser Key of Solomon, or can you exorcise demons from other religions too?" Haven''t met a demon I can''t exorcise, but your stupid kid would just dig the grimoire out of the trash and try the summoning ritual again. I don''t have the time to do house calls. Ring... "??? ?? ??? ??? ?? ??? ?? ?? ??? ?? ?? ???-" More ads? Really? I''m going to imagine my happy place now. Inhale some coffee steam, look out the window, admire the ever-shifting expanse of pale grey that seems to envelope this city. I would have traded this view of the concrete exoskeleton for a nice, soft velvet chair and a new office space, but I have to contend with my station for now, one architecturally designed to leer over humanity the way a lighthouse keeper leers over his claim of the sea. And yes, I leer over it. Because I''m starting to think this city has nothing to offer me other than panicked, broken voices trembling over the phone and the bubbling soft stew of congealed nightmares, slowly oozing from each apartment window like oatmeal. Sorry, I got kind of carried away there. This coffee hits like a motherfucker. I think...I''m going to hire a receptionist. I''m getting too old to manage these phone calls, and I''ve been meaning to start writing a memoir or something. Can''t let all those centuries go by undocumented, right? Aemeth Co. has seen better days, to be honest. Our business was flourishing during stranger times, when the gods drank themselves stupid on worship and thoughtforms were easy to come by. Thoughtforms are the least of our problems now. Times change, and so do the threats. It used to be Aggregates - little clusters of ideas and derangements that crawl into your room and eat your children. Or the Strays, but I believe you people like to refer to them as cultists. Or the million other shadow agencies that really clog up the market for us.
And don''t get me started on the digested gods - what became of the digested gods! Seriously, they''re everywhere these days. I can''t run this ship alone, and that''s why I need help, that''s why I''m hiring. I''m looking for someone smart, responsible, a multi-tasker, and... Ah, forget it. Send me anyone. We aren''t picky about sacrifices, after all. Line 0: Interview I can do this, I can do this. I mean, who doesn''t know how to do an interview? (...is what I tell myself in front of the mirror every time I leave for an interview. And if I knew how to do an interview, I wouldn''t be repeating this.) They''re impressed with my resum¨¦ already, that''s why they reached out to contact me. (Unless they''re desperate for people. Or it was an automated message. Or they''re not really looking to hire but HR has to go through the motions. Don''t think about it. Don''t think about it. Don''t think about it-) It''ll be better than last time. I already know what questions they''re going to ask. (But I still end up blanking and rattling off irrelevant things whenever they lead with "tell me a little bit about yourself". And don''t get me started on those questions full of pitfalls and tricks, designed to screen out actually ambitious employees!) (Do I look too desperate? Too frumpy? Should I go with a different shirt?) My eyes bear the marks of staying up late on social media, my face is a warzone between fatigue and a customer service smile, my reflection - a haunted thing of 23 years looking back at me questioningly: are you sure about this? I''ve been told I''ve always had a "deer-in-headlights" kind of look, a nervous habit I can''t quite shake despite taking public performance classes. I fiddle with the silk white blouse and its fake mother-of-pearl buttons almost fly loose. Which, considering this blouse saw at least 5 presidencies, is not a surprise. The pencil skirt is a nice shade of desperate corporate grey, complimenting the look of an unemployed liberal arts student I was unintentionally going for. The cross earring is a small keepsake from a trip to Italy from years ago - one of the few vacations I ever took in my life. And I know the sickle necklace looks a bit out of place here, but I always bring it with me for good luck, as per my own little superstition. (What will they think when they see me? Will they know I''m poor? Will they make fun of me?) Does it matter? If they reject me, no one would even remember my name. At least I can take comfort in the sea of anonymity, knowing that everyone everywhere at all times are doing things, and my fleeting existence doesn''t even warrant the HR department''s long-term memory. That''s right. It''s a nice thought - to be a nobody, to be aimless and forgotten and insignificant enough that all my mistakes won''t live past tomorrow. I empty the tin of mints into my mouth just in case my smudged makeup and smile aren''t enough to win them over.
My first mistake, as I pull up into the polished driveway of the unmarked monolith, was applying for this job. I watched a documentary about Soviet brutalist architecture back in college, for some art project I don''t even remember doing. The only thing that stuck with me was the footage of the Russian State Scientific Center: a concrete behemoth that reaches impossibly high into the stratosphere, flanked by sharp edges which point skyward. A galvanized steel crown of mankind''s ambition. Well, whoever designed that tower must''ve possessed this architect to draw some equally demented blueprints, because it soaks me in its suffocating shadow and forces my gaze up towards the needle-pointed steeple. "Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair." I mutter to myself. Seems appropriate. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Now, I did do my research before applying for this job. And of course, one of the first things you do when you try to make a good impression at a potential employer''s interview, is to show that you''ve done the work of digging up their background. But the problem with Aemeth Co. is that they seem allergic to any sort of digging, which should''ve alerted me right away, but the pay was too good to pass up. (Can you blame me? I spent New Year''s Eve in a rental Honda civic!) Yet Aemeth has nothing to divulge, very little background about what the company actually does, aside from an almost certainly randomly generated "core values" pieced together like Frankenstein''s mission statement: At Aemeth Co. we strive to bring you high quality, empowering, and individualized services that prioritize your needs. We lead with compassion and believe in the certainty of human progress, as well as a brighter tomorrow. The company logo, an occult-looking circle-pentagon-star abomination, seems too abstract to convey anything other than the fact that their brand designer really loves straight lines. And of course, the big tagline on the front page of the website, one which simply reads: ?????? ???????????? ?????????????? ???? ?????? ?????????? The rest of the website gives off the impression that this is some sort of biotechnology/diagnostics corporation, specializing in fancy shit and expensive shit, sometimes even dangerous shit. That''s all I can gather. I open the double glass doors and the air conditioner blasts me right back to a primordial memory of my ancestors hunting mammoths. As I brush the hair out of my eyes, I notice how quiet the entrance hall is - yes, a whole hall. Tall, arching ceiling with the painted fresco of some Renaissance scholar gazing into an armillary sphere; adding on the long and narrow windows, the single sad plastic fern somehow wilting, and the artificial brightness of a modern sun, this place screams of the ecclesiastical instead of corporate. There is a woman waiting at the desk already. I can''t help but wonder if I applied here to be her replacement. As I approach, she looks up from her desk and gets up to greet me, with a smile that''s somehow colder than the AC currently turning my sweat into frost. "You must be-" "Mara Cypher, here for the interview. Nice to meet you." I shake her hand and try not to recoil at how cold and coarse it feels, I almost thought I was greeting a crocodile. Only the lower half of her face is happy to see me, her eyes fixed onto mine with laser precision. "Follow me this way, and we can get started with the interview in the office over there..." I follow, sheepish, wringing my hands and hoping she didn''t notice I was 2 minutes late. Everyone knows the actual interview starts as soon as you walk through the door, and the moment the employer''s eyes are upon you, your every move will be scrutinized and graded. Did you close the door behind you, or did you wait for it to swing shut? Did you wipe your shoes on the carpet before coming in? And God forbid they happen to dislike the perfume you put on - too much effort in ironing out every little imperfection makes you a corporate drone, and too little effort awards you with a swift rejection that only arrives 4 weeks later. As I pass by wide frosted glass windows blotted out by motivational posters, I start noticing more and more warnings and notices posted with all the wrong words. ???? ???????? ???????????????? ???????????? Please do not feed the goldfish, it has already fed ...I really hope that''s just a grammatical error and not what I think it''s implying. ???????????? ???????????????, ?????????????? ????????????????????????? ?? ???? ?????? ??????? ????? 11 ?? What the fuck do you mean "real" coffee? ????????? ??????''?? ???????? ???????? ?????????????? ???? ???????????????????? ?? ???? ??, ????? ???? ?????????? ??????????? Is this a prank? Some office hazing ritual? Did I get hit on the head and miss out on some new social media trend? I''m starting to think I made a really, really bad decision coming here. Line 0: Drowning I follow the woman down an endless expanse of twisting hallways until all their features blur together. Strangely, her footsteps on the marble tiles are much quieter than mine, despite the fact that she''s wearing stilettos and I''m wearing soft flat-heeled sneakers. As she turns the keys to unlock a nondescript door which I assume to be her office, I realize she never told me her name. "Um, ma''am? How should I address you?" She looks at me as if I just asked her what cup size she is. "The same as you would address other interviewers." Is the curt response, then she opens the door and leaves me to ponder what the fuck she meant by that. The room is one less plastic succulent away from being an interrogation room. Overhead, the pale fluorescent light buzzes on, casting harsh shadows over what little furniture occupies this concrete-grey cell. The desk is empty save for a standard-issue laptop and some forms. I half expect to see handcuffs dangling from the armrest as I shuffled uneasily into the folding chair. The woman (whom I have taken to calling "Agatha" in my head) seats herself opposite of me, types a few cryptic lines that I hope have nothing to do with me, and pulls out a manila folder. Ah, always a classic. "Let''s just get some preliminaries out of the way, and we can proceed with the actual questions..." I put up my most intelligent smile. "So..." (Please no please no please not what I''m thinking please oh God not that question-) "Tell me..." (Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!) "...a little bit about yourself." "Actually, that question is rather pointless, don''t you think? There''s no part of me that can be encapsulated in "a little bit" of info, let alone a lifetime''s worth of struggles and experiences. I mean, do you really care about who I am? Do you really want to know why I''m here, answering these questions? Or are you looking for someone young and expendable to indoctrinate? What does "myself" mean to you? Do you want to know that I write poetry in my free time? Do you care that I play the violin because it was my grandfather''s dying wish to see his musical passions passed onto his descendants? Do you want to hear about the time I swam across a lake to save my dog? Or would you rather look at my credentials and my mediocre grades and take those at face value? I''m Mara, and I want to be a pirate queen one day." (...is what I wish I would''ve said.) What I end up saying is "I studied biology in college and I''ve always been passionate about helping people. I''m looking for a professional opportunity to develop and grow my experiences." Agatha nods and types my response, or at least I hope that was my response and not "do not hire this one, she''s clearly too dumb to work here". "I have a few forms for you to fill out." She slides them across the table along an expensive-looking fountain pen, and I nearly choke on air when I see the questions. "Excuse me, but...what does alpha radiation or entomophobia or any of these questions have to do with being a front desk receptionist?" "We''re required to thoroughly consider any and all potential workplace hazards." Agatha doesn''t even look up from her laptop, "Don''t worry, you won''t be exposed to alpha radiation...above the safe range." "And the multiple choice question?" "Skip that one. You won''t need to worry about it." Well, that''s exactly why I''m going to worry about it. I hand her back the form, and she hums, evidently pleased with my answers - which is such a fucking relief I could almost deflate in my seat. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. "You know how to use a M1903 Springfield?" She sounds a little incredulous. "My grandfather had a farm in Illinois. He taught me how to use one." Truth be told, that was more than 12 years ago, and he only let me touch the rifle, not use it. The poor antique hadn''t seen gunpowder since 1936, and spent most of its remaining shelf life sitting in a pawn shop glass case as a prized heirloom. I''m fairly certain if I tried to pull the bolt on that thing it would crumble. But number one rule of any interview is to always say "yes"...if you can lie hard enough to yourself about it. That answer was good enough for Agatha, she nods and tucks the manila folder away. I mentally prepare myself for the next question: I want to work here because your company''s values really align with mine, I can start anytime you want, I can work full-time, I know how to use a fax machine, my biggest flaw is that I''m a perfectionist... "Do you still dream of drowning, Mara?" What? "The dream, do you still have it?" I haven''t told anyone about the dream since I was 13. The question plunges me into icy waters without a surface, and the room drops to forty below in an instant.
Little Mara Cypher always had a strange, recurring dream. I remember bits and pieces of it growing up, and each time the details change, but the feeling has always been the same. I''m walking down a path, sometimes through empty cornfields, sometimes through winding city streets, most of the times through a narrow forest trail. I hear something behind me - a hiss, a creak, a growl, anything, and whatever is behind me begins catching up to my footsteps. At first we step in sync, but then it picks up the pace, faster and faster until we''re both breaking into a full sprint. I stumble down the path, swatting moths or low branches out of my face, the thing behind me keeps chasing. I dare not look back - if I look back, I wake up in cold sweat staring at the ceiling. But I don''t look back. In my dream I stagger on, the path lengthens endlessly before me but the ground beneath refuses to move beyond a snail''s pace. The fog rises until I run aimlessly in circles, then an exit appears before me. I follow it to a set of wooden planks, ending on a long pier, stretching into the centre of a mist-drenched lake. No matter how far I run, I always end up at this pier. Something or someone stands at the end of it, barely visible beyond the fog. Perhaps there''s a face, perhaps it''s just a statue, but the way its loose fabric sways in the cold breeze makes me think there''s nothing physical beneath the shape. And as soon as I step onto the pier, the thing chasing me vanishes. I take a step forward, a massive alien form writhes in the sky, and I wake up.
Agatha couldn''t possibly know about this dream. No one knows about it except my mother and my psychiatrist, who passed away after he retired 10 years ago. I always thought it was some kind of weird subconscious stress manifesting, maybe an urge to escape the life I have. "How do you know about my dream?" I sit up straighter, feeling anger instead of fear. This is a serious intrusion into my psyche and privacy! "Every thought has a purpose, Mara." "This is getting too weird for me." I make a show of packing up my things roughly, "I''m sorry for wasting your time, but I think I''m going to look elsewhere for a front desk job-" "You want to know why you have that dream, don''t you?" Something changes in Agatha''s voice, a tone shift, a pitch, subtle enough that I get the feeling that it''s no longer Agatha talking to me. I sweat bullets under her gaze, glued to my interview chair. A thing without a name from beyond speaks through Agatha to me like a cat chirping to a bird. Agatha, I suddenly understand, is a hollow construct. And whatever is pulling me in right now, deeper and deeper into this mistake, doesn''t have my best interest at heart in the slightest. "You can leave, Mara, the doors aren''t locked. You can get out of here and never come back, and spend the rest of your life trying to decipher that dream, stumbling for purpose. There''s nothing wrong with mundanity - in fact, we adore it. But we think you would benefit much more from answers, wouldn''t you?" All I can manage is a mumbled "How do you know about the dream?" "Recurring dreams and symbols are a desired trait in our employees, as is your inquisitiveness. You will be a welcome addition to our team." She''s right about the inquisitiveness. It was already over for me the moment she brought up my dream, and the rest of the conversation was just me working up the courage to look at least a tiny bit hesitant. But I''m already on the ship, with the anchor stowed and the sails billowing me away into disaster. I know this, the thing piloting Agatha knows this, but just to add a little more zing to the bait I''m already chowing down on... "Oh, we fully cover dental and vision insurance too." It''s like watching myself drown in slow-motion as I reach out to take the contract.
Line 0: Liniment The first month of my new job has been absolute hell. I''ve gotten spam calls, weird harassment voicemails from random angry people, vaguely ominous chain emails that supposedly curse me with maggots in my blood, some Sumerian "infertility demon" cult''s recruitment ad, death threats just for not greeting someone, and even some creep breathing loudly into the phone receiver for an entire three minutes. Agatha has completely disappeared from my life after the interview, and it seems from Aemeth Co. as well, so I guess I''m really there to be her replacement. No wonder she was so stuck up when we met. I''ve also bought a new pair of shoes and finally managed to ask for extra cheese on my sandwich the other day, so in summary, my life is fucking awesome right now. I mean, sure, the employee training videos I had to watch were flickering with subliminal messages, the office rules were bizarre to say the least, and don''t get me started on the workplace regulations... Safe Lifting Techniques: Do''s and Don''ts Do: lift with your knees, keep your back straight, stand with your feet apart at shoulder width, keep your face hidden, keep your employee ID on you (for identification purposes). Don''t: lift with your back, twist your torso, try to lift too many things at once, make eye contact, acknowledge that which you are lifting, or give in to its pleading. Remember: 44% of work-related injuries come from improper lifting techniques, making it one of the most preventable causes of cancer for our employees. I''m sorry, cancer? One of the things I quickly learned to accept is that while Aemeth Co. presents itself as a sort of biotech company on the surface, its network runs far deeper. The company specializes in dealing with all sorts of strange occurrences, from sudden hauntings to divine-revelation induced madness. But for the most part, my own work is isolated and lonely. I sit at my desk in the big office lounge and look pretty, then I wire calls to the different lines that supposedly belong to different departments. Majority of them seem to be from regular citizens calling to request "Product A" or "Package B" or other rather vague terms, and I never have to do more than check a few boxes on a requisition form. But a large chunk of my training consisted of learning what call goes to which line, and I suppose that will quickly become the bulk of my job. Ring... That''s the sound of my lunchbreak ending. I put down my little frog-stickered mug and pick up the phone. The hall is quiet today, as it has been for the past month - we never really get in-person visitors, it seems. Ring... "Hello?" "Listen, I don''t have much time. They''ll be at Compi¨¨gne tomorrow, to sign the Armistice. And I know what will come of the negotiations! Europe will fall, it surely will. Oh, I wish God hasn''t forsaken us so!" The man on the other end whispers, as if on the verge of tears. Compi¨¨gne, Armistice...I see where this is going. The poor man is trapped one way or another, living as if he''s still witnessing France surrender to Germany during WWII. "Sir, the Second Armistice was signed 84 years ago." "But just yesterday, I heard the trains moving again...they''re coming to take the prisoners. They call them ''refugees'', but that''s a lie! A lie!" "Sir, can you tell me your name and date of birth?" Nothing but terrified breathing left on the other end. A sinking sadness engulfs me, the terror in his voice had been so genuine. I assure him there will be no treaty at Compi¨¨gne, and I transfer him to Line 1 as per the manual''s instructions.
Line 1: For temporally displaced minds, or those suffering, whether by trauma or by hands of inexplicable cosmic forces, refer to the instruction manual for consulting Line 1. If the caller displays agitated/confused mentation, disrupted sense of self, and a strong desire to return to their "pure" state, consider Line 1. Not all callers will be vexed by supernatural phenomena, and some will simply be struggling with a manifestation of one mental illness or another. Line 1 will help to discern the etiology of such manifestations, and coordinate the necessary interventions to aid with the caller''s recovery. In short, Line 1 should handle callers that are uncertain of what they want, who they are, or if they are suffering greatly from psychological distress.
Most of the calls that go to Line 1 seem to be in a great deal of confusion and pain, which makes listening to them one of the harder parts of the job. I''m not qualified to tell if the man just now was really convinced he was living in the 1940s, or if he''s haunted by some other past ghosts, but I hope he will receive the compassion he deserves from Line 1. I hear soft clicking of heels on marble tiles as someone enters the lounge. Weird, no visitors scheduled for today. I look up and see a young lady waiting nervously at the door, having possibly just walked off a romcom set where she plays the ing¨¦nue love interest with an air of waif sweetness. Her broad-brimmed hat hides most of her face, but I can tell by the way she twists her hands anxiously that her eyes are wide with worry. "Ex...excuse me..." She begins, almost immediately bursting into tears. God, please, don''t cry here, I don''t have tissues on my desk. "How can I help you?" "I''m here to pick up some drugs for my husband. Just the regular." I didn''t know we carried medication, but the sincerity and urgency with which she uttered the request made me believe it - if she begged me for a kidney transplant, I probably would''ve said yes on the spot. I ask her for the "regular", and she holds up a small glass bottle with a faded yellow sticker. Something looks deeply, terribly wrong with it. BRUESS'' A-B-C Liniment Pain Stopper For lumbago, sciatica, neuralgia, rheumatism, muscle pains and stiffness. Active ingredients: aconite, belladonna, chloroform Price: 50 ¡é It''s easy as A-B-C! Always Brings Comfort This can''t be right. There''s no way a bottle of liniment costs only 50 cents. Well, that and the active ingredients. "Ma''am, I think this medication is discontinued." In 1935, lady! It was discontinued in 1935! "But I always get it from here..." She practically whimpers, too quiet to hear over the sound of my heart breaking, "It''s the only thing that helps my husband sleep at night. Please, just check if you have it. He really needs it. He''s been having back problems for months now. All the other hospitals said they can''t help him, something with his spine...please, at least tell me if you''re out of stock..." Number one rule of customer service: stop them before they can have a crying breakdown. I take the bottle and lead her to sit down in the waiting lounge, give her my best smile and promise to check in the storage rooms for her. To be honest, I''ve never been to the back of the office, and I don''t know my way around those blank halls at all, but I think I saw some kind of storage unit on my way to Agatha''s office? At this point, I''m praying for a random bottle of painkiller to manifest before me so I can hand it to the poor lady and see her off. Where, in this day and age, am I going to find a bottle of liniment of all things?! You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. I run down endless twisting hallways until I see a vaguely familiar door that promises storage. (If I get caught going somewhere I shouldn''t be, I''ll just say I''m trying to help a customer, that''s always a good excuse.) I push open the door and deflate with relief when I see the familiar silhouette of Agatha taking inventory. "Hey, Ag-" wait that''s not actually her name "-I mean ma''am, excuse me? It''s me, Mara. There''s a customer out front." No response. Cold as always. "She''s looking for a bottle of A.B.C Liniment, do we have that here? Should I call Line 1?" I trip on flat cardboard in the darkness and fall face-first into her, we both topple over, and when I look up, I see a sea of Agathas staring back at me. Cardboard cutouts, every last one of them. Agatha from different angles, but all printed on recyclable paper and piled together haphazardly in a corner of the storage room. The one I was talking to had been her side-profile view, so was the one I tripped over. When I take a closer look, they''re all a little bit different from each other. Agatha A has slightly rounder eyes than Agatha B, and Agatha C is wearing a lighter dress, so on and so forth. I reach out to touch them to make sure they''re not secretly breathing or made of flesh. What kind of a fucked up company keeps cardboard cutouts of its employees?! Unless...she was the receptionist before me, and that means...she wasn''t cardboard the last time I saw her. Does this mean...if I were to be fired...would I end up here? Fuck this, Mara, I tell myself, get out of here. Forget the liniment, forget the dental insurance, you have to run before you get weeping angel''d into a cardboard cutout! I push the many Agathas off me and scramble for the door, sweat blurring my vision, head rushing with blood. My mission for the liniment all but forgotten in the moment. "Are you...okay?" I look up to see the first unfamiliar face I''d seen at this place: someone else actually works here! And she''s so beautiful that I briefly swapped my terror for jealousy - enough to snap out of the terror I was scuttling from to think God really has favorites. The warm honey skin, gentle eyes, and dark wavy hair that frames her face with the smooth luster that only exists in shampoo commercials, the tranquility of her flowing blue dress. Then she smiles and in my head we''re already flying to Sicily for our honeymoon, because she shouldn''t be here in this moth-infested storage room, she should be savoring a fine port by the glittering sea instead. Where was I? Oh, right, cardboard employees. The terror resumes. "I''m Aruna, I work here." She helps me up, and I can smell her patchouli and oak moss perfume from up close, "You must be the new receptionist." "Uh, wuh-huh. I mean, yes." "And I see you found our cardboard assistant." She wanders over to pick up the pile of Agathas I knocked over, putting them in a stack against the shelf, "We call her Augusta, you know? Like Augusta Bracknell from The Importance of Being Earnest. But Line 3 always calls her Cardi-Board." The names hit me like two successive trains so quickly I didn''t even have time to decide if I was amused, scared, confused or deeply enamored. Today has been a truly educational experience. Aruna picks up on this and gives my shoulder a little pat. "Don''t worry, we won''t turn you into cardboard. Augusta was Line 2''s creation, some kind of animated talisman. She takes care of most of the office work, but...she wasn''t so great at interacting with people, that''s why we decided to hire someone with customer service experience. This is just where we keep her when she''s not busy faxing documents." Knowing that Agatha - Augusta is quite possibly not a sentient being only ever assuages my fear slightly. Knowing that whoever Line 2 is, they are capable of creating a whole live simulacrum out of cardboard and making them work in an office is probably more disturbing. "Anyways, what are you doing here? Is something going on at the front office?" I tell Aruna about the young lady with the weird bottle, and how desperately she pleaded with me. I feel silly for even agreeing to check the storage rooms, but Aruna seems more concerned for me than for her. "She''s asking for that A.B.C liniment again, isn''t she?" "She said she often gets it from this place-" Aruna pushes me back into the room and checks the outside hallway, then locks the door behind her quietly. "Listen to me, that is not a woman. That is an Echo. We call it the Weeping Maiden, it always comes around when people start getting desperate for medical supplies. That''s when it takes form." Someone''s knocking on the door now. "??????, ?? ???????...??''? ???? ????. ?? ???''? ????? ?????? ?? ???? ??? ????????...??''? ???? ????? ?? ??? ?????? ???..." "Why don''t we just give it something? It''ll go away, right?" I take a step back from the rattling doorknob, looking around the room for a possible weapon. This is not how I wanted my day to go. "Echoes don''t stop. They repeat and repeat until they fade away." Then, the wood on the other side of the door begins splintering slowly, and I can hear the hinges creak under the strain of whatever is outside right now. "??''? ?? ?? ???? ????...?? ????? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?? ???! ??? ???''? ??? ?????? ???? ??? ??? ? ???? ?? ? ?????? ?????? ?? ????????...." Aruna grabs one of the Augustas lying nearby. I am trying to find a phone inside to dial an emergency number with because, like the idiot I am, I left my phone at the front desk. The door bends, and with a terrifying crack, starts breaking apart at the pressure point. I hear nails outside, scratching, digging, trying to pry open the hole in the board. A sliver of light from outside, then fingers: one, two more, five and ten more - too many fingers clawing at the hole it made, tearing off chunks of plywood like flesh. I see a face beyond it, one that should''ve stayed hidden under the wide-brimmed hat. "??''? ?????? ?? ?? ???? ????...?? ????? ?? ???? ???...?? ????..." The thing keeps repeating its request, and with each word, a limb breaks through the door. All I can find is a bottle of bug spray and a lighter, and I''m not in a hurry to turn the room into an oven, so I look at Aruna and see if she has a better idea. Before I can ask her, one of the limbs flies out from the rupture and strikes the standing cardboard Augusta, turning her top half into a shower of paper pulp. Its other arms now reach for the many, many Augustas in this room. Perhaps it can''t tell if she''s not a real person, by whatever strange logic these...Echoes operate on. It wails in horrible anguish when it realizes Augusta does not, in fact, have what it wants. Strings of tears roll down from its eyes and the room fills with the smell of isopropyl alcohol. Uh oh. "I guess we are going to learn how to deal with an Echo today." Aruna chimes in her sweet voice, staring down this abomination that is beginning to pull itself through the hole. I can''t see much of it except for the many, many deformed and fused limbs that writhe and flail, almost like copies of itself are superimposed imperfectly. "The first lesson, is to know that it is a repeating thought, an endless loop, and do not be afraid of it." "??? ???''? ??? ???? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???????? ???" It shrieks and strikes, arms flying to dig, to tear. Aruna plants herself between me and the Weeping Maiden, I see her duck from flying splinters, and then - a horrible crackling, hissing noise from the Maiden. She fucking grabbed it by its long, wiry neck in one of her hands. I can see the smile on her face, half-illuminated by what hallway light is shining through the broken door as the Maiden squirms to break free of her iron grip. "You are tormented." She continues, "This is no place for you. Go now, I have patients to tend to." A quiet wave of calmness washes over everything in the room, soft as the sea breeze. I feel my own heart slowing, the pulse no longer deafening in my ears. The Maiden weeps isopropyl alcohol as it struggles, but slowly, as Aruna''s grip on its neck loosens, it stops moving, stops screaming, and one by one, the limbs retrace into its body until there''s just the one holding out the empty bottle. Then that one too, along with the rest of it, evaporates when it is finally released. The small liniment bottle shatters on the floor. I deflate with relief and drop the makeshift flamethrower I was ready to unleash. Aruna crouches down to examine the bottle. Then she carefully sweeps up the shards and collects them in what I assume to be a specialized disposal bin. The isopropyl alcohol slowly dries, leaving a strong sanitized smell in my mouth. "Are they...the Echoes...all like that?" I stammer, trying to remember if what I just saw was even part of my job description. "Not usually, only some. This one had been wandering for quite some time now, looking for its medicine. Most others...simply repeat until they fade away." She carefully peels the A-B-C Liniment label off the shards and holds it up to a stack of boxes, and I realize she''s checking for a match. Right in front of my wide, horrified eyes, she finds a whole box of those liniments sitting unused on one of the high shelves. "We could''ve just given this to it!" "We could." Aruna sticks the label on the box and puts it back without looking, "But we have human patients that require them more. The company doesn''t like to waste them." We sigh at the same time, and probably think the same thing about Aemeth Co. too. I want to ask Aruna more questions, about how she managed to dispel the Echo, about that wave of tranquility I felt, about the "patients" she mentioned, but she just picks up the broken Augusta cutouts and gives me another smile - I still shudder to think of how Augusta would look had she come to life in her bisected form. The smile soothes me in a way I hadn''t thought possible, and my tension drains like rainwater. "Wait, are you-" "Correct. I''m Line 1." Aruna manages a little goodbye wave with her free arm, "It''s good to finally see you in person, Mara. I look forward to working with you in the future." I watch her leave until the steadily louder ringing of the front desk phone pulls me from this fever dream, would you believe it, right into the other fever dream that is my job. Line 0: Telegram Adjusting to having a job is...weird. Before I graduated from the university, I hardly ever thought about anything other than my classes, but now none of those things matter. I used to wish for one extra day before the deadline so Mara the Procrastinator can sleep in on a Friday, but now I just wish for things to be quiet. Existing in your 20s is also weird. You''re full of hope, you''re full of spite. Your world is dying, your world is developing. The future is infinite, the future is already here. You dream of tomorrow, you miss yesterday. It''s like I''m Janus, forever looking into the past and the future, while the present mind is chained to this receptionist desk. Stuck trying to understand all the people that are in their own ways, their own little well of hurt and sentiments. A city overflowing, longing, grasping, suffocating, dreaming and clawing, but at the end of the day...simply existing. So close yet so disconnected, like seeing each other through silk screens. I went home and bought a bottle of painkillers after the run-in with the Weeping Maiden. I keep it on my windowsill, just in case there''s another Echo out there that''s crying for help. I don''t know if giving the Maiden some liniment would have helped it, I don''t know if it would''ve been enough. It looked starved more than anything, and maybe there''s something more to it that Aruna didn''t divulge. Today, I deliberately take my lunch break next to the storage room, which has been since repaired. I assume I''m not allowed in this area, but I do it in vain hopes of meeting Aruna again. Something about her was comforting, the way home-baked cookies and little dandelions growing through concrete cracks are comforting. But alas, I don''t see Aruna today. Something small is scuttling down the hall towards me with a high-pitched wail, and before I can discern what it is, it speeds past me towards the men''s room, trailing black ichor behind it. Its shrill cries turn into ringing in my ears. The horrible rancid odor follows soon after like a tidal wave of nausea, gasoline and bleach mixed together left to stew in a summer swamp, acrid yet pungent. I know better than to chase after the damn thing, so I head back to my desk and dial Aruna''s line. "Yes, Mara?" She chirps sweetly. "There''s a...thing, running down the hallway. I think it went into the men''s room next to the archive depot...it smells really bad too. Is it one of those Echo things?" A bit of silence, I can hear her stirring what is probably a cup of tea or hot cocoa. She seems like a hot cocoa person. "Ah, no...that''s...Line 2''s mess. I''ll call him to clean it up." Not even a minute later, the line rings again. "Hey, Mara...I asked Line 2, and he said he''s...busy with something. So you might have to go down there and grab the little guy and bring it to him." "What? Are you crazy?" I almost throw down the receiver, "It was fast as f-fff - I''m not going after it!" "I''ll walk you through the steps. Don''t worry, these things are usually...not dangerous." That''s not reassuring. I look at the fetid trail it left behind then at my only pristine white dress shirt. As I think about the dry cleaning bill that really should go towards my ice cream funds, Mara''s future seems just a tiny bit dimmer now. "If we don''t grab this thing and get it back to Line 2, then...it might become a problem for Line 5. And trust me, you do not want to meet Line 5." Aruna advises, the stress evident in her voice. "If it kills me, I''m going to be so mad at you. I''m going to haunt you forever. I''ll be one of those Echo things that crawl through your window and throw stuff." Aruna just chuckles.
I follow the trail down carpeted hallways that lead to yet another twisting maze of nondescript offices. The black liquid, whatever it is, is soaking through the fabric and blotting out the bland pattern, filling my nose with battery acid fumes. The trail grows spasmodic, scuttling up walls and even along the ceiling, but I see no discernible footprints. When I stop to examine the splatter that landed on the walls along its frantic path, I realize it was going faster than expected - the drops are almost horizontal to the floor. "How am I supposed to catch this...thing? What even is it?" "You''d have to ask Line 2." Aruna clinks her teaspoon against her cup softly, I can just barely make out the beep of a telegram machine in the background. "But he said...''find a sturdy container first.''" "And he''s telling you that through Morse code." "Something like that. He is...old-fashioned." The line then went quiet, because Aruna put me on hold and left me to face death alone. I think about just turning around to flee and just pretending like the thing got away from me again, I think about calling our nonexistent security, I think about what people will say at my funeral. I think about getting fired, sleeping in a Honda Civic, that nightmare I keep having. I open the men''s room door. Great. Aruna calls again. When I pick up, she''s definitely typing up a storm at Line 2. That telegram machine is going off faster than a pulsar. "Okay, I talked to him. He said it should be fine as long as you don''t scream or make sudden movements. Apparently he calls it a ''Nyctonaut'', and I have no idea what that means. You just need to kind of...coax it out and into the container." I grab one of the empty trashcans - luckily no one has used this restroom in ages, and empty out the bag. It seems large enough and sturdy enough to contain this...Nyctonaut. Just in case, I hold the lid like a shield and grab a broom for self defense. Mara is a strong independent woman who has a blue belt in Taekwondo, sleeps with the bedroom door open, and won''t be bested by some small...slime creature, even if this entire thing feels like the first five minutes of an alien horror movie. "Coax it out...like a raccoon?" "Like a kitten that''s hiding under your car because it''s winter and the engine is the only warm thing around." She makes it sound so harmless, God. I brace myself, take a deep breath, and slowly push open the creaky stall door with my shield in front of my face the way Perseus must''ve approached Medusa. Please don''t kill me I don''t want to die in a bathroom- It takes me a few moments to process what I''m looking at: a broken vintage TV oozing black slime, with a small body attached to it at the neck that''s made of the same disgusting material. Freakishly long arms extend past its entire body length, ending in sharp needles dripping with ichor. There are wires embedded in its chest and dangling from its viscous ribcage like grotesque entrails. The screen, although broken, flashes and spews static occasionally, and the antennae seem to be the only parts not covered in that liquid. The smell is mercifully no longer the most horrific thing in this room after the damages it did to my nose. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. It stares at me with what I assume to be visual sensing organs behind the broken screen, or at least I get the strong sense that it''s staring at me. A fuzzy voice mixed with bursts of static buzzes quietly. "?I?s? ?t?h?a?t? ?y?o?u?,? ?m?o?m???"? Not today, motherhood. I tilt the empty trashcan towards the Nyctonaut carefully, holding the lid ready for whenever it decides to crawl in. Thankfully, it seems attracted to small spaces, and clambers inside without hesitation. I throw myself and the lid over the trashcan immediately, holding it in place until the thing has calmed down. To my surprise it stays docile, content in its confinement. I hear it circling a few times inside before curling up into a ball. "Guess what," I pick up the phone with shaking hands, "that wasn''t a kitten under a car." "You did great, just need to get it to Line 2''s office. I''ll give you directions." "Does this...happen a lot? With the Nyctonauts?" "No...not this." Aruna trails off. Something in her voice makes me feel there are other things involving Nyctonauts here, possibly many more of them. I take a moment to listen through the lid, when it''s evident the creature isn''t going to budge from any external interferences and is clearly enjoying its solitude, I reluctantly begin hauling it toward Line 2''s office.
I knock on the solid double oak doors simply adorned with a brass "2" on the front. Everything I know about this Line 2 so far is adding up into quite an unpleasant mental image. The Nyctonaut buzzes inside the trashcan, almost snoring. "Come in." I hear a faint voice. The doors creak open just a little. He is...not what I expected. Soft dusk coats the room in amber hues, from the worn mahogany table to the stacks of yellowed books, the faded Persian carpet, and the ghostly man standing in the middle. Dust swirls and dances through thin, scattered light, dancing to nowhere in this room that felt sealed since antediluvian times. What little wallpaper that isn''t peeling off is covered in a mad scrawl of schematics, diagrams, charts and every other incomprehensible form of cosmic knowledge condensed to paper. There is enough space to stand and walk, but mostly to sit and ponder things from the comfort of the relatively intact office chair, which compared to the rest of the room, is probably a new addition. The man, too, is worn at the edges. He saps the warmth from the air just by glaring. His depression-grey turtleneck sweater and threadbare dark jacket remind me of one divorced college professor I used to study under, the one that inevitably winds up rambling about their own research instead of the actual lecture material. He''s young enough to pass for a college student, but old enough to not get ID''d at any liquor store. Besides, nothing but age could have produced that piercingly bleak look in his eyes - his eyes, which I have noticed, are odd colours: one green and one brown, both pupils pinpricked like a cat''s. "Thank you for bringing back my Nyctonaut." He rasps, as if his lungs are as desiccated as the books he reads. "I apologize for the troubles you went through to deliver it." "Just don''t let it get loose again, please. It made such a mess in the halls." He lifts the lid to peer in to the trashcan. The Nyctonaut sleeps soundly in its little cage without a care in the world. I realize he has an odd way of inflecting his words, something I can''t put my finger on - it''s almost...trans-Atlantic, but less deliberate, more subtle, like he''s practiced it before. "Augusta will see to the necessary sanitation. You may leave now." "I''m not some maid to be dismissed at your whim." I slam my hands down on the trashcan lid. He just tsks in irritation, mumbles something about "Aruna warned me" and such. "What are you going to do with the Nyctonaut?" "The little thing?" He hovers over the trashcan which I am protectively hunched over. I feel his gaze on me, prickling, vexed. "Dispose of it. It''s a failed product." "Just like that?" "What, do you expect me to father it?" He''s probably one of those smug assholes that think they can get away with being abrasive and inconsiderate just because they''re good at what they do, people like that grate my nerves in a way only taxes and traffic jams can. But unfortunately, dealing with jerks comes in the job description of working customer services. Still, the way the Nyctonaut called out for its mother back there, it felt wrong to speak of it as a "failed product". "I brought it back all this way and you''re just going to kill it? It was calling for its mother, for fuck''s sake-" "It''s a dead memory piloting its child-corpse through a river of metaphysical muck that failed to even navigate the rapids." He spits out the words with clear venom, no matter how little sense they''re making to me. I have no idea what the river of metaphysical muck is, or how far this guy has veered off the deep end, but I feel light-headed under his glare, sickeningly so. A faint buzzing or clicking rings out from somewhere behind him. "Go find Aruna if you are so desperate for charity, but I do not partake in her joie de vivre." He hisses, "I do not minister, I do not soothe. And I have no inclination to justify my methods to you." "No, obviously, you''re just a jerk." The clicking is louder now. He draws back, eyes fixed on the trashcan. "You should know what kind of business Line 2 deals with, receptionist." Of course I know, Augusta had me memorize the manual for when to transfer to each line.
Line 2: For mysteriously puzzling phenomena, haunting visions, cognito-hazards and other confounding incursions into the supernatural world, consider transferring to Line 2. Often times the greatest mysteries have the simplest explanations, which Line 2 pinpoints with indefatigable logic. All manners of portends can be deciphered this way, and most general inquiries into the arcane can be answered, so as long as the relevant information exists somewhere. If the caller is not in immediate danger, but has persistent issues that they require insight into, Line 2 will offer them blunt, often-unpleasant, but necessary truths to release them of their troubles. However, avoid burdening the line with too many frivolous callers who simply don''t want to do their own research - Line 2 is one of the busiest, whose work quality may be compromised when overwhelmed.
I can''t believe this guy gets paid to be an asshole. A knowledgeable one, maybe, but an asshole nonetheless. I stare him down until I can no longer tell if the buzzing is coming from his office or from inside my skull. Then, as if he only just heard it, Line 2 snaps his attention away from me to dig around his cabinet. He finds a leaden box with a bottle labeled "potassium iodide" inside, shoves the bottle in my hand, and starts pushing me out of the door. "That''s enough of you now. Go, get out of here." I clock the lead gloves and lead apron hanging from the coat rack as I stumble out from his office, which only made the pit in my stomach sink even deeper. Everything back there felt deeply, seriously wrong, but more than anything was the utter silence after he slams the door shut behind me. I am left in the hallway with my bottle of potassium iodide and a head full of swirling questions, bubbling up out of indignant fury. Still, the worst thing about that encounter was perhaps the source of that buzzing: the Geiger counter I glimpsed on the shelf just before he closed the door. It simply read 45 mSV. Almost the amount of radiation a nuclear power plant worker is exposed to in a year. I have a question, and I have a guess, and I don''t like either of them. What the fuck could have made that much radiation? Line 0: Hunting I met Line 3 under very different circumstances. The day has been one of those when the sun decides to be a pale, miserable blob. Maybe it''s the approaching flu season, but there''s more than virus in the air now - I smell it in the oily smoke of nameless burger shops: little lonely islands of grease and urbanization outlined in flickering neon, advertising soup plus a pork slider during happy hours; more of the isolation swirls around monolithic gas station signs in the night fog, beaming petrol prices like a prophetic vision. I don''t remember what set me off, but I don''t feel happy to get a call from my mother on my way home from work. She always has things to talk about but never things I want to hear, and the habitual correspondence I reserve for customers is all but sold out at the end of the day. I watch the congealed traffic crawl through 5 P.M. streets. Still, she would not shut up about my future. I try to let her voice melt into the cold grey, but every syllable keeps jumping out at me, waiting to mug me when I turn the corner. "...go out more. I bought you a gym membership last year and you didn''t even use it. You can''t rely on your meds forever, Mara, it''s not a permanent solution to your problems. What will you do if you moved away? Are you going to go back to locking yourself up in your room? Last time it took two years for you to come out-" "-I told you, I just wanted some privacy-" "-And you stopped doing volunteer services. Did you know Vanessa from the community center has been calling me, asking about where you went? She said ''What happened to Mara? Is she sick? Is she in the hospital?'' and I had to tell her you just didn''t want to-" "-I am sick. Sick of being stuck in a room with people on probation and kids sentenced to scrub swimming pools because they got drunk or high-" "-this is why you can''t make new friends-" A Nissan screeches past the curb I stand on narrowly. The driver, either en route to his wife''s childbirth or just really into drifting techniques, blares his horns at me and flips me off as he skids away, splashing rain gutter muck over my shoes. Something in me snaps in that moment. "I KNOW!" I scream into my phone, and I end the call. Just standing on the curb by the street, staring into the traffic light that''s beginning to blur from my tears. I don''t want to hear anything. I don''t want to be here. I don''t want to think. But I still have to eat something, so I turn to drag myself towards the gas station burger shop, wiping my tears frantically all the while.
I usually eschew these burger joints because I have seen what goes on in the back kitchens. Still, can''t be too picky if I want to be fed at a reasonable price. The bright neon sign "??????''?? ??????????" flickers in rainbow gasoline puddles. Faded menus taped to windows peer out at me like greasy little handprints, with only the image of a buffalo chicken wrap surviving. The register is empty. Warmth of kitchen steam and deep fried bits rise to embrace me with a late night, air-conditioned hug. The floor is clean at least, a stark contrast to the scattered plastic tables and chairs, courtesy of the only waiter and his cleaning rag that has seen some shit. Faint music trickles out of an old stereo (I could''ve sworn my father had the same one back in 2005), switching between sleep-talking rappers incoherently mumbling. One wall is an enormous vintage poster of beach-goers on a sunny day, the rest all plastered in newspaper clippings, patron photos, fake IDs snagged off kids and local band advertisements. I always like to stare at these walls for a bit, picking out the photos with dogs in them. "Can I help you." The waiter stuffs the rag in his apron and heads over to ring me up, his question more of a statement at this point. I don''t blame him - there''s camaraderie in the mutual suffering of the service industry. "A buffalo chicken wrap, please." "You want mustard or mayo with that?" "Mustard, if you would." "We''re out of mustard." He states plainly. Ah, the illusion of choice. I watch him dump an entire pack of chicken breast into the deep fryer, then start on dousing everything else in a shower of cheddar cheese and salt. Say what you will about hypertension, but if my arteries are going to look like New York sewer pipes in a few years, I will take comfort in the fact that it was worth it. Mother''s voice is still ringing in my head over that stupid mumble rap. I rest my head on the table so I can squeeze my eyes shut and focus on something else, anything else, anything but the bitter resentment gnawing me. Sniffling and weeping in a little roadside diner is pathetic teenager behavior, and I refuse to give in. "I can make friends." I rub my eyes dry, trying not to look at my reflection. "I can make lots of friends." As if to answer me directly, the stereo starts blasting "?????? ???????? ?????????????? ???? ????????????'', ?????? ???????? ?????????????? ???? ????????????'', ?????? - ?????? ???? ?????? ???? ???? ????????, ?????? ???? ?????? ???? ???? ????????, ???????????? ???? ???? ????????, ???????? ?????????????? ???? ???? ?????????? ????????-" Well, fuck you too FM 86.7! I switch defense mechanisms and engage zoning out protocols. I like watching the car lights flash by the fogged window, wondering what kind of lives each one is ferrying. Evenings like these are best spent without company, just your thoughts drifting off to shitty music until you''re floating in a different world, and you stay floating there for as long as you want - or as long as it takes to finish the buffalo chicken wrap. The night mist sinks into a slow drizzle outside, warmed by residues of the day''s heat. The world outside grows blurry, so blurry I can''t tell if it''s the rain or the sleep filling my eyes. I smell the oil and salt now - the promise of crispy, golden grilled chicken. Just closing my eyes for a little bit here, so tired...
??????????????, ??''???? ?????? ?? ???????? ????????????????, ?????????????????? ???? ???? ?????????? ?? ???????????? ????????- I wake up to the faint tune of some twangy, grimy old country music tune with a way over-the-top accent. The street lights are still on, but the convenient store across the street has its blinds shut, along with most other stores. How long did I sleep? ???? ??''?? ???? ????????????, ?? ???????? ??????''?? ????????, ???????? ?? ???????????? ??????????, ?? ???????? ???????? ?????? ??????- The music coming from the stereo is the only sound in the store now. No more sizzling oil, no more kitchen fans whirring, not even footsteps - what the fuck is happening? Did I oversleep? Why didn''t the waiter wake me up? And more importantly, where is my food? I''m starving! I clock the digital timepiece above the counter: 11:23 PM, well past any restaurant''s closing time. Something is clearly wrong. ????, ??????????????, ????????''?? ?????? ??????? ?? ???????? ?????? ?????? ???? ???????????? ??????????- The singer drags out the "todayyyyyyyyyyyyyy" until hunger and resentment propel me to turn off the stereo. If the building is empty now I might as well cut and run, then maybe just bitch about the treatment I got on a review website, since the money is probably a lost cause at this point. As soon as the stereo is unplugged, another sound trickles in, much quieter than that hackneyed singing: faint chewing coming from behind the kitchen doors. Nah, fuck this, I''m out. I try the front doors: locked. I try the side doors leading to the parking lot: locked. I try the fire exit: blocked by an OSHA violation. I circle around to the bathroom to check for windows: all walls. Now, it''s easy to look back on these sorts of scenarios and say "Wow, Mara, that was so dumb. Why didn''t you just call the police or the fire department?". But I ask of you, gentle reader, to understand that I would rather end up the inspiration for an episode of a true crime podcast than embarrass myself because I slept through closing hours. I will probably have to explain to a dozen people including my own mother that I wasn''t robbing the store, I just wanted a chicken wrap. Even though my day job is to make phone calls and talk to people, I still find it significantly less enjoyable than death. I decide to check the kitchen and staffrooms. Hopefully someone left a spare key in there along with my order, so I don''t leave empty-handed. Just to be safe, I grab the tiny pepper spray from behind the register - probably good for one spritz on a raccoon-sized assailant, but still better than nothing. A thought flashes into my head as I push open the double doors leading to the kitchen: if everyone left for the day, why was the radio still on? The chewing stops abruptly. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Bad decision. Whatever is inside, its eyes reflect back at me through the murky darkness, definitely not raccoon-sized judging by their distance. Scent of meat fills up the room, the kind of pungent blood-stench you can only smell at a butcher shop and not a tidy little supermarket, fresh and bloody, taken straight from the freezer. My first instinct is to fumble for the light switch, only to realize the motherfucker in charge of construction placed it all the way at the back of the room. The thing bellows, a wretched mix between an elk bugle and a cow''s lowing, ending in a hoarse scream that''s almost human-like. It is out of meat and I am 110 pounds of fresh meat that just walked in on a silver platter. I can''t make out its shape in the darkness, but going by the sound of something scraping against the ceiling, it''s about 9 foot and "fuck you" inches. It swings its head and hurls a solid chunk of frozen burger patty at me. The damn thing hits me like a missile. My vision is struck with a blinding whiteness, and a ringing tremor surrounds my head. As it shrieks in that half-man half-beast voice, I can feel my bravado evaporating: I''m not dying in a fucking burger shop. I run for the fire alarm. ??''?? ???????? ???? ???????????? ???????? ?? ???????? ?????????????? ????????, ???????? ?????????? ?????? ??????????????, ?????????? ?????? ????????- Somehow the radio switches itself back on despite being still unplugged. The singer sounds like a rabid wolf snarling into the mic. I mentally picture myself running from the beast while this rickety old tune blares in the back cartoonishly, because the gods love dark irony and I am the eternal clown. I can hear it crashing through the kitchen behind me in a cacophony of pots and pans. I don''t really think - I act on instinct and splash a jar of sriracha sauce at it, right where its eyes should be. It seems the power of capsaicin is universal because the thing reels back and screams again, flailing to wipe its eyes clean, and I see by the dim light outside that one of its arms is made out of a hock of ham. Whatever it is, it seems to be an amalgamation of meat products. The massive, misshapen cow head pieced together from broken bones lolls from side to side, held up by a jigsaw torso of beef ribs. Ground pork and sausage-intestines ooze from the hollow chest and trail behind with each step, squelching, writhing, trying to grab onto any more meat in its proximity and absorb it. I suppose that explains the single meat hook hanging from its back that was once attached to the ceiling. Its other arm comes up to smack a lamp out of its way - a human arm, melded at the joints. I follow the arm to the subsumed, vaguely familiar face of the waiter. Only his jaw remains, and what little lungs that can still breathe to utter the most horrific scream from beneath this...mountain of flesh. I make a split-second decision to sprint for the kitchen torch next to the grill, then I remember the pepper spray. I can''t find the fire alarm, but I can set it off with a little makeshift flamethrower. I aim the pepper spray at the thing lumbering towards me and flick on the kitchen torch. Click. Oh you have got to be fucking with me. The pathetic little cloud of pepper spray spirits away into the air vents like a sad ghost of my short-lived conviction. As a last-ditch effort I throw the torch as hard as I can at it, with about as much success as hitting a windshield with a bug. I am the bug, my life is the windshield, and the 300 pound meat windshield wiper is charging at me now. Ring... My phone! I hold it up and shine the flashlight right into its eyes, it works great as a flashbang. Within the two precious seconds it buys me, I''m running for the back exit and screaming into the phone. "I need help-!" A woman''s voice on the other end, low and quiet, one I''ve never heard before. "A little bit to the right." "What?" "I said, move a little bit to your right." I don''t understand why, but I veer right as she instructs. At the same time the creature finally bursts out of the kitchen, shattering the doors against their hinges. BANG! In a brilliant shower of glass, the shot pierces through its eye sockets in slow-motion, hitting the creature before the smoke trail even dissipated. I probably screamed and tripped over myself at some point, because I''m scooting backwards in a blind panic watching the thing twist in agony, its intestines flailing all over the ground. That shot must''ve hit something serious. "Told ya to move right." Comes the smug response. "Where...are you? Who are you?" "Look out the window." I peer out a little. I don''t know what I''m expecting, but it probably isn''t the silhouette of a woman crouching Batman-style atop the roof across the street. There''s sniping from a vantage point, and then there''s posing for maximum dramatic effect. Right now she is definitely posing. "Are you..." "Yep." She gives me a little wave from atop the roof. "Thought I smelled an Aggregate, so figured I''d check." Behind me, I can hear flesh squishing itself together slowly. "Can you get me out of here?" "In a minute." She hangs up the call. I can''t tell what she''s doing up there, but a moment later she is smashing through the broken window like a freight train (because that''s just how my night is going). I am definitely screaming this time. She dusts the glass off herself before pulling out two ancient-looking pistols from her shoulder holsters, both barrels leveled at the Aggregate. "I only learned this after I started on the job." She rolls her shoulders stiffly. "Best way to deal with one of these-" I dive for under the table to curl up and hide, but nothing comes close to shutting out that deafening blast from the pistols. I don''t hear her reload, I don''t hear the cylinders being spun, I spend about a good minute or so just praying nothing ricochets into me. When I open my eyes again, the Aggregate, or whatever it''s called, has been reduced to a pile of fleshy mush. "-is with overwhelming force." The woman shakes wisps of smoke off the pistols'' red-hot barrels, like it''s normal for those antique pieces to be firing so many rounds that they overheat. I clock her weird-looking ballistic mask that has earned quite a few scratches, the holsters, and the fact that she doesn''t seem to be carrying ammo anywhere. At this point, the weirdness of it all is enough to help me figure out who she works for. "You''re...?" I ask, she wipes the gunpowder off on the waiter''s poor tattered rag and offers me a hand that is somehow even dirtier than before. "I work Line 3. Lotta hits these days. Folks call me Samiel." This is perhaps one of the weirdest introductions to a coworker I''ve ever had. I shake her hand and can''t help but wonder if the mask is really for her safety or just an aesthetic. Whenever I transferred to Line 3, I always pictured someone completely different based on the single sticky-note that serves as my guide.
???? ?????? ???????????? ???? ??????????????????, ??????????''?? ?? ???????? ???????????? ???????? ?? ???????? ?????? ????????????????. ?????? ?????? ?????????????? ???????????????? ???????????????????????? ???????? ?? ???????????????????? ???????????? ???????? ???????????????? ?????????????????? ????????????????????????, ???????? ?? ???????? ?????? ???? ?????? ????????????''?? ???????????? ?????? ?????? ????????????. ???????? ???????? ???????????????????? ???? ?????? ???????? ??''?? ????????????????, ?????? ???????????????????? ?????????????? ???????? ???????? ???? ???? ?????????????? ???? ?????? ?????????????? ????????, ???? ???? ???? ?????????????????? ???? ?????????? ???????? ?? ?????????? ???????????????????? ??????????????????. ????????????????????????, ???????? ???????? ???????? ?? ???? ?????? ???? ???????????????? ???? ???????????? ????., ?????? ???????????? ???? ?????????????????????? ????????????????????, ?????? ?????? ?????????? ?????? ???????????? ???? ?????? ????????????.
Samiel dusts herself off and starts picking through the pile of flesh. I wince a little as she flops over the lifeless arm that was once attached to the poor waiter. "How did this...he...?" "Oh, the Aggregate?" She repeats that again, as if it''s going to make more sense the second time, "It''s lots of little pieces trying to make a...gestalt, chasing a complete form. Maybe it started with a single steak or bacon, then along the way it just snowballed...everything. I''m not good with the intel, I just shoot them." Yeah, I figured, still. "That doesn''t really make sense." Samiel shrugs. "If it made sense, they wouldn''t have hired me." "But the waiter, he-" She shakes her head, I get the feeling it''s not the first time someone had this kind of reaction to her. "He was probably caught up in it too, trying to....complete himself. These Aggregates tend to wander closer to whatever is similar to them, you know, like leeches to their favourite fish." Lovely mental imagery, just lovely. I try to push past the tinnitus, the adrenaline, the sweat soaking my back, the sudden absence of that awful country music, the fever of it all. Samiel, on the other hand, couldn''t care less, because she wanders over to pick up a stale plate of tri-tips with some generous onion rings. I don''t even see her remove her mask or chew, just - one, two, like she inhaled the food. Then she starts on the bag of chowder fries, and only after vacuuming half of it does she remember I''m still here. "Want some?" "I''m good." I think I''m going to lay off meat for at least a month. "Eat a ribeye, stop an Aggregate." She is clearly chewing with her mouth open behind that mask, "That''s what I always say. Anyways, you better get going before the cleanup guy gets here. He gets cranky on late night shifts." I still have more questions about how legal everything is and if anything is to be done about the poor waiter. It feels so wrong to just leave his half-liquefied corpse here with someone who clearly doesn''t give enough of a shit, but I''m also too tired and scared out of my mind to think of a proper way to respond. So, against all my intuitions, I simply decide to...leave. The last time I look back, Samiel is on the phone with someone else, twirling one of those antique pistols absent-mindedly.
The walk home is a complete mental haze. As soon as I get to the front door, I notice 8 missed calls from mother. "Mara, are you home yet? It''s really late now, do you need a ride from someone? I can ask-" "I''m good, mom." I reply as normally as I can. "I''m home." "As long as you''re safe." She breathes a deep sigh of relief, "So, um, about the volunteer stuff..." She trails off. I sit down by my front door and let the silence take over, debating if I should tell her about what just happened. "...you don''t have to go if you don''t want to. I know you''re busy now, and you''ve got a job, so..." "Really?" "Really. You''re doing enough already." "Today, I..." I saw a flesh monster that was made out of meat products and a poor soul. I almost died. I met a coworker and I''m pretty sure she''s the devil. I watched someone die. I saw real guns. "...I''m going to go to bed early. Goodnight, mom." A bit of hesitation from the other end, then "Goodnight, love you. Get some rest, okay?" For the first time in a long time, I do not dream of that mist-veiled pier and the distant figure. I don''t feel sad either, perhaps out of the fear that my sadness is going to draw in some other demented form of Aggregates, but I''m not sad. For the first time in a long time, I''m strangely content with the world and all its cruelties, its slings and arrows, its gentle indifference.