Table of Contents
Title Page
Advance Praise for The Girl in the Video
Declarations
Dedication
The Girl in the Video
The Perpetual Motion Machine Catalog
Connect with PMMP
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE GIRL IN THE VIDEO
“Propulsive, modern, funny, frightening. The Girl in the Video will make you think twice about opening any anonymous videos sent your way. Then it’ll make you think twice again. Michael David Wilson has long added to the genre with his incredible podcast/press This is Horror, but here he offers a book, and now it’s time for someone else to interview him.”
—Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box, Unbury Carol, and A House at the Bottom of a Lake
“The Girl in the Video took me somewhere I didn’t want to go via a route I didn’t want to take. It’s an unsettling story of love, lust, and cultural disorientation that’ll flirt with you and then, when you’re at your most vulnerable, take full advantage of your good intentions.”
—David Moody, author of Autumn and Hater
“Compelling, tense, and disturbing, Michael David Wilson has created a frightening story here that’s only too possible in our over-connected world.”
—Alan Baxter, the award-winning author of Served Cold and the Alex Caine series
Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing
Cibolo, Texas
The Girl in the Video
Copyright © 2020 Michael David Wilson
All Rights Reserved
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-943720-43-9
The story included in this publication is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
www.PerpetualPublishing.com
Cover Art by Pye Parr
www.pyeparr.com
For all the teachers in the world who inspire and encourage creativity, including George Ttoouli who once described my fiction as ‘horrific, depraved, hilarious, and offensive’. I hope I’ve done you proud.
I’M TIRED OF TRYING to pinpoint where, how, or why this mess started. But for the sake of brevity, let’s focus on an early October morning in 2015 and a peculiar message. It was that rare time of year when the temperature inside the house was near perfect, neither hot enough for air conditioning nor cold enough for the heater. I was downstairs, in the room that served as both a kitchen and lounge, cooking breakfast. Rachel sat at the table, engrossed in her iPad. The back door was cracked open, the autumn chill dancing with the scent of fried bacon and strong coffee. In the distance, the hum of schoolchildren doing their morning exercises on the nearby playground. And by ‘nearby’ I mean practically affixed to the bottom of the patio. And by ‘patio’ I mean a strip of concrete you’d be lucky to fit a barbecue on. There was a fence and everything. All above board. Nothing dodgy. I wasn’t renting a house that included a school, but anyway, I digress . . .
I brought the breakfast to the table—each plate loaded with poached eggs, spinach, two rashers of bacon, mushrooms, and a fried tomato. Rachel was still in ‘Christ, it’s early, drink all the coffee’ mode, shortly she’d transition to ‘oh shit, look at the time, better get ready for work’ mode. She wore pink and white pyjamas punctuated with grey cartoon cats, her dark chocolate hair scraped back into a tight bun. I cracked a little sea salt onto my eggs, Rachel shook a generous helping of salt and pepper onto absolutely everything. Ulver streamed through the Bluetooth speakers, an instrumental album I cared for and Rachel did not.
By-and-large, it was a pleasant enough morning.
I poured us both a cup of coffee, from an olive wood French press, and Rachel said: “Period came this morning.”
Now granted, that wasn’t a conventional response, a simple ‘cheers for the coffee’ would have done nicely, but neither of us cared much for convention. And besides, we were comfortable—together for over ten years, married for five.
“Well, it’s okay, we’re still young. There’s time,” I said.
“Be a darling and get some cream from the fridge, would you?”
I did as she asked, reattaching the crayoned drawing that frayed at the edges, a present from a former student.
“Cheers.” Rachel added cream to her coffee, stirred. “Best not to get our hopes up, though. Even if I do test positive, could be a phantom pregnancy.”
“Like a ghost baby?”
“No, dumbass.” Followed by a grin that extended to her eyes. “A phantom pregnancy’s when you display all the signs of pregnancy but aren’t actually pregnant.”
“Guess that’s why they wait longer for the ultrasound back in England. What is it? Eight weeks? Earlier? Later than here, at any rate. Akane got hers at five weeks, maybe less.”
“A phantom pregnancy can last way longer than eight weeks. There’ve been cases where women have been convinced they’re pregnant for the full nine months.”
“Sounds far-fetched—you’d think the absence of a bump would be the key piece to that particular puzzle.”
“There’s actually abdominal swelling, you know.”
“But surely not nine-month ‘someone call me a doctor because mummy’s-about-to-burst’ swelling.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s a lot about it online—fascinating reading.”
“Perhaps you read too much.”
“All right, Dr. Sapirstein.” We’d watched Rosemary’s Baby a few nights previous.
“Come on, Rosemary. Drink up your coffee, and don’t you mind the chalky under-taste, bit of tannis root never hurt anyone.”
***
After breakfast and washing-up, Rachel showered, singing Lady Gaga songs so loud the whole neighbourhood could hear. I took my phone from my pocket and went through my periodic ritual of cycling through social media apps. Twitter to WhatsApp to Twitter again—wouldn’t want to miss anything in those valuable seconds—to Hello Talk to Instagram, back to Twitter, and just as I thought I couldn’t hate myself or other people more I’d check Facebook. Rachel said I had a strange relationship with social media. That I should delete it if it brought me so much anxiety and despair. But it’s swings and roundabouts. How else was I supposed to know that Louis from middle school had mown his lawn, or that Carys, who I hadn’t seen in fifteen years, was holidaying in Malaga. And without Facebook I certainly wouldn’t have seen a picture of Thornby’s breakfast—Cheerios every day for the past two weeks. That’s not even exaggeration, the guy posted a bowl of Cheerios daily, even giving them a rating out of ten, no half marks, integers only.
I didn’t see it at first, but on a second round of social media cycling, I noticed a new Instagram direct message from some random with a Hello Kitty display pic.
The message was short: a late birthday present.
Below lay a shortened Bitly web address concealing the original URL.
Now usually I wouldn’t click obscured links from randoms, but whatever the reason—slip of the finger, lapse of judgement, overwhelmed from Thornby’s constant barrage of fucking Cheerios—I put on my headphones and did just that. Took a while to buffer, but eventually a video just over five minutes long appeared.
The camera focused on a girl sitting on a leat
her office chair. Only her lower body visible to the camera. Smooth toned legs in fishnets, crossed and uncrossed, crossed and uncrossed, always right leg over left, in sync with the music. I recognised the tune straight away but couldn’t quite place it. Something from my uni days. The track began dramatically—electronic and pulsating—an energetic piece that commanded attention.
The legs commanded attention, too—swinging frenetically.
The music slowed into a jazzy number—something sexier, the legs mirroring the music.
Low key vocals crept in.
I strained to hear the lyrics, unable to decipher anything until:
“What’s the meaning of this voyage?”
And that’s when it hit me. Ulver! We’d listened to them at breakfast, minutes ago. Though this was from a different album. An older album.
I racked my brain because it seemed important.
An opening track, not from Blood Inside. Earlier than that, so . . .
Perdition City! That was it.
Momentary elation was quick to subside—I didn’t feel any better for knowing.
At the three-minute mark, the girl hummed along to the tune. Her voice vanilla icing, so sweet and so soft.
Satin silky legs continued to cross and uncross.
The camera zoomed out and her full profile revealed itself for the first time. The small swell of her breasts underneath a black blouse. The short black skirt and studded belt. The cardboard Hello Kitty mask that concealed the upper half of her face. Guessed she was in her late teens or early twenties. But with the mask and the grainy camera, the relative dark and the large shadows, it was difficult to be sure.
On her feet, the girl swayed her hips to the beat. Movements slow and loose.
Delicate.
Alluring.
Sensual.
Five minutes in, the video cut from full colour to monochrome, save for a pair of pink plump lips. The focal point.
The camera zoomed out. The girl seated once more. She dipped a thin lip brush into a tube of lip lacquer and painted her pink lips sanguine.
So fresh and so wet I could almost smell the varnish.
She applied the lipstick again-and-again, like the crossing and uncrossing of her legs, always in time with the music.
When the music stopped, I realised I’d fallen into a trance, mesmerised by her calm and deliberate movements.
Relaxing.
Meditative.
Freeing.
Ten seconds of the video remained.
A final close-up of the girl’s lips and in a voice so soft it was barely audible she whispered, “Happy belated birthday.”
I don’t know how long I stood there—caught in a daze, phone in my hand, headphones still on. I full-on jolted when Rachel re-entered the room, a light grey towel wrapped around her body. She said, “Remember to take the plastic—bloody hell!”
I followed Rachel’s gaze to my . . . oh Jesus Christ, I had a massive stork on.
“Now I know I look good, ’n’all,” Rachel said, “the whole wet hair, bags under the eyes, and old towel thing is pretty hot right now—and I’m flattered you’re so happy to see me—but I don’t think there’s time.” She winked. “Unlike you with your late Monday timetable, I’m on an early—first lesson’s at twelve. I’ve got to leave in twenty minutes.”
“Umm . . . ” I searched for something smart to say, something that was definitely not, just watched a bizarre and evidently arousing video . . . “Just thought since we both want to be parents so bad we should seize every opportunity.”
I cringed at my words—bloody hell, should have stuck with the whole arousing video thing. At least Rachel was grinning. “You do remember I’m on my period, right?”
“Yeah, but, I mean, might be a phantom period . . . ”
She smiled—probably out of pity—then made her way upstairs.
Seconds later she called, “But seriously, Freddie, don’t forget to take the plastic out, yeah?”
I ran to the bathroom and shot my load.
***
With each viewing of the video, I found myself in a light trance as I enjoyed how well the visuals complemented the music. Sure, it was an amateur production, no doubt put together using cheap editing software. And yet there seemed to be something deeper to it, something more. It took a great deal of mental strength not to jack off there and then. Acting on my impulses would be a step too far. I didn’t want to debase the art, didn’t want to spoil the ‘belated birthday present’.
Chances were the video was just spam—this kind of shit happens all the time—and yet maybe, just maybe, it really was a late birthday present. Very late given my birthday had been back in August, but I was pretty bad at replying to emails and everything seemed to take way longer these days, not least if it had been sent from abroad.
Then again this is the fucking internet, there shouldn’t be a delay from abroad.
Well, whatever. Whether it was or wasn’t a birthday present, whether it was or wasn’t sent from overseas—I wasn’t gonna degrade it and myself.
But I was saving the file.
I opened my MacBook and used some browser extension to extract the video. Saved it in my ‘important administrative work’ folder with all the rest of my ‘important’ videos.
In the days that followed I played the video numerous times, but as days became weeks and weeks months, I mostly forgot about it, moving onto other things to obsess over.
***
SATURDAY JANUARY 23, 2016
My favourite burger bar in Japan is this neat little joint in Ryogoku, called Shake Tree. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but the quality and variety make it well worth a visit. They even do a lettuce wrap or extra burger patties if you don’t want bread, and if you’re looking for an eating challenge, they’ve got you covered. Just keep adding those patties, loading up on bacon, heaping up cheese, avocadoes, eggs, you name it—because if you’ve got the money, they’ve got the food.
So, that’s where we went—Rachel and I—on a rare Saturday off work, making the most of the extra time together. I tucked into a juicy burger with melted cheese, a thick slice of ripe tomato, and a slither of gherkin for added zest. The burger oozed grease which I dipped the fries in—trust me, it tastes great— even treated myself to a glass of Maker’s Mark. Rachel had one of those double burgers with the extra bacon and creamy avocado add-on. A banana milkshake ice cream-like consistency really sealed the deal.
“You sure this is the right time?” I asked. “It’s just, I imagined it a little differently. That we’d have everything in order. Or not everything, but at least a mortgage and a fat wad of cash in the bank. Savings, I mean.”
“A mortgage means you owe some big corporation a shit-load of money for decades. A mortgage is a whole heap of debt. Look at what happened to Hillary—borrowed eight times her salary just before the financial crisis, and now she can’t afford to sell the bloody thing. Trust me, no mortgage is a good thing.”
“I guess . . . but we should have a forever home . . . ” I paused. “Wrong expression. Think forever home’s for pets, but you know what I mean . . . More stability. All we have now is a three-year visa. What if we have to uproot? What if we need to go back to England? Or decide to move someplace else? I’ve always wondered about Denmark.”
“Then we’ll do it. We’ll look at our options and make the right decision for us at the time. But right now, we’re here and we’re happy. Aren’t we?”
I nodded and it was honest. We were happy.
Rachel reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “What’s gotten into you? You’re usually the one reassuring me, not the other way around.”
“I’m a little scared about being a dad. Felt the same before we got married. I get this tiny pang of sickness in the pit of my stomach just thinking about it, in case I mess up.” I sighed, didn’t want to bring the mood down but owed it to Rachel to be real. “What it comes down to is I’m afraid of commitment. Making the wrong decisions. D
ecisions that can’t be undone . . . And I’m pretty sure we can’t put the child back in once it comes out.”
Rachel laughed. “Put it back in? You’re terrible.”
“It’s true! I mean, physically, we could try but I expect it’ll kick up a fuss and then there’s the nurses, what will they say?” I dabbed my upper lip with a serviette, wiping away burger residue. “Seriously, though, part of me is so up for being a dad—the first time we see our kid, holding its little hand, pressing our kid close to my chest, giving it all the love I craved as a child but never quite got, taking all my life lessons and giving it my best shot.” I knocked back a mouthful of bourbon. “But the other part . . . well, the other part thinks I’m gonna fuck it up royally, because honestly that’s what I do. I fuck things up. Don’t want my kid to become another fuck-up in a long list of fuck-ups. This—having a kid—is for real, you know. It’s not like some dumb night out, a poor turn of phrase, or a questionable business decision. We’re talking about human life—you don’t get to erase the slate and start again, you make a mistake and that’s permanent damage.”
Rachel took a moment. “You’re too hard on yourself. And you’re allowed to make mistakes, we all are, it’s part of being human.” The waitress approached, probably to check if ‘everything’s all right with your food’, but promptly turned away when she realised the seriousness of the conversation. “I’m scared, too. And for what it’s worth I think you’ll be a great father. A dad. You’ll fuck up, sure, and I’ll fuck up, too. And we’ll fuck up together, and sometimes we’ll fuck up separately by contradicting one another’s fuck-ups, but on the whole, we’ll do well. We’ll get through the tough times. We always do. I just wish you believed in you as much as I do.”
“That’s sweet, Rach. Really. I appreciate it.”
“I’m serious. And the money, the mortgage, there being a perfect time . . . it’s all bollocks. You’re the one who told me that, remember? There are times that are better than others, sure, but there isn’t a perfect time. Sometimes you’ve got to take the leap. And right now, we’re in a decent position. We’ve got money in the bank—granted, not a lot—and we’re saving a little every month, we’re never hungry, we always pay our bills on time, and we’re living in a country we love, doing work we love. Not perfect, but pretty damn good. Better than most.”
The Girl in the Video (ARC) Page 1
