Project Pandora

by Aden Polydoros

  His monologue calmed him enough to lower the gun and, with trembling, sweaty fingers, eject the magazine. He thought about throwing both pieces into the street gutter but didn’t.

  Tyler wanted a weapon to protect himself, but he was still playing with the idea of finishing the job. Someone else’s desires. Someone else’s orders. The influence of the psychic parasite occupying him, intangible but perceived as the twitching of his index finger on the trigger. And that whisper in his head, that damned whisper, urging him on. Kill, kill, kill—even himself.

  He put both the pistol and its ejected magazine in the glove box, feeling a little better when he couldn’t see them.

  After taking a deep breath, he continued driving. His head swam with unanswered questions.

  Where would he go? Home? What would he tell his foster parents—that he had woken with a gun in his hand and the distinct impression that he’d held—and used—a gun before? And perhaps he should add that he had also been about to kill another, that he had a cell phone he didn’t own—wait, the cell phone!

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Tyler searched his pockets. He found the phone in his jacket pocket, as cold and repulsive as the gun handle, and tossed it into the cupholder.

  He would examine the device once he stopped, but he had a feeling it would yield even fewer answers than his temperamental memory.

  He started driving with little idea where to go. The neighborhood began to feel like a maze built to confuse and ensnare him. When he finally reached a familiar road, he sighed in relief and turned onto it.

  Soon the nicely maintained streets gave way to the familiar sprawl of townhouses he called home. By then almost half an hour had passed since he had gotten into the car, and he still felt the urge. Go back and kill them, or kill himself.

  Tyler parked along the curb and got out of the car, reeling once again in the cold, fading light. So wintry and harsh, more like the lamps above a surgical table than natural sunshine, so distorting, causing him to swivel about, searching for pursuers.

  Heartbeat spurred into a panic, he strained to hear the rev of an approaching engine or the wail of police sirens.

  Nothing. Dead silence.

  As he looked around him, he noticed an old woman sitting in the enclosed porch of the row house across the street. The black metal screen obscured her face, making it impossible to discern her expression or even her individual features.

  She raised her left hand; her other was concealed below the wood railing. Maybe holding a gun. Or maybe it was a phone she gripped onto, dialing 911.

  Too shaken to respond, he searched for his house keys. Not in his pockets. Oh God, had he dropped them? Left them back at the girl’s home?

  No, that was impossible. They were attached to the car keys and still in the ignition.

  Trembling slightly, Tyler plucked the key from the slot and locked up the car. The gun was still in the glove box. The flip phone sat on a pile of loose change in the cupholder. He left it there and went inside his home.

  “Dad? Mom?”

  The house was silent.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said aloud, but in a whisper this time, not even a cry for help. He was beginning to doubt his reason for coming here. What could he expect them to do?

  If he showed his foster parents the gun and explained his blackouts, they would call the police. They could not be trusted. And neither could the authorities, not after what had happened.

  Forcing himself to calm down and take things slowly, he went into the kitchen. He poured some cold water from the tap, gargled with half, and then drank the rest.

  His hands felt filthy, so he washed them. Then he splashed cold water onto his face. The slap of icy water woke him up a bit and made him feel grounded in the moment.

  After drying his dripping skin with a hand towel, he held the damp cloth against his face, thinking.

  First things first, he needed money, if only just for gas and lodging.

  Tyler went into the master bedroom and searched the cabinets, feeling ill. A memory was coming back to him now, emerging as grotesque as maggots from rotten fruit. He had searched another bedroom not too long before. He had rifled through the contents of dressers much nicer than these, through silk and lace lingerie and men’s boxers, through the intimate details of two strangers’ lives. That was after he had shot the woman but before he had killed the man.

  Nauseated, he sat down heavily on the bed.

  “What the hell is wrong with me?” he mumbled, staring down at his hands. “This just can’t be happening.”

  Once he had regained control of himself, he stood. He continued searching, found nothing of interest or use in the drawers, and moved on.

  From the master bedroom, Tyler went into the small study where his foster father spent his nights. He opened the desk drawers, but all he found were a few porn magazines alongside mundane business-related paraphernalia.

  He was about to give up when, after pushing aside a pile of papers, he discovered a thick manila envelope. He would have disregarded it like all the rest of the files, if not for the edge of a dollar bill sticking out of it. He shook the contents onto the desk.

  In the entire house, he had been expecting to find perhaps a couple hundred dollars if he were lucky, but what fell out was a folded sheet of paper and two thick stacks of bills. The bundles were sealed with thin strips of cardboard, upon which their monetary value was written in bold print: $2,500.

  His foster father was an architect and his foster mother worked at a real estate agency. Even though they made enough to get by, their bank accounts weren’t padded enough to justify having five thousand dollars in cash lying around like pocket change.

  He opened the paper. In printed type, it read:

  Here is the quarterly stipend. Last month’s report was disappointingly bare. I expect you to keep careful, descriptive records of his behavior, including any changes in sleeping and eating or unusual comments he has made. Do not forget to include the dates and times; this is the second time I have had to remind you to be thorough, and my patience thins. Additionally, as I have mentioned repeatedly, any uncharacteristic actions on his part MUST be brought up with me. I cannot stress this enough.

  At the bottom of the sheet there was a phone number but no closing, no sender, not even a name to identify who “he” was. Although Tyler had a sinking idea.

  “The hell?” He looked at the money, then again at the letter. The manila envelope was unmarked, which meant it hadn’t been mailed.

  He picked up the telephone. After a brief hesitation, he dialed the number on the letter.

  The phone rang five times then went directly into voicemail. There was no personalized message, just a “please leave your number after the beep” robotic voice.

  He hung up without speaking and returned the phone to its cradle. He riffled through the bundles of cash, in a brief moral dilemma over whether he should take all or only half. It seemed like such a petty thing to worry about, considering how stealing would be the mildest of his crimes by far.

  Just as he decided to take the entire five grand, the desk phone rang.

  The caller ID identified it as a private caller, but Tyler suspected it was from the same number. He picked it up.

  “Hello?” a man said.

  A great shudder racked his body, and goose bumps exploded on his back and shoulders. Whereas before the overhead lamp had felt like an interrogator’s spotlight trained on his act of thievery, the room now darkened. And darkened. And the darkness crept along the corners of his vision as he felt himself wobble, at the edge of a faint that was not a faint.

  “Is someone there?” the voice asked.

  Tyler dropped the phone. It missed the cradle. He didn’t bend down to retrieve it.

  Over the recurring keening in his ears, he heard a choked whimper. Then, as he gathered the money with shaky hands, he discerned words entangled in the terrified sound. “I don’t want to go back. Not back. Not back. Please, not back.”


  Cradling the cash against his chest, he backed away from the desk. He felt blind even though he could see just fine. He felt deaf to everything but that voice, which he heard even as he ran down the hall and into his room, blasting through his ears as he dropped the cash on his bed. As he rushed to the closet, he realized the voice was in his own head.

  He threw open the closet door and seized the travel backpack from the top shelf. He threw clothes into the bag, not caring what he grabbed or if they were even clean.

  He just wanted to feel a little prepared for what might lie ahead. It was the same false hope felt by the passengers on a sinking ship, as they clung to their worldly possessions while their footing fell apart beneath them.

  As Tyler zipped up his backpack, he wondered how long the secret reports had been going on. Had the money paid for his used car and the gas it consumed—after having offered to get a job and pay for it himself? And hadn’t his foster parents told him it wasn’t necessary for him to work, that instead he should just focus on his schoolwork? Had they wanted him to keep his schedule open for times like this, when blood must be spilled? Was that it?

  He shook his head. Thinking about it wouldn’t help him. Neither would fantasies of suicide or terrified obsessing over what lay ahead.

  Really, there was only one thing left to do.

  The pursuit of truth.

  Status Report: Subject 2 of Subset A

  DK: In our first interview, I asked if you had ever killed someone. Your answer was rather ambiguous, and I must say, I’m very curious. Are you willing to cooperate this time?

  A-02: Depends. Are you willing to eat my shit?

  (Let the record show that at 00:00:28 the subject received one jolt of electricity at 10mA.)

  DK: Maybe we should try the drugs again. At least you were somewhat polite when you were doped up.

  A-02: Whatever you want, sir.

  DK: Have you ever killed someone?

  A-02: Untie me, sir, and I’ll show you. You think you’re so superior now, but let’s see how condescending you are when I kick your teeth in.

  (At 00:01:35 the subject received two shocks.)

  DK: Are you a masochist, Hades? Does pain excite you? It almost seems like you’re asking to be punished.

  A-02: I don’t like to be called that.

  DK: Oh, come now. Subject Two of Subset A is quite a mouthful; it gets so tedious after a while calling you that. It’s hardly a proper name.

  A-02: It’s not supposed to be a name.

  DK: So is that how you referred to yourself at the Academy?

  A-02: Only with the trainers. With the kids in other subsets, it’s A-02. With Nine and my friends, it’s just Two.

  DK: So you have friends. I’m surprised. You don’t seem like a very friendly boy.

  A-02: I was my team’s commander during war games.

  DK: Is that a touch of pride I hear? It must be so shocking, going from being the Academy’s golden boy to this. To nothing.

  A-02: I worked for what I did. It wasn’t given to me.

  DK: I never said it was.

  A-02: I worked so hard.

  DK: If it’s any consolation, your talents won’t be put to waste here.

  (Silence from 00:03:10 to 00:03:23.)

  DK: Now, I’m going to ask you this again. Have you ever killed someone?

  A-02: No.

  (Two shocks administered at 00:03:39.)

  DK: Polygraphs don’t lie, Hades. Are you afraid the Leader will punish you again? I assure you, everything you say in this session will be confidential, between you and me.

  A-02: What about her?

  DK: Eveline is simply here to monitor your vitals. I would like you to think of her as a friend.

  A-02: When you aren’t torturing me, do you like to have her tie you up and electrocute you, too? Does that get you off, Doctor? Does this?

  (Two shocks, 00:04:41.)

  A-02: So, is this what they call foreplay?

  DK: Have you ever killed anybody?

  A-02: No.

  (Two shocks, 00:05:01.)

  DK: I know you want to tell me, Hades. Why are you holding back?

  A-02: I’ll tell you if you let me see Nine.

  DK: Fair enough. It’s a deal.

  A-02: Okay. There was a guard at the Academy who was assigned to our subset last year. He was a friendly man. He acquired a reputation. If he liked you, he would bring you presents from the outside, but you had to be special for him to do that.

  DK: Were you special?

  A-02: No. He preferred blondes.

  DK: Like Nine.

  A-02: Yes. Everything he gave her, she shared with me. The gifts became more and more generous. I knew it was only a matter of time before he expected something in return, so I killed him. Then I disposed of him like the trash he was.

  DK: How exactly did you accomplish something like that?

  A-02: I don’t want to talk about it.

  DK: Well, how did it make you feel?

  A-02: Good. Alive.

  DK: Would it interest you to know there have been no reports of murders occurring at the Academy?

  A-02: I got rid of his body where no one would find it.

  DK: No disappearances, either.

  A-02: I remember doing it.

  DK: Are you sure you didn’t just imagine the whole thing?

  A-02: I know I did it.

  DK: But how can you be so sure of that? There is no definitive proof that what you’re claiming actually happened. You’re mentally unstable, Hades. Do you ever lose touch with reality? Do you ever see things that aren’t really there?

  A-02: No. I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work with me. I’m done talking to you.

  DK: We’re not finished yet.

  A-02: I am.

  DK: Don’t you want to see Nine?

  A-02: Let me, and we can continue this discussion.

  (Let the record show that at 00:08:50, the subject was shown a photograph of A-09 with her placement family. Refer to A09-15.jpg for image.)

  A-02: Wait. What’s this supposed to be?

  DK: You wanted to see her. This is as close as you will ever get to her, Hades. She’s left like Persephone. She’s gone to live with her family. You will never be a part of her life again.

  A-02: No. I don’t believe you. This is another test. It doesn’t even look like her. Where’s the beauty mark under her eye?

  DK: It’s her. Special circumstances required her to undergo some minor cosmetic surgeries, but you and I both know it’s the same girl.

  A-02: It’s not real. She wouldn’t be smiling like that.

  DK: You are dead to her, Hades. No, to be more accurate, you were never alive to begin with. Every memory of you has been cleared from her mind completely.

  A-02: You promised. I told you, and you promised you’d let me see her. I love her. You promised. I won’t accept this. You can’t take her from me. I want to see her. I won’t eat until I see her.

  DK: Are you asking to be force-fed again?

  A-02: I’m not going to stand for this. I’ll kill myself before I let you take away the only thing I have to live for.

  DK: Can you speak a little clearer, please? Talk into the recorder.

  A-02: You can take that recorder and shove it up your ass, Doctor. Or better yet, let me do it for you.

  (At 00:11:58, the subject was administered four consecutive jolts at 13mA and lost consciousness.)

  Case Notes 16:

  Persephone

  Night fell.

  Elizabeth nibbled on her lip as she stood in front of the school gate, watching cars come and go as students were dropped off. She listened for the rev of a motorcycle engine, playing with the umbrella she had brought in case it began to rain.

  “I just don’t understand how the PTA could do this to us,” a woman said, and Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to find her calculus teacher, Ms. Hill, talking to Principal Brown. “Now we’re two chaperones
short.”

  “Hopefully, at least one of them will decide to show up,” Principal Brown said, crossing his arms. He wore his usual tweed suit, a fake spider on his lapel being the only festive addition to his outfit.

  “We’re going to be spread thin tonight, Pete.” Ms. Hill sighed. She was at least dressed up for the occasion, in a witch’s tattered gown and pointy hat. “If nobody’s patrolling the halls, another incident like last year might happen.”

  Principal Brown sighed, too, and his lean face contorted into a miserable frown. “The last thing we need is a student getting pregnant on our watch.”

  A motorcycle pulled into the parking lot and parked in the back. Before the rider even stepped down, Elizabeth was already hurrying forward, ducking out of the way of moving cars and splashing through puddles.

  As she reached him, Hades took off his helmet and smiled down at her. “You’re beautiful, Elizabeth.”

  Ah-leis-uh-bith. She loved the way he pronounced her name, enunciating each syllable with care. He made it sound so exotic.

  “Thank you,” she said, blushing, and glanced down at his field jacket and jeans. “No costume?”

  “It’s in the top case,” Hades said. “Is there a place where I can change?”

  She nodded. “I’ll show you to the bathroom.”

  She waited for him to lock his helmet to the bike and retrieve his costume, which was still in its shopping bag. Then she took him through the gate, earning a curious glance from Ms. Hill, and into the school building.

  While he changed, she put her umbrella in her locker. The storm probably wouldn’t return tonight.

  When he came out of the men’s restroom, the sight of him took her breath away. Dressed in a black toga embellished with silver thread, Hades resembled his namesake, cold and beautiful.

  The toga’s hem fell to just above his knees, showcasing his muscular calves. Clearly he did not neglect his legs in his weight-lifting regimen.

  As her gaze lifted, she noticed his knuckles were all beat up.

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth said, grabbing his hand. She furrowed her brow at the sight of the fresh scabs. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” Hades said, squeezing her hand. “I forgot my gloves during boxing practice.”