Merchandise - A Short Story

by Michael Wright

backpack. When he did sleep, all he saw was a face, screaming and angry, that had two protuberances sticking distinctly out of the skull.

  The next day he sat in the same chair in his living room, by the same window that looked out to the street, where he had seen the man with the backpack. The book he had bought a few days ago was in his hands, and he was trying to focus on the pages in front of him, but was having a real hard time paying attention, every few moments his eyes would drift upwards and he would find himself watching—waiting for the man with the backpack.

  He had seen several people go down in the direction of the sale, a woman in a white Tahoe had driven down there, and when she came back he could see that her back seat was loaded down with all manner of stuff. The windows were cracked, and a single sleeve from the pile of clothes on top flowed out, reaching into the breeze, trying to escape—

  Help me.

  —out the window.

  Jim watched it disappear and turned back to his book, realizing that he had no idea what was going on in the plot, he had just been grazing through it the whole time. He glanced at the road and thought about that voice he had heard the last time he was at the sale. He thought about the girl—Beverly—who had been yelled at, and that cobalt misty look to her eyes that had been there when she looked at him. That desperation when she had looked at him floated around in his memory, like a ghost that had found the perfect abode in his mind. He didn’t know why she had looked so distressed, aside from Linda firing off at her the way she did. He supposed that Beverly was an employee there, what with all the sales they were making, Bram and Linda probably needed to get some staff. He wasn’t sure what to make of the desperate expression on her face, or the voice—help me—that he was sure was hers. There had to be more to it, he knew that much, there simply had to be more to it.

  He looked out the window again, giving up completely on the novel in front of him, setting it down on the coffee table next to him. An untouched cup of coffee that at one time had been steaming, sat next to the novel. He remembered that he had only taken one sip of it; he had been so busy staring out the window at all of the people walking around.

  He saw another group walking by, this time they had a child, a little girl, with them. They had packs on their backs as well. They didn’t have the same zombie expression on their faces, he noticed that immediately. They were concerned, the look on their face was one of wariness, as if they were afraid of being seen—embarrassed.

  Jim looked at the father immediately, and the little girl seemed to be very close to his side, as if she were hiding on that side of him. Jim really couldn’t get a look at her; only the father and his wife were walking. The father glanced in the direction of Jim’s house, and once Jim knew what he was looking at he took a quick step away from the window.

  His breath caught, and the coffee table bumped as the back of his knee came in contact with it, jarring it, sloshing the coffee so it formed an uneven circular wave in the cup, just kissing the rim, just enough to expel a couple of drops of the thick, blackish liquid onto the table top. Jim didn’t notice.

  The novel that had been so uninteresting for the whole morning was christened by the coffee, and thick, black drops oozed down the cover, as if the cover itself were weeping—the figures in the illustration an expression that the book had made of absolute despair.

  Jim took another step back, and his leg did not bump the table that time. He looked at the man going up the street who had turned his head facing forward, walking with his family, each one of them carrying empty backpacks—heading to the sale, the one where they sold anything.

  Yes, anything.

  Jim sat back down quickly, watching the family disappear down the street, the little girl, just about as typical as little girls could go, walked with a slight limp, like she had hurt her ankle or something. The mother was right by her, her hand on the girl’s shoulder. The mother was really quite plain seeming, at least as far as Jim could tell, average height, a good build, very fit. Everything that was quite typical. The father was walking with them, he had a strong, muscular build, a good protector for his family, watching over them with a benevolent eye—strong, angled chin, good overall face structure—the other half of his face had a few small patches of hair that seemed to be remain, but the rest was shiny and red, almost the whole half of his face had been burned off. Red ridges of irritated flesh, spotted with pink patches of new skin. It was poorly bandaged, and obvious that it was somewhat recent, how he was already home and walking around was a mystery, Jim had a theory, but he didn’t want to consider that at the moment. His eye wandered around in the socket, filled with not sadness, or curiosity—but hunger. The look was all too familiar—he was going to buy stuff, not because he needed it, but because he had to.

  V

  HE WAS in a hallway, lined with metal doors. Old rusty ones that were speckled with heavy rivets, the padlocks on them, thick and covered with some kind of fungus, the smell of it was damp and spicy.

  The stones underneath his feet were solid, but they didn’t feel like stones should—something about them was just wrong. It was almost like they were moving underneath him. Not like they were loose and moving as he stepped on them, his weight causing them to shift, but moving of their own will—because they were alive.

  The doors were breathing, he didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. They were breathing slowly: in…out…in…out. The flaring locks and bars, shifted as they breathed, though at the same time they were still. Dead still.

  He was heading forward, he wasn’t sure; he just knew that he had to get into the room at the head of the hallway, the one with the large, iron door.

  He glanced around him, feeling like he didn’t belong there. The angles of the hallway felt off, as if they were from another realm completely. Something about it was wrong, very wrong—the kind of wrong that turned his knees to pudding and caused his spine to grow tiny little pins up and down it.

  “Help me!” A voice behind the door said.

  He knew the voice; he knew he had to help. He had to get there. He ran forward and reached for the door, grasping the slippery, breathing handle, and pulling it open.

  Inside there was a large pile of stuff that filled the room. He recognized the plastic containers with their neat labels, but he tried to ignore them.

  He saw Beverly, tied with restraints that were impossibly made of paper, twisted around each other and roped tight.

  “Help me,” she said. Her foggy eyes were still that cobalt that seemed to go on and on forever. He moved forward, trying to dig his way through the stuff, the stuff that was knee-deep. The wrong angles screamed at him from every side, as if they were bent just moments ago, the entire building folded into shape, but it was slowly coming undone—breathing doors and all.

  He tried to wade through it, but it was feeling thicker and thicker, impossibly holding him back slowly.

  “Help me!” She cried again, tears streaming down her face, her copper mane streaming madly in ever direction.

  “I’m trying!” He said; it felt like he was trying to speak with a mouth full of tiny rocks. Sandy pebbles filled his throat, scraping away the flesh on all sides.

  The angles creaked, as if they were coming unfolded.

  He managed another foot forward, and an arm immediately met his leg, the bluish-gray fingers wrapped around his leg, latching onto the thin pants he wore.

  Jim shouted and tried to shake the thing off, but it was no good, he tried to manage another foot forward when the other arm to the thing beneath reached out and joined its companion grasping his leg.

  He tried to pull his leg, but the creature had a heavy grip on him, refusing to let go. Jim gritted his teeth and pulled up as hard as he could muster, calling all strength in him to that one moment.

  The corners groaned, protesting their shape.

  He pulled and the thing that he had emerged, the hideous face twisted and sneering—Jim shuddered when he saw it.

 
; The man with the half-burned face was holding on as tight as he could. His eyes were cold and dead—but at the same time they were hungry. A mouth full of grinning razors shone at him in the most twisted parody of a smile that Jim had ever seen.

  Jim tried to move forward again, trying to get to Beverly, trying to get her out of the building before it was gone, and before the monster of a man got to her, the one that had such a grip on his leg.

  He pulled again and felt a hand land on his shoulder, and a cruel chuckle broke the air. He felt the hand squeeze, and just as he turned his head, a hammer was raised in the air, poised to strike.

  Then he woke up.

  The room was dark, and the electric tingling of a nightmare slowly fading away—the angles collapsing on themselves—danced on his scalp and tickled the back of his neck. He looked at the clock.

  4:33

  After a few deep breaths he knew that the dream had more significance, deep down he knew that something was different.

  Something was wrong.

  VI