Transmission: A Supernatural Thriller

by Ambrose Ibsen

  The three of them had a name.

  The woman whose voice Kenji had heard on the recording, the very same woman the three of them had seen on the tape, feeding them the coordinates to the remote shack, was Agnes Pasztor. She'd been missing for just over ten years and had last been seen in rural Minnesota.

  This was a step forward, but all the same Kenji felt as though they'd taken two steps back in their investigation.

  “Do you think she went missing at the shack?” asked Dylan, eyes wide. He ran a hand through his sandy hair and held his breath. “Holy shit, dude. This is getting weird.”

  Reggie shook his head. “It's been weird, man. Now it's just getting weirder.”

  Kenji tried to work through the tidal wave of questions that struck his mind. How and why had this woman appeared in two different pieces of media, each released on the day she'd apparently gone missing in rural Minnesota? And why had she cryptically disseminated the coordinates to an exact location in Akeley during these inexplicable appearances? Had something bad happened to her? Had she somehow known in advance that something was going to happen, and given out the coordinates in this way to try and let the world know where she was? But how was it possible to have appeared on the album and in the documentary to begin with? It simply wasn't possible, as far as Kenji was concerned; that was still the most unbelievable part of this entire thing.

  “Goddamn,” said Kenji. “More questions than answers, as always. I can't get to the bottom of this. It just doesn't make sense. This is definitely the woman in the video, the woman whose voice I heard in the song, but knowing her name doesn't make this any easier. We've just hit a different dead end. What I really want to know is how she could have possibly ended up in both the audio recording and the documentary. That shouldn't be possible, especially since she had no part in making the two of them. But that's what happened.” He gnawed on the lip of his cup ans sighed so that the steam from his coffee washed over his face. “I'm lost here.”

  “Well, keep looking for more info on this woman,” suggested Reggie. “Maybe there's something more on the web about her. Something that'll clear this up.”

  Kenji half-heartedly began searching for information on this woman, Agnes Pasztor, but it quickly became clear that there was nothing else to be found. The digital trail was cold.

  There was a single detail to which they could pin their hopes of further progress, however.

  The user MARA_ANTALL had left a contact number in her posting. The web wouldn't yield any more clues for them, but this contact seemed a promising lead.

  “So, that's it, huh?” Dylan loosed the evening's excitement in a single, drawn-out sight. “Kinda sucks, coming all this way only to turn up nothing online.”

  “Yeah, but we have this friend's phone number. We can call her and follow up, you know?” Kenji was quick to add.

  Dylan arched a brow, glancing at Reggie incredulously. “I dunno about all that, Kenji. You really think we need to descend any deeper into this rabbit hole? Calling up some random woman to ask about this chick on the tape... I mean, that's...” He paused, chewing on the rim of his paper cup. “What are you supposed to say when she picks up? 'Hullo, ma'am, I'm calling because your creepy missing friend lured me, my roommate and this random guy to a shack in the middle of nowhere. You know anything about that?' It's stupid. Nonsensical. If anything, she'd think we were calling to mess with her.”

  Reggie's expression softened a bit. He reached out and tapped Kenji's arm. “Your buddy here is right. I don't think there's much to be done, at this point. We could call, but if this woman hasn't seen Agnes in ten years, then she probably won't be any help.”

  Feeling a bit betrayed by his fellows, Kenji shut the laptop and fumed for a moment. Looking out the window into the cool night, where a thin flurry of snow was beginning to fall, he stuffed a piece of donut into his mouth to chase the last, bitter dregs of coffee. The trail wasn't completely cold-- not so long as they had this MARA_ANTALL to speak with. But the other two were apparently uninterested in that. They'd come all this way, gone to a great deal of trouble to make it this far in their investigation, only to throw in the towel when a simple Google search failed to bring up anything concrete? It annoyed him to no end. “OK, so are you two giving up, then? No longer interested in this weird shit that brought us all out here in the first place? Because if you are still in the game, then this phone number is the only way forward that I can see.”

  Licking his lips, Reggie shook his head. “I wouldn't say that. If we're being honest, kid, I don't know that getting involved with this sorta thing was real wise to start with, but we can still have us a look around the shack out there. Can still see if there are any clues around the place, or if anyone else shows up.”

  Kenji grimaced. “So, what, you just want to stand around in that shack? See if Agnes comes knocking?”

  “Better than calling up some old friend of hers and telling her this unbelievable story of ours,” interrupted Dylan. “Sorry, man, but this thing we've gotten ourselves into is really weird. The fewer people we involve in this, the better, in my opinion.”

  Reggie agreed, nodding emphatically.

  Kenji lost the will to argue. Slumping in the uncomfortable plastic seat, he let his eyes drift closed and thought about everything they'd learned so far. What interested him most however was the coincidence related to the album and documentary. They'd both been released on the same day, ten years ago. More than that, Agnes' friend hadn't seen her in about ten years. The last place she'd been seen was around the spot where they currently dwelt; rural Minnesota. This was no coincidence: Something had happened in Akeley, perhaps in that abandoned, dust-choked shack, ten years ago.

  But what?

  Kenji stared at the lids of his eyes, kneading his forehead as he fell deeper into thought. What had happened to Agnes?

  All he had were speculations and the first stirrings of a serious headache. Standing up, he stuffed the computer back into his bag and turned to the other two. “Well, what say we head back to the shack and see if old Agnes is waiting for us there, huh?”

  FOURTEEN

  Agnes Pasztor was not waiting for them when they returned to the remote shack, though the atmosphere of the place did feel somehow occupied. The spirit of the abode, despite appearances, was that of a space not long untenanted. The moment the three of them stepped from their cars, the quietude enveloped them at once. Conversations died out, their eyes were drawn to the dim rendering of the property in the moonlight and they were forced to grapple with the question of who would be the first among them to enter.

  Standing in the field, looking up at the knots of long-unused power lines, at the swaying, calf-length grass that surrounded them, it would have been easy for them to dismiss the entire journey as little more than a fool's errand-- as a mistake, owed to collective hallucination.

  A nigh overwhelming aura circulated about the space, commanding them inside, and it was with shuffling, hesitant steps that Reggie eventually led the way. He opened the door, the dim interior spilling out into the inky night. “No one's home,” he tried to say with a grin. The grin crumbled away, however, and his pearly teeth were clenched in a scowl.

  Dylan paced around, looking up at the light fixture. Behind him, Kenji eased the door closed and rubbed at his upper arms to bring back a little warmth. Of the three of them, Dylan seemed the least bothered, though as his eyes scaled the walls and dusty fixtures of the shack, it was all too clear from his cloudy expression that he felt something was amiss.

  Kenji and Reggie sat down across from each other in the chairs while Dylan continued to pace.

  “The three of us can agree that we were led out here, right?” started Dylan. He pointed to Reggie. “I mean, we followed different clues; a song, a video, and drew the same conclusions. This woman, Agnes, left the coordinates buried in those things, hoping that they'd be found.”

  Kenji nodded. “Yeah, but why did she do it?”


  Dylan rested his hands on his hips and stopped pacing. Then, he shook his head, his expression gathering up something of intensity. “Nah, I'm not worried about that at the moment. I'm wondering who these coordinates were intended for if not the three of us. It's pretty clear we don't know what the fuck any of this is about. The three of us just stumbled upon this stuff without knowing what we were getting into. That says, to me, that those coordinates in the recordings were intended for someone else, for someone who'd know what they meant. Someone who'd recognize from the very beginning what they represented.”

  Reggie glanced around the space narrowly. It was a very small room, and there were no dark corners for anything to hide in. Gripping at the edge of the desk however, his shoulders stooped forward as he sat, listening, he looked as though he expected to get jumped at any moment. “That friend, who posted the missing person's notice... you think maybe Agnes wanted to reach her friend?”

  Dylan continued, shaking a finger at Reggie. “Look, I thought we covered that. I'm not interested in calling her. What I'm driving at with all of this is that I'm not sure it's any of our business.” He rubbed his hands together. “I'm saying we ought to wash our hands of all of this. Forget about it, completely. It wasn't intended for the three of us, so maybe we should just leave it alone. Know what I'm saying?”

  Kenji was far too drawn in for that, however. He and Dylan had sacrificed a weekend to come out and investigate this curious phenomenon. Another person, Reggie, had been roped in as well. The odds of such a thing happening naturally were pretty damn close to zero. Dylan may have had a point in believing that these coordinates were not intended for the three of them, specifically, but it seemed entirely possible that the message could have been intended for whoever was listening. What if it'd been a cry for help, an SOS of some kind, broadcast widely in the hopes that someone, anyone would hear? Kenji was getting ahead of himself again, but he wasn't ready to go. Not yet.

  “I think we should sleep here for the night,” said Kenji. “There's no way we can make the drive all the way back to campus with how long we've been up. Plus, we came all this way; I'd like to have a look around in the morning. If there's nothing else to be found in this place, then maybe we'll consider getting ahold of this friend, Mara Antall.”

  Dylan rolled his eyes. “Still harping on that, eh? Whatever, man. You can call her if you want. I'm not so interested in dragging another stranger into this mess.” He turned to Reggie. “No offense, of course.”

  Reggie waved one of his hands. “No big deal. I was about to say that I could use some shuteye. That coffee ain't doing much for me tonight, I'm afraid.” Stretching out in his chair, he splayed his legs across the floor, giving his ankles a turn till the joints popped and cracked. “If y'all don't mind, I'll just sleep in this chair.”

  Dylan looked down at the floor, drawing a line in the dust with the tip of his shoe. “Oh, this looks great. Real healthy, laying down and breathing this shit in all night. I might go sleep in the car.”

  Kenji shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Fluffing up his book bag, he set it gently on the floor and laid down, perching his head on it like a pillow. It was stiff and uncomfortable, and the floor was disgustingly dirty. He knew there was no way he'd get to sleep in the folding chair, however. “Take the chair, if you want.”

  Dylan plopped down into the seat, causing it to groan under his weight. Setting his heels on the edge of the desk, he closed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Man, I wish I'd never brought up the idea of going on this trip. My back is going to be killing me in the morning.” He stretched, fighting to get comfortable. His lanky limbs wouldn't cooperate.

  “You guys want me to kill the lights?” asked Kenji, sitting up slightly.

  Neither Reggie nor Dylan replied. They looked to one another, lips set in a frown. Kenji shared their apprehension; sleeping in the shack was bad enough. Turning off the lights would be a whole other kettle of fish, though.

  Sitting back, Dylan sighed deeply. “Wake me up if Agnes comes home, will ya?” Yawning, he crossed his legs and began to court sleep in earnest.

  Kenji threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out most of the light. The floor was hard and dirty, and his makeshift pillow was too stiff, but if he didn't manage some sleep he'd be a complete wreck in the morning. The drive in had taken a lot out of the two of them, and though his drive had been shorter, Reggie was also looking the worse for wear. Sleeping in the old Honda sounded pretty miserable; there was an awful kind of vulnerability about it. At least this way they had four walls around them. They weren't truly secure, but they could pretend if they stayed inside.

  Kenji was very nearly asleep when a sudden burst of sound saw him stir violently awake. The other two nearly fell from their chairs, looking around with wide, heavy eyes for the source of the commotion. They all glanced first at the door of the shack, finding it closed, before zeroing in on the culprit.

  The television had come on, seemingly of its own accord. If any of them had reached over to switch it on then they weren't confessing to it. Kenji watched in abject horror as the footage of Agnes Pasztor flickered on the screen. The air was filled with her voice reciting the Maidenhead coordinates that had led the three of them to the shack. The image seemed less stable than before, the tape skipping and tracking as though it were having some difficulty in playback. Agnes' voice was rather slowed down as a result, and the drawn-out syllables took on something of a demonic cast in the otherwise silent shack.

  “Which one of you turned that on?” asked Kenji, after searching in his parched mouth for the slightest trace of saliva.

  Reggie just shook his head, extended a crooked, shaking finger and turned it off. He didn't stop there, however. He hurriedly ejected the VHS tape, took hold of it and cast it across the room, where it landed with a clatter. Scooting back in his chair so that he built a bit of distance between himself and the television set, he forced his eyes shut.

  “Must have been a power surge or something,” mumbled Dylan. He massaged the back of his neck, but there was no easing the hint of terror that dwelt in his eyes.

  “Power surge my ass. I tell ya,” added Reggie, shaking his head fervently, “if I weren't so damn tired I'd be getting the hell outta this place right about now.”

  FIFTEEN

  Morning came, and the three of them gained their feet like the risen dead. They groaned and cursed while their joints crackled and muscles smarted. Sunlight cut into the space from the single window, bathing Kenji's spot on the floor in warmth.

  Upon standing, Kenji took to batting away the thick layer of dust that now clung to his clothes. It didn't take him long to realize that there was simply too much of it to wipe off. He quickly changed into a fresh shirt and pair of pants and balled up the dusty garments.

  Dylan didn't say a word as he ambled around the room and stretched out every part of his body. His eyes were red, and while he shambled about he began to sneeze repeatedly. Kenji, too, could feel inflammation in his sinuses. The back of his throat tasted like dust, and he wished he had a bottle of water right then to guzzle. A tickle in his throat incited him to cough again and again.

  When he finally caught his breath, Kenji walked over to the door and threw it open, the cool winter rushing through him like a knife. Still, the fresh air was preferable to the dusty air of the shack. “So, how'd you guys sleep? Did either of you notice anything in the night?” He leaned back and stretched, his shirt riding up and baring his navel to the ice cold breeze as he did so.

  Reggie gave an unenthusiastic shrug and shook his head. More curious was Dylan's reaction. Pausing in his shuffling stride, Dylan glanced over his shoulder at Kenji, his tired eyes shooting open in tremulous fear for an instant. Just as quickly he beat this terror away and then shook his head vehemently. “Ready to get out of here?” he asked.

  Kenji looked out the door at the vast expanse of field ahead. Their cars were visible less than twenty feet away, looking completely undisturbed. T
he tall grass rocked this way and that in the breeze like so many thin, green fingers. “I wanna have a better look at the outside,” he said, running a hand through his hair. A cloud of dust escaped his raven locks; from up-close he looked like his hair had gone gray overnight.

  “Knock yourself out, but I'm setting off in twenty minutes, with or without you,” warned Dylan. There was nothing of joviality in it; Dylan seemed altogether more agitated than he had when they'd gone to bed. There was no accounting for this change in him; a poor night's sleep was one thing, but the two of them weren't strangers to all-nighters.

  Kenji stepped out of the shack, bracing himself against the cutting breeze. He began walking the perimeter of the building, looking for anything he might've missed the night before. To his dismay however the exterior of the place was thoroughly ordinary. There were no telling marks, no hints as to the owner of the building. The shack's chipped, white exterior glowed brightly in the morning sun. In the rear he stumbled upon the slate-colored generator Reggie had found the night prior, covered in a small, weatherproof enclosure. Normal. Everything was perfectly normal.

  Somehow, finding nothing awry was more disturbing to him than anything. This shack was in good order despite its having been abandoned for no less than a couple of years. To Kenji, it seemed almost as though the spot had been preserved by an unseen presence. For what purpose he still didn't have the foggiest idea.

  Walking out into the field a bit, he studied the ground. It was flat as far as the eye could see, and the bulk of the grass was a tall, deep green. There was one spot, a rather large patch nearly twenty feet from the shack, where the grass was shorter. It was clearly a different variety, and aside from boasting much stouter blades, it was a bluish-green color. It was a strange contrast; the owner, probably, had mindlessly scattered some random grass seed to cover up a bald patch in the field without matching it to the pre-existing growth. Kenji wandered further, to the dirt drive where their cars were parked. There was nothing of interest there, either.