Cruel Devices

by George Wright Padgett

  “Have what?” Gavin bluffed, but he could tell she was on to him.

  “You took it?” she screamed. Her tone was incredulous as she repeated the words, this time in the form of a statement. “You… you took it.”

  Gavin moved toward her as her backward steps carried her to the steps of the deck. The moment was surreal. He realized he’d offered a dumb shrug in his defense.

  She was on the ground level now. “You don’t push keys?” The question’s hopeful tone evaporated as quickly as she uttered it. “No typing, right?”

  “Madame Kovács, I need your help, and I can pay you any amount to have—”

  Still moving away from him in fear, she shook her head from side to side, but her dark eyes never broke with his. In remarkably clear English, she proclaimed, “Then it has already begun, and we are all in danger.”

  The words stunned him as he watched her make her way into the shop.

  He knew that if he stuck around, he’d likely see Puma Jacket brandishing the shotgun from earlier. Gavin fled to his car and sped away before that could happen.

  Gavin returned to the resort, involuntarily replaying Kovács’ words of doom. “It has already begun, and we are all in danger.” He’d gladly take the antique back there if he could, but he’d never get the chance with Puma Jacket wanting to settle the score. There was one thing left to try, the idea that had come to him while talking to Theo and his would-be girlfriend, Katelyn, in the grill. The hallway of the seventh floor was empty as he exited the elevator. He rushed into his suite, tossed the empty produce box on the bed, and headed for the balcony door.

  He stopped short, hearing a series of rapid-fire strikes from outside. At first, it sounded like gunfire, but then he quickly placed it—more typing. Moving as quietly as possible, Gavin peered at the machine from behind the curtain of the sliding door.

  Whether she was finished or knew he was watching, the typing stopped.

  His heart pounded wildly, and he felt nauseated. The prospect of leaving text on the paper, if only even for a minute, tortured his mind, but he struggled to pull back the curtain.

  Gotta do it, Gav. You have to.

  He thought of the bicycle boy, who might be dead now, and the murdered dancer. Who knew what new malevolent sentences Torri had typed? He had to stop it, to burn the message. He must go through the door. If he truly was the doure sint, he was the only one who could stop this. What if she possessed the power to blow up the hotel and typed something about a bomb? Or somehow set fire to the seventh floor? The lives she’d get from something like that—the power—it was more than he could comprehend. It was up to him to stop this.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. The door lock clicked more loudly than he expected. With the curtain still drawn, he couldn’t see the machine. Gavin listened a moment for more typing, but there was only the labored sound of his breathing.

  He had to see what she had typed. He had to know.

  Gavin took a deep breath, slid the curtain back, opened the door, and charged through it.

  Half expecting it to burn him, he lifted the typewriter from the table and ran back into the suite. He hurled the machine onto the bed. It landed upside-down with its keys clamoring together, jangling as they extended into the center opening of it.

  With his body pressed against the nearby wall, he waited for something to happen, for the machine—for Torri—to retaliate.

  It didn’t move.

  What had she typed? He had to know. He had to stop it.

  Gavin took a step toward the corner of the bed where it landed, and then he stepped back against the wall. Exhaling another deep breath, he mopped the sweat from his brow. He placed another square of Nicorette gum in his mouth and chewed it frantically.

  Finally, he advanced to the machine and flipped it to the upright position. The hammers returned to their ready positions, revealing greasy, black text. A different confusion and fear descended upon him as he read.

  YOU DISOBEYED ME, GAVIN. I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAVE.

  THERE WILL BE A RECKONING FOR ALL THAT YOU'VE DONE, AND IT'S ALREADY STARTED. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME NOW.

  OVER HALFWAY THERE ALREADY. CAN YOU FEEL ME COMING THROUGH?

  ARE YOU READY FOR IT?

  WANNA KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, GAVIN?

  She knew him.

  Remembering what Madame Kovács had said about the meaning of doure sint, he accidentally swallowed the gum. A second later, he snapped to. He’d carry out his plan. Gavin lunged for the top of the scroll like a maniac, shouting, “Let’s see what you can do without paper!”

  He pulled with all his might, unrolling a length of the beige parchment as tall as himself. Throwing the curling ribbon of paper behind him, he reached for where it connected within the machine’s undercarriage and heaved again and again.

  “If a car can’t crash without gas, a story can’t be typed without something to print on!”

  He heaved at the roll a fifth and a sixth time. The coarse roll of stock curled into a pile around his feet and showed no end in sight. After a few more strenuous tugs at the sheet of stock, Gavin realized there had to be an impossible amount of volume inside in relation to the size of the machine. He stepped back, slipping on the paper that filled the area. Stumbling across the suite, he steadied himself by grabbing the edge of the desk chair.

  He sat down to collect himself and looked at the room. The paper scroll covered the floor around the bed like a giant anaconda. Resembling stacks of paper figure eights, the amount of paper from the machine was unsettling in the way it defied physics. As he attempted to process the impossibility of it all, there were a dozen or so sharp cracks from the typewriter.

  He sprang from the chair to read the message.

  STRONGER

  The air was thick with the pungent aroma of lavender, making it hard to breathe. The page advanced upward, and the hammers of the device typed in rapid succession, advancing the page upward with each rendering.

  STRONGER

  I'M GETTING STRONGER

  IT WON'T BE LONG

  NOT LONG NOW WITH YOUR HELP

  He thought about Madame Kovács’ waterwheel analogy. If what she said were true, the very energy from his conscious thoughts was building a bridge for Torri to enter the physical realm. Fear gripped his heart, but he was too hypnotized by the alternating movements of the keys and hammers to look away.

  I'M GETTING STRONGER

  CAN YOU FEEL IT TOO?

  A RECKONING FOR YOUR SELFISHNESS

  UNFAITHFUL GAVIN'S RECKONING

  UNFAITHFUL

  When it stopped, a dizzying nausea overtook Gavin, causing him to grip his throbbing temples. He collapsed to his knees upon the paper pile.

  Through his constricted throat, he uttered, “What reckoning? Why? Because of cheating on Jo? That’s nothing to do with you.”

  Gavin ripped the scroll of paper from the top of the carriage and then grabbed the machine, stormed across the suite to the front door, and slammed it to the ground in the hallway outside.

  “Let it be someone else’s problem now!” he shouted with his back against the closed door.

  Half a minute later, he was looking through the peephole. The device was too close to the door to be seen through the tiny opening, but he felt it there, waiting for him.

  A porter or maid would come by and pick it up soon enough. Whether they threw it in the dumpster or kept it for themselves didn’t make a difference to him. He’d be free from her, and that was all that mattered.

  He contemplated moving it further down the hallway near the elevator so no one would connect it with him.

  “Connect it with him.” That was the problem now, wasn’t it? It would’ve been a good plan except that he was connected to the device and to Torri. He was the doure sint, bound to her and the machine beyond the natural realm, a bond that wasn’t as easily discarded as a porter emptying the used dishes from Gavin’s room service trays. Besides that, everyone at the hotel knew that th
e loud typing had been coming from Gavin’s room.

  Dammit!

  Opening the door a crack, he saw the infernal thing just as he’d left it. Of course it was exactly the same. He released the door handle, allowing it to click closed.

  He thought about how Torri could type anything and attribute it to him, how she could type a confession for the police about the murdered girl.

  Gavin yanked the door open and dragged the machine back into the room. Seething, he made his way to the bathroom and lowered the device into the tub.

  Once outside, he slammed the bathroom door.

  He had to think.

  Come on, Gav. Get control of yourself.

  He paced directly outside of the bathroom and lit a cigarette.

  The cigarette was halfway to the filter when an idea came to him. He chided himself for missing something so obvious.

  Bursting into the area, he knelt, reaching over the edge of the tub, and began to type.

  The keys resisted and didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time, striking the keys with the index fingers of his right and left hands—no response.

  Had he broken it when he threw it down in the hallway?

  Frustrated, he struck the keys with his fist. The impact delivered a sharp pain. Gavin pulled back and examined the cuts on his knuckles.

  To his surprise, the typewriter made a metal clank sound. The temperature of the room dropped a chilling fifteen to twenty degrees in an instant. He detected the scent of lavender.

  Determined to finish it off, he tried typing a sentence to destroy the device. When the keyboard gave way to his touch, he typed as quickly as he could.

  I may only have one chance.

  As he typed, he shouted the words. “The writer destroys the typewriter!”

  But the result on the page was different. Displayed were the same number of characters that he’d typed, but the message read:

  IT WON'T BE THAT EASY, GAVIN MY DEAR.

  In part panic and part fury, he reached over and turned the faucet knobs on high and exited the bathroom. He retreated into the suite and gathered the rolls of paper that covered the floor. It took a bit of time to compress all of it down into small wads. By then, the tub was close to overflowing onto the floor.

  Gavin shoved the paper into the bathroom, turned off the water, and slammed the door again. A couple of seconds later, he opened it, grabbed some towels, clicked the light off, and shut it again.

  Stuffing the towels securely under the door of the bathroom, he asked, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  He dragged the desk chair across the room, positioning it directly in front of the bathroom. He collapsed into the chair, wondering how to defeat this thing, wondering how much time he had to do so before the doure sint bridge was complete enough for Torri Barta to come through.

  Nine

  MANY HOURS HAD PASSED since Gavin had finished off the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. There were more in the carton on the other side of the suite, but he didn’t dare leave his post outside the bathroom door.

  As wired as he was, he found himself battling drowsiness after a while. Staring at the blank, white door, he strained to hear any sound from the presence on the other side.

  Eventually, his weariness gave way to sleep, and then to dreams. Gavin massaged the cuts on his knuckles and looked up to realize he was at a signing. The bright stage lights of the auditorium made it impossible for him to judge how many people waited in line, lusting for his autograph. The queue weaved through the rows of empty seats. Everyone advanced mechanically in eerie silence. The only sound that filled the vast space was his pen scratching away at the title pages of the books presented to him.

  The patrons’ attire was a mix of drab greys and muted browns. The one standout was an elderly woman in a neon-blue jogging outfit—Ms. Hodges. She approached the signing table full of life and winked at him.

  She dropped a ridiculously oversized book on the table as if it were a stone. The impact caused Gavin’s pen to roll off to the floor. Bending to grab it, he saw that his right ankle was shackled to the table leg, which was bolted to the floor. He pulled at the chain with his full strength, but it didn’t give.

  Eunice peeked under the table and offered a small wave. “Uh… Mr. Curtis… Yoo-hoo, Mr. Curtis?”

  Gavin straightened up and dutifully began writing an inscription in her book. The warmth of her smile comforted him. He looked into her soft, blue eyes as he said, “Miss Hodges, I’m so glad that you—”

  Her face contorted and transformed into sheer terror. “Mr. Curtis!” she screamed.

  The shriek echoed through the cavernous area. It was like a bolt of lightning shooting through him. She let out another scream, leaving him panicked and confused.

  Then he knew why she screamed. He was no longer signing her book, but rather puncturing the remains of a gutted bullfrog with his pen. “Miss Hodges, I didn’t—”

  “You promised me that you’d be careful, Mr. Curtis. You told me you would, but you’re helping her to come through. Helping her to come through to where we are.” She recoiled and pulled back from the table. Gavin stood to go after her, but the sharp pain around his ankle reminded him of his restraint. As if it were alive, the chain jerked his leg out from under him, forcing him to fall back into his seat. He frantically struggled with the chain and cried, “Help me, Miss Hodges! Please help me!” But she was already gone.

  Though the boys were nowhere in sight, the laughing voices of Gavin’s childhood acquaintances, Des and Troy Bridges, echoed through the auditorium. “Look, he’s trying to swim away.”

  Again, Gavin pulled with all his might at the chain. There was an odd sound of bubbling.

  Troy’s voice boomed overhead. “I got bad news for you. You’re not going anywhere like this.”

  From the open cavity of the frog leaked a stream of gore—much more than could have naturally been contained in it. He slid it off the table with a violent sweep of his arm. To his amazement, the creature landed with a wet plopping sound and proceeded to hop across the floor. With its entrails in tow, the creature left a dark streak of blood across the platform.

  Figures amassed at the edge of the stage before him, their books carelessly falling to the floor. They transformed into slimy frog-people, the process ripping their clothing. A low murmuring built to a crescendo. Their torn clothing loosened and slid off their bodies to the floor as they closed in around him.

  Gavin desperately struggled again with the shackle. He splashed in a warm puddle of blood left by the frog. His heart beat violently, and his forehead was drenched with sweat. The horde of creatures crowded in on him. Their slick, green abdomens vibrated as they chanted and moved closer.

  Then, at once, there was complete silence, and the creatures’ shaking ceased. The sudden hush startled Gavin enough to cause him to drop the chain, which splashed at his feet.

  One of the creatures croaked so loud that it shook the stage. “Swim, boy!”

  A second later, their chests cracked open in unison with the noise of a thousand giant walnuts. Dark blood oozed like viscous lava from their midsections. The oozing became a stream that rapidly covered the floor.

  The blood rose, and Gavin’s hands shook as he slid the chain up to the top of the table leg. When it met with the underside of the table, he heaved himself atop the surface. As the gore rose around him, he lay flat on the table, gasping for air. The unwelcome image of the dissected frog from his boyhood apartments flashed across his mind, the suffocating creature dreaming of swimming to safety.

  The front row of frog-people collapsed like deflated, gelatinous husks falling into the puddles of their own blood and viscera. Another row of the battalion advanced from directly behind them and, stomping on the discarded carcasses of the creatures before, repeated the process.

  Gavin squeezed his eyes closed and called out for help, though no one was there to hear his plea. A putrid stench assaulted his nostrils. The table wobbled, and he ti
ghtened his grip on the edges. Seconds later, he heard—or more accurately, felt—a crack beneath him as the table legs broke away from the structure. The floating tabletop gave way to the current and swirled around a few dizzying times before leveling off.

  He opened his eyes to discover that the auditorium and the throng of amphibian creatures were gone. He was outside, and the deluge of blood had transformed into an acrid stream. The foul-smelling water moved the tabletop so quickly that it created a dank breeze against his hair and face. A violent rain pummeled him. He would have welcomed the rainwater cleaning the slime from his face if not for it pelting his eyes.

  He was floating toward a bridge. As he passed under it, the woman in the yellow dress peered over the edge at him. He assumed it was Torri. She held the old typewriter above her head. The brass and copper of the device gleamed like fire in the hard rain.

  “Wake up, Gavin. Time for me to come through.”

  He knew what was about to happen, and he tried to make his way to safety back under the bridge. Despite all his splashing and flailing about, he barely moved any closer to the cover. He couldn’t escape by diving under the surface, either. He was trapped like a cork bobbing on the water.

  Gavin looked back at Torri as she released the antique. It fell at an impossibly slow rate of speed and blocked out the sky as it descended upon him.

  He opened his mouth to scream, only to discover that he was mute.

  A blinding light accompanied the pain as the typewriter struck him. The weight of it dragged him under the water like a boulder. The daylight above the surface faded into darkness.

  Something beckoned Gavin from the real world, something that shook at his chest. Still in a stupor, he shifted in the chair and struggled to regain consciousness. There was a brief pause, and then he felt it again. As he rubbed the crust from his eyes, it took a moment for him to realize that the vibration in his pocket was his cell phone.