The last time I heard Joel’s voice, she was there, holding my hand.
“Hell of a game,” I said. “Three sacks, interception—you’ll go pro someday, and I’ll beg for a loan. Just wait.”
Joel shook his head. His water-slick hair glistened under the stadium lights. “You two going to the dance?”
“Of course. See you there, right?”
“Right.”
Megan tugged my hand toward the car, but I resisted. There was something else on Joel’s mind, some of which swam just behind his eyes.
“I went out to the pond after practice the other night,” he said.
“The pond?”
“You can sneak in real easily if you drive around by the house—the old house where we hung out back in junior high. Remember?”
I nodded. Megan squeezed my hand.
“Just—it was really peaceful.” He glanced at the ground and then let his eyes find mine. “Quiet, too. Nothing stirring.”
I nodded.
Megan and I left Joel standing there, blank-faced under the lights, and expected to see him later at the dance.
We spent the rest of the night lost under the DJ’s influence, spinning around the cafeteria turned dancehall. We snuck away, found a dark hallway, and slipped our tongues into each other’s mouths, hands groping and searching our bodies in the dark near the school woodshop. Joel forgotten.
He hanged himself later that night. Megan wasn’t the reason why; it wasn’t our little game of chase which led to Joel standing on an old stool in the abandoned farmhouse. It wasn’t jealousy which squeezed the life from his body, slowly, as the noose pressed the carotid arteries and the walls of his windpipe together, the rough strands of rope burning into his well-muscled neck.
No. Joel wanted it.
Joel wanted it as much as Robby did. He wanted ghosts. He wanted the pond to hold the silver-screen phantoms of Lugosi and Karloff, the monsters and ghouls from copies of Tales from the Crypt and Haunt of Fear we’d read into the late afternoon, sitting under shafts of light in the derelict house. Joel left all his want swaying there with his body—and maybe, just maybe, he’d hoped he could leave a lingering ghost for his old friend. He’d gone out a few days before his death, hoping to hear from Robby, wanting something bigger than any of us, but not finding it. That’s what he meant by quiet.
• • •
Joel did it for me more than anything, and I knew it. I felt it in my blood when they lowered his casket into the earth at Greenwillow, burying him less than half a mile from the pond and the farmhouse where he’d died. Maybe he thought he had given me what we always wanted when we spent hours talking about ghosts and ghouls and things which lived beyond our knowing, not realizing the real fear came from recognizing those monsters didn’t wait for us at all.
But I know. I’ve known ever since the day Joel and Robby tipped the boat into the water. Since the day I helped pull them out and realized the pond was nothing but a dirty ditch in a forgotten field. Nothing special. Nothing mysterious. That day, peeking behind the curtain, I saw old men telling stories to thrill a couple of stupid kids.
A whole legion of gaunt specters could rise from the cold, still waters of that pond and it wouldn’t change what I know now—it wouldn’t change the way I tremble in the dark, wishing for something I won’t ever have back, yearning for one word, one whisper, when all the world has left for me is silence and the cold oblivion of the grave.
No ghost has ever crawled out of the pond. There’s never been a spirit in the old farmhouse. I’ve looked. I’ve wasted my life trying to make something of Robby’s drowning and Joel’s suicide. I’ve listened for both of my friends in the dark, lonesome hours of the night. I’ve cried their names in my dreams, asking them for just a little sign—something, anything—that might take me back to that twelve-year-old boy who believed.
Aaron Polson lives in Lawrence, Kansas, with his wife, two sons, and a tattooed rabbit. Several new stories are forthcoming in Shimmer, Midnight Echo, Space and Time, and other publications. Loathsome, Dark and Deep, a novel of historical horror is available from Belfire Press.
Visit Aaron at www.aaronpolson.blogspot.com.
EYE, YOU
by Joseph Morgado
You are in the living room of your dimly-lit apartment, lying on the Tylösand sofa from Ikea that your parents bought you when you first moved in. Your iBook laptop is propped open on your stomach, your hands interlaced behind your head, your head on a pillow. Your battery is charged, your Wi-Fi signal is strong—you are wired.
You’ve updated your Facebook page with details about the Stasi Fems gig you went to last night at Euclid’s. You’ve posted the video you shot on YouTube.
Now you’re watching a live webcam stream of Harmony, who recently joined your UIC Alumni Network and friended you, making her the newest of your 1,984 friends. She’s wrapped in a bathrobe and sitting on the edge of her bed. She stands and drops her robe to the floor. You watch as she artfully moves her hands over her thighs, your face glowing in the glare of the laptop screen. Her hands slowly creep upward, over her stomach, and abruptly stop. You squint, waiting for more, but she remains frozen.
Your cat is playing with the power cord of the Wi-Fi modem—you have been unwired.
Sighing, you close the laptop, admiring the Apple logo on the lid that differentiates you from the hoi polloi. You consider getting up and plugging the modem back in so you can continue with Harmony, or maybe post some stills from last night’s gig on Flickr. Instead you place the laptop on the Markör pine coffee table you bought to match the sofa. You clasp your hands behind your head and close your eyes.
Your iPhone buzzes. It’s Oskar.
No, you’re not going to Archimedes tonight. No, it doesn’t matter that Daisy will be there. It’s Friday, eviction night. Yes, you really can watch reality TV. No, you don’t think you’re partaking of the dregs of entertainment or the exploitation of the lowest common denominator. You offer the Warholian cliché about fame. Oskar offers a final caveat about Daisy, then hangs up.
* video disruption *
You’re sitting on the sofa, your feet kicked up on the coffee table next to four empty Corona bottles. You hold a fifth, half-full, as you watch Big Brother. The housemates are crying as they say farewell to their evicted colleague, the one they nominated because of her general lack of hygiene, congeniality, and class. She also ate all the shrimp. You Tweet your impressions of the girl’s eating habits from your phone. The inquisitive followers of your Twitter feed will find it amusing.
The credits roll over a room full of sulking housemates, some hugging, one stroking the head of a girl weeping uncontrollably. You turn off the television and lie down on the sofa. You decide to post those stills of last night’s Stasi Fems gig on Flickr, but you need a change of scenery. You get up and walk into the bedroom.
You sit down at your desktop iMac and plug in your camcorder. You download the footage and isolate some stills. You launch Internet Explorer, but before going to Flickr you check your Facebook page to see if Harmony has posted anything on your Wall. It takes a bit longer than usual to load, and when it finally does you’re puzzled. You check the URL. You refresh the page a couple of times. You’re still puzzled. It’s not Facebook—it’s live streaming video of you, sitting at your desk in front of your computer. You move your face close to the screen, trying to make sense out of what you’re looking at. Indeed, it’s you—same faded jeans, same Miskatonic University t-shirt, same red socks. You see yourself at different angles, in wide views and close ups: a profile from the side; your hand on the mouse; an aerial shot from the top; the freckle on your right earlobe.
The source of the live video might be the camcorder, you think, even though it couldn’t provide the constantly changing views you see of yourself. You unplug it, but the video remains on the screen. You stand up, wave your arms, hop up and down. It’s definitely you, live at that very moment, you are sure.
There must be a sourc
e somewhere, so you walk the perimeter of the room and examine the walls. You remove the picture of the Chicago skyline that hangs above the bed. There’s nothing behind it but a nail. The live video shows the wall without the picture, then a close-up of the nail.
You climb up on the bed and examine the ceiling. You note that it was a wise decision not to cover it with mirrors, as Cassandra had suggested. You randomly rap it with your knuckles, but there’s nothing unusual. The ceiling is solid.
Your phone goes off and interrupts your investigation. You answer, and hear a familiar angry voice on the other end. Shit. You’ve had this conversation with Libby before. Twice. Yes, you are sorry. Yes, you filmed it without her knowing and you regret it. Yes, you posted it on your Facebook page when you were drunk and friends have seen it, perhaps along with thousands of strangers. Yes, you were stupid for not restricting public access to your page. Of course you know all this, but you were drunk when you did it and at least the censors took it down. No, you didn’t know her family had heard about it, and now she has to deal with all that shit. Yes, you admit that it was a stupid thing to do and you had no right. She hangs up on you.
You sit back down in front of the computer and watch yourself watching yourself. You find this all very perplexing, and wonder if you’ve had too much to drink. Five Coronas? Maybe you’re becoming a lightweight. You lean back in the chair and look up at the ceiling as you stretch, noticing the light fixture mounted to the oak crossbeam of the A-frame. You grab a screwdriver from the desk drawer, climb onto the chair and fiddle with the fixture. You carefully remove the screws. As you probe around the wires, you jam the screwdriver in too far and short out the fuse. The electricity goes out, leaving you in darkness.
You yell out a compound expletive.
* video disruption *
It’s morning and you’re casually leaning against a wall in the bedroom with a hammer in your hand. The curtains are drawn and the room is flooded with light. You’ve been working at it for a couple of hours now and the room is a wreck. There are jagged holes knocked into the ceiling and walls that reveal nothing but pink insulation and bare red brick. The light fixture dangles from its wires, plaster and debris scattered around the floor. You’ve replaced the blown fuse and the computer is on. You stare at the live video of yourself on what is supposed to be your Facebook page, leaning against the wall in the ruins of your bedroom.
Your phone buzzes. It’s Oskar. You sit down and watch yourself while he fills you in on the events of the previous night. Yes, it’s great that Daisy was asking about you, but you really want him to check your Facebook page. You can hear Oskar typing on his keyboard. Wow, he says, who’s Harmony? Oh, and he’s got to tell you what Daisy said about you. You cut him off and ask him what he sees. It’s your Facebook page. Anything else? There’s a very naughty message posted on your Wall, and why haven’t you told him about this Harmony? Oh, and you’re going to Pythagoras with him tonight at nine, no ifs, ands, or buts. There’s a band playing that he really wants to see. He says he’ll come by to pick you up at nine, then hangs up.
The phone goes dead as you stare at the screen, watching yourself watch yourself.
* video disruption *
Oskar’s standing in the doorway to your bedroom, his mouth open, eyeing the damaged walls and ceiling. No, your slumlord has not seen this. You tell him to come in and look at the video on your Facebook page. Look, it’s you, live. Oskar walks over and sees you on the screen, sitting at your desk in front of the computer. Very nice, he says, but it’s time to go get a drink. You’re not in the mood for a drink. Doesn’t he get it? That’s you, right then, right there. It’s some kind of… you don’t know… but look at it, it’s you, live. Oskar says it’s obviously a recording you made—if it were live he’d be in it, too. You’re shocked, and not because Oskar has made an impressive observation, which is usually out of character for him. He is most definitely not in the video. You look at Oskar, standing right beside you. You look back at the screen, but he’s not there—it’s just you.
You decide you could use that drink after all.
* video disruption *
Pythagoras is packed and you were lucky to get a table close to the stage. The Georgie Whorewells are playing a cover of AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill.” Not bad for a chick band, you think, but you’re not paying that much attention. You are preoccupied.
Before Oskar came over you called up Jamalay and Heloise and asked them to check out your Facebook page. When they did, both asked who Harmony was, but they saw nothing unusual. It seems this live video does not exist outside of your own web browser. You are disconcerted. Someone has to be playing a joke. Someone must have sent you a malicious virus in an email. Libby? Not technologically savvy. There must be a rational explanation for this. Yes, it has to be a disgruntled ex. Posey? Now there’s a woman scorned. Maybe Helena? She was pissed when you broke it off. Well, you were never really together in the first place; that was just her perception of things.
You finish your second pint of Guinness and feel a little less anxious, a little more warm and fuzzy. You pull out your phone to Tweet about how much you love Guinness, but Oskar grabs it and stuffs it into his pocket. Give it a rest, he says. You turn your attention back to the Whorewells. They’re sounding better with every song, looking better, too. Especially the bass player, whom you’re ogling with extreme prejudice. And you’re sure the Guinness is not doing the listening and looking—not yet, anyway. Oskar is absorbed in the band and nodding his head to the music. He loves chick bands and is on another planet. You ask if he’s ready for another round, but there’s no answer. You’ll just get him a Stella.
The crowd is thick and difficult to navigate, but finally reach the bar. Melanie is at the helm tonight and you make small talk as she draws the taps. You’re wondering why you’ve never hit on her when you notice the security cameras on the wall behind the bar, swiveling on their mounts and capturing the action around the room. You give Mel a twenty and she goes to get change. You begin to feel uneasy. You look up at the cameras again and find that they’ve stilled and are pointing directly at you. Fingers snapping in your face interrupt the moment and Mel gives you your change. When you look back at the cameras they are swiveling again, scanning the room. You go back to your table and set down the pints. Oskar’s enthralled with the music and doesn’t notice.
* video disruption *
You’re in the bathroom at the sinks, splashing water on your face. You dry off, take a deep breath and exhale. You casually look around, making eye contact with a couple of the others washing their hands. You notice the single security camera mounted above the hand dryer. It’s pointing directly at you. You try to ignore it, thinking perhaps it’s not the swiveling kind, but you begin to feel uneasy again. You duck into a stall and lock the door. You go through the routine, you flush. As you’re about to unbolt the door you hesitate. You peek over the top at the camera—it’s pointing directly at you. You get a metallic taste in your mouth. You burst out of the stall, startling others, and rush out the door. They notice that you didn’t wash your hands.
You weave through the crowd and arrive back at the table to find that Oskar has ordered another round of pints and shots. You immediately down the shot. The Whorewells are on break so Oskar is more aware of what’s going on around him. He asks if you’re okay, you look a little frazzled. Did Melanie shoot you down? You really should have gone with them last night because Daisy was very drunk and telling him all kinds of things she’d like to do to you.
Oskar’s lips are moving, obvious that he is speaking, but you can’t pick the words out of the sounds coming from his mouth. You grab your pint of Guinness and drink it down, without pause.
* video disruption *
Your elbows compete for space with the empty glasses on the table. You haven’t said anything coherent for a while. You’re not sure about Oskar but the odds are against it. You get up uneasily and tell him you need some air. The Whorewells are back on stage
playing another AC/DC cover—“Giving the Dog a Bone”—and Oskar is intensely nodding his head. He doesn’t notice when you leave the table.
* video disruption *
You walk down the street, breathing in the cool night air. Your head clears a bit and moves closer to its normal mode of thought. Maybe when you get back to the bar you’ll chat up the Whorewells’ bass player after the gig. You liked the cut of her jib, among other things. You smile. You walk past the Hancock building. High up towards the top a single, round office window is lit bright white. A black dot of a figure peers out through its center, looking out at the city. Someone is working late.
After a few minutes you see the sign for Chi-Town Video. There’s a reason you don’t like to go in this shop—namely Matilda, and she’s working tonight. They also never have Chasing Amy in stock and you’ve wanted to see it for a while. Still, you go in to check and the bell on the door rings. Matilda looks out from behind a stack of DVDs on the counter and waves all too enthusiastically.
There are a few late-nighters milling around the racks as you browse. One is a cute strawberry blonde with freckles. You have a thing for freckles. Other than her, you don’t see anything that catches your eye. Of course Chasing Amy isn’t there. Ghost World is playing on the televisions hanging from the ceiling but you’ve seen it. You walk to the counter and ask Matilda if anyone has returned a copy of Chasing Amy that hasn’t been re-racked. She says she’ll check and walks over to a large bin filled with DVDs. She begins to rummage through them and cheerily mentions that Clerks is a better Kevin Smith film. You’ve seen it.
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