After the Cabin

by Amy Cross

  “Nah, he's pretty elusive,” he explains with a shrug. “She always has to go meet him at random places. Whenever she invites him out with the rest of us, he never shows. Never even bothers to make an excuse, either. Apparently he just tells her flat-out that he doesn't want to come. I mean, I don't mean to be rude, but he doesn't sound like the coolest guy on the planet.”

  “Like that night at the club,” I reply.

  “Exactly.” Sighing, he checks his watch. “I guess I'd better go shut off the hot-plates.”

  “Thanks again for helping me back then,” I add. “I mean, on the walkway and then in the cafe. You didn't have to do any of that, but I really appreciate it.”

  He frowns. “The where and the where?”

  “When you found me on the walkway,” I continue. “I hope you don't think I'm completely insane. I know I probably seemed kind of weird.”

  He stares at me for a moment. “Are you sure you're not mixing me up with someone else?”

  “You came looking for me after I left the club,” I remind him. “You found me on the walkway, then you took me to some late-night cafe and we had tea, then you punched a guy and walked me home.”

  He pauses.

  “Didn't you?” I add cautiously.

  “You ran out of the club,” he replies, “and Karen went after you, but... The rest of us just stayed and listened to that awful band.”

  Feeling a shiver run through my chest, I think back to that night. I distinctly remember Matt finding me on the walkway, and sitting with me in the cafe. In fact, it's one of my main memories from the past week, something I've thought about several times.

  “Anna -”

  “It's fine,” I tell him, trying to stay calm. The last thing I want is to admit that I'm confused. “I was just joking. I wanted to mess with your head, that's all.”

  “You did?”

  I nod. “Sorry, my sense of humor can be a little off sometimes.” My heart is racing and I feel as if I'm about to faint, but I know I just have to hold myself together. “Ignore me,” I add. “I was going to set you up for some dumb joke, but it wouldn't have been funny, so just pretend I never said anything.”

  “Okay,” he says cautiously, clearly a little weirded out. “Sure, I... I should go check on those hot-plates.”

  “Do it,” I reply, and as he heads back along the corridor I hear the front door opening. Turning, I see Karen hurrying in, but I can immediately tell that something's wrong. She's deliberately keeping her face turned to one side, and as she hurries to the desk she tosses her bag onto the vacant chair, mutters something about the bathroom, and runs toward the door in the corner.

  I wait, and a few minutes later she emerges again with a forced smile and a noticeable cut on her cheek, along with what looks like a nasty bruise starting to show through.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Fine.”

  “What happened to your -”

  “I fell.”

  “But -”

  “I just tripped,” she adds, clearly feeling uncomfortable as she sits next to me. She's still smiling, but there's fear in her eyes, and a hint of desperation. “Don't fuss, okay?”

  I open my mouth to ask another question, but she quickly starts logging into the computer system and I can see that her hands are trembling. I want to make sure that she's okay, but I figure I'll have to wait a little while and hope her defenses come down, maybe after work.

  “The night I ran from the club,” I say cautiously, “did... Did you stay in the club after, or did you come looking for me?”

  “I told you,” she replies, “I came looking.”

  “And Matt?”

  “Matt?” She frowns. “He stayed in the club. Why?”

  “No reason,” I mutter, staring at the cut on her cheek for a moment longer before turning back to look at the monitor in front of me. That encounter with Matt on the walkway seemed so real, I never even thought to question it, but if that memory is false, then what else have I begun to imagine? And how can I be sure what's real and what's just happening in my head?

  ***

  Standing on the walkway above the train line, I stare at the spot where I remember talking to Matt. I keep running through those events in my mind, trying to work out what was real and what wasn't, but I keep coming back to the same basic facts: I hallucinated an image of Jennifer, who couldn't possibly have been there, and then I thought I spoke to Matt, who claims he didn't come. While all of that was happening, what was I really doing?

  Finally giving up, I turn and start heading back along the walkway. A train rattles below as evening commuters head home, but just as I get to the top of the steps I happen to notice the solitary security camera watching over the scene, with a red light on the side. Looking closer, I see the name of the security company on the side.

  Eight

  “No,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck as he leads me along the gloomy corridor, “actually, in all the time I've worked here, you're the first person who's ever knocked on that door. You'd think people might be a little more curious, right? Wrong.”

  “I'm really sorry to bother you,” I continue, “but... I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

  As we reach the door at the far end of the corridor, he turns to me. “Freddie. Freddie Gray.”

  “Hi, Freddie,” I say, forcing a smile that's probably extremely awkward. “Like I said on the phone, I was hoping you could let me see some footage from the camera on that metal walkway near the train station.”

  “Number 8225?”

  “Yeah, I...” Reaching into my bag, I pull out my phone and find the photo I took. Holding it up, I realize my heart is racing. “That's the one. I know this must seem weird, but something happened up there the other night and if there's any chance that you've got footage...”

  “We'll have footage, alright,” he replies, “we keep everything for six months, but do you have a warrant?”

  “Do I need one?”

  “Are you familiar with the amount of legislation surrounding closed-circuit cameras in this country?” he asks, raising an amused eyebrow. “Any properly secured monitoring system can only be accessed by employees of the company in question, or by officials who have a valid warrant.”

  “It's not like I need a copy or anything,” I tell him, “I just really, really need to see what happened on that walkway on Thursday morning at around quarter to one. If it's any help, I'm pretty sure the only person in the shot is going to be me, so there's not really a privacy concern.”

  “Still got rules.”

  “I can't get a warrant,” I continue, starting to feel desperate. “It's just a personal thing, I have to see whether...” Sighing, I realize that there's no way I can explain the situation to him without sounding insane. Hell, maybe I am insane. “If I go to the police,” I say finally, “and try to get them to help me... I mean, they won't, I'm sure of that, but if there's any chance...”

  “Do they have an open investigation?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Then I don't think they'll be able to help you. Sorry.”

  Sighing, I realize that even though the footage I need is just on the other side of this door, I can't get through. I mutter some words of thanks, before turning and starting to hurry back toward the exit.

  “Hold up!” he calls out to me. “You didn't ask me about the rules concerning cameras that aren't properly secured.”

  Stopping, I turn to him.

  “And that,” he adds with a stubbly smile, “is where I can help you.”

  ***

  “Do you have any idea,” he mutters as he turns the tracking ball to rewind through the grainy footage, “how many CCTV cameras in the world are improperly set up?”

  “Is it a lot?” I ask.

  He sighs. “It's ridiculous. So many of these systems are supposed to be secured, but their I.P. addresses end up mis-configured so they can be viewed online without a password. It's basic poor ma
nagement, if you ask me, but that's what you get when you hire people who don't have the necessary qualifications. This might seem like a pretty dull job, but I take it as seriously as I would being a brain surgeon. So many cameras have been left open to the internet, and the same goes for things like baby monitors, home surveillance systems, anything that's online at all can have this same weakness.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I've told my boss about the problem until I'm blue in the face,” he continues, “but he figures it'd cost money, so he doesn't do a damn thing about it. That camera on the walkway can be viewed easily online, so even though the footage is technically supposed to be secure, I figure the fact it's been publicly broadcasting this whole time...” He pauses as he slows the footage, searching for the right point. “Just don't tell anyone about this, okay? I could still maybe get in trouble.”

  “I'm looking for really early on Thursday,” I tell him. “About 12:45am, maybe a minute or two either side.”

  “Nearly there,” he mutters, slowing the footage even more and then letting it play from 12:43am. The image is grainy and bathed in green, and the camera is at the wrong end of the bridge to get a good shot of where I remember standing, but it's better than nothing.

  “Can you zoom in?” I ask.

  “Wouldn't help the resolution.”

  “And there are no other cameras in the area? Nothing closer?”

  “Sorry, I -”

  He stops as soon as we see a figure at the far end of the walkway. The image is so blocky, I can't even recognize myself, but a moment later the figure stops and looks over the edge of the railing, which is exactly what I remember doing.

  “Is that you?” Freddie asks.

  I nod, and a moment later another figure steps into view.

  “There was someone else up there with me,” I whisper, leaning closer to the monitor. I watch as the two figures seem to be talking, but the image is too badly pixelated for me to make much out. “Is there no way to get a closer look?” I ask.

  A moment later, the image zooms in, but this just results in the blocks getting bigger on the screen.

  “Sorry,” Freddie mutters. “Best I can do.”

  “I was definitely talking to someone,” I whisper. “Why would Matt lie when...”

  My voice trails off as I realize that there's one other explanation. Just before I thought I saw Matt, I hallucinated Jennifer, but there's no way she could possibly be in the image. She's been dead since that final night at the cabin. Either Matt is lying to me about what happened on the walkway, or somehow Jennifer appeared, or maybe it was someone else entirely.

  On the screen, the first figure turns and hurries down the steps. A moment later, the second figure follows.

  “Does that help?” Freddie asks.

  “Yes and no,” I reply, taking a step back as my mind races with the possibilities. “Can I a get a copy of that footage?”

  “Legally -”

  “But you said it was being broadcast on the internet.”

  “By mistake, yes, but...” He pauses for a moment, before sighing. “Do you happen to have one of those USB drives?”

  Handing him the drive from my bag, I watch as he starts copying the relevant section for me.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask, watching the screen as it plays through the encounter on the walkway again.

  “Come again?”

  I watch as the two figures stand talking on the screen. If only there was some way to enhance the image so I could see who I was talking to, I'd have a much better idea of what's really going on.

  “I see things,” Freddie says finally.

  I turn to him. “What kind of things?”

  “People who shouldn't be there,” he continues. “I usually do the night-shift, from nine until seven, and a lot of our cameras are in out-of-the-way parts of town. Abandoned buildings, shut-down factories, that sort of thing. We cover that old hospital on Fremont Street too, and a couple of disused schools.” He pauses again. “I'm supposed to send someone to check if I see anyone trespassing, but over the years I've learned that there's a certain type of person I see sometimes, who there's no point worrying about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean a type of person who isn't gonna be found if a team goes to check.” He clicks a few tabs on the screen. “A type of person who only shows up on these things. You can recognize them, they just look kinda different on the screen, and if someone goes to look for them in person, they don't see anything at all. I don't know what's going on, and I don't intend on finding out, but if you ask me there's something that shows up from time to time. People who don't belong, who just stand or walk slowly, people who...” Another pause, and there's a hint of fear in his eyes. “If I was a more dramatic man,” he adds finally, “I'd be inclined to think that every so often ghosts do show up on these videos. But so long as they're out there and not in here with me, that's not really my problem, is it?”

  Taking the USB drive from the computer, he hands it to me.

  “I put a couple of extra files on there,” he adds. “Make of them what you will.”

  ***

  She's just standing there. Not really doing anything, not reacting to the world around her, just standing in the middle of the street at 4am, ignoring a few passing drunks and, in turn, being ignored by them.

  I wait for her to move, but the video just keeps on playing, showing the view from a CCTV camera in the center of town. According to the time stamp in the bottom left corner, this footage was recorded about three months ago. The quality is much better than the shot from the walkway, and I can see the faraway expression in the woman's eyes. Leaning closer to the screen, I try to get a better look at her face, but suddenly she turns and stares directly at the camera and then a fraction of a second later she's gone.

  I rewind, but it's clear that she simply disappeared in the space between one frame and the next.

  Checking the file information, I find a link to a news site. When I click through, I read a story about a woman named Deborah Moore who was knocked down and killed by a drunk driver in that same street in December 2011. I scroll down until I find a photo of Deborah, and I can instantly tell that it's the same woman from the video. At least, the resemblance is striking, but I still can't quite believe that the video is real. There has to be some kind of trickery, or it's a coincidence, or maybe a set-up. Spotting an I.P. address attached to the file, I copy it and then paste it into a browser.

  Sure enough, my laptop displays what appears to be a live feed from the same camera in the main street, the one that showed the strange woman on the recording. I watch as a couple of people wander past, and it's clear that they're oblivious to the fact that they're being caught on camera. I know I should stop looking, but I quickly pull up the footage from the walkway again and locate the I.P. address. Sure enough, when I paste it into my browser, I'm immediately shown a live feed of the walkway.

  It's almost as if the whole town is being watched, and most of the images are freely available to watch online. Sure, some of the cameras I check turned out to be password-protected, but most are just left open. I can't help sitting and watching the feed from the walkway, staring at the screen as I wait for some sign of movement. After an hour or so, with no-one having appeared in the shot, I pull up the old recording showing myself and the mysterious figure. Despite a few efforts with online tools, I'm not able to get a better image of the person I met that night, so I can't be sure whether it was Matt or Jennifer. Not that it could be Jennifer, but still... I keep working, trying to tweak the image, and I only stop when I see the morning sun rising outside. Checking my watch, I find that somehow I've managed to spend the entire night obsessing over these images. It's 6am now, and I'm due at work in ninety minutes.

  I have to hurry a little, but I manage to get out the door in time. When I get to the hotel, however, the first thing I notice is a police car parked outside.

  Nine

  “So the las
t time you saw Karen,” the officer says, making a note as we sit in the hotel's empty dining room, “was when the two of you finished your shift yesterday evening?”

  Numb with shock, I simply nod. Too many thoughts are swirling through my thoughts. “She can't be missing,” I stammer. “There's no way Karen would go missing.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “I...” Thinking back, I try to remember every detail of that conversation, but in truth I was too caught up in my thoughts about the security camera. Why didn't I pay more attention? “We'd talked about getting a drink,” I mutter finally, “but then she said she couldn't make it. I think she said she was going to meet her boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” He flips back through his notes. “No-one else has mentioned a boyfriend.”

  “His name was Daniel,” I reply.

  “Do you have a surname?”

  I shake my head.

  “Any other details.”

  I try to remember what Karen told me. “She said something about his English not being perfect. I think maybe he's foreign.”

  “We'll check her social media,” he continues. “This Daniel guy -”

  “Also, I think he was hitting her.”

  He pauses. “What makes you say that?”

  “I'm such a bad friend,” I continue, putting my head in my hands for a moment. “I tried to ask her about it, but she was so defensive, and I thought I could try again today.” I look at the officer again. “She went to lunch with him yesterday and she had a cut on her face when she got back, and she was really vague about how it happened. She said she tripped, but I didn't believe her.”

  “Did you ever meet this Daniel fellow?”

  I shake my head again.

  “When exactly was she reported missing?” I ask.