Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

Part Thirteen: Run In With The Devil

Part Fourteen: Women And Children

Part Fifteen: The Tarantino Situation 

Part Sixteen: Our Nada Who Art In Nada
Part Seventeen: Photo Finish

May 28th …it is a matter of public record that the other prostitutes on South Lake Avenue got pinched twice as often as Mary Durward. Some of the working girls said it was because she was a snitch but Mary insisted that she was just lucky that way.

On this night she wore her dark hair pulled back, she had on tight jeans, a half shirt and too much eyeliner. As usual she walked the perimeter of Washington Park looking for customers. It had been a lousy night for business, cool with a hint of rain. Most of the drive ups had been giggling college boys that lost their nerve the minute she started to negotiate prices. Thankfully she still had her regulars, husbands looking for the oral sex they couldn’t get at home and old men in need of handjobs and conversation. At two AM she decided to call it a night.

Mary might have made it home alive if she hadn’t decided to take that shortcut through the park home. Sure she knew about the murders, but she wasn’t worried. Death was something that happened to other people.

Still though, she played it safe, keeping to the sidewalk that passed between the artificial pond and the tulip garden.  The sound of her pumps clicking on the concrete must have been just enough to mask the sound of being followed. The last thing she heard was her murderer unsheathing his blade.

Mary’s luck had run out…

…by the time I heard her scream it was already too late. Ever since the third murder I’d started patrolling the area around Lark Street: not patrolling in a superhero sense mind you, patrolling in a reporter sense. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to get involved in any weirdness, that this blog would be nothing more than a haven for Fantasy Football stats and occasional anecdotes about working at a pawn shop.

But here I was again.

Like I said, by the time I heard the scream it was too late. I went tear-assing through the park to find Mary Durward, well what was left of her anyway.

She was lying on the sidewalk; her throat had been slashed and she had been split open from gut to groin. Police reports said that the other victims had their internal organs removed. I was too uneducated on human anatomy and too busy throwing up on myself to be sure.

The Ripper had struck again.

Well, not THAT Ripper. Not exactly but kind of.

Don’t believe my crazy theory? Neither did law enforcement, the newspapers or my landlady Mrs Vincenzo, but it all added up. Women, usually working girls, were being savagely, swiftly and expertly eviscerated by someone that knew exactly what they were looking for.

Once I was done emptying out my stomach I started running, as I ran I dialed 911 from my smartphone. Sure I didn’t have to report the poor woman’s body, someone else would find it soon enough, but it would have felt wrong to do otherwise.

No one believed me that this was somehow connected to the events of 1888 but the pieces all fit. There had been other murders, seemingly in every generation but always in a different country- England, France, Germany, Finland, and finally here. And every time it was five murders before the killer stopped. That’s twenty-five killings spread over one hundred and twenty-five years.

I was pretty sure I knew where the killer was going, that’s why I ran eastward losing myself in the trees and brambles. It was pitch black but there was kind of a trail to follow, a trail made by adventurous bicyclists and wandering college students. It led towards Washington Park’s number one eyesore. Halfway down the trail and I could almost see it. I ran faster.

My foot caught a root or a rock or something and I fell on my face in a spectacular fashion.

The Ripper, the stuff of legends. How many books were written about those murders in Whitechapel? How many theories have been flying around as to the killer’s identity? If nothing else my hypothesis will go down in history as the most insane, but the names and dates all match up. There are even rumors of confessions hidden in anagrams but that part I can’t be sure about. The ‘confessions’ are in print in three different languages- and each of them was published years after the murders took place.

Except this time maybe. If I was right and I was clever there might not be another gruesome tell-all masquerading as a childrens’ book again.

How long did I lay face down in the dirt trying to remember my name? It seemed like forever. When I finally sat up I discovered that I’d landed on my iPhone and smashed it. How many is that I’ve wrecked now?

Good thing I work in a pawn shop.

I started running again, stumbled a few times, then actually managed to reach the long abandoned Grecian Shelter. And just in case you have no idea what one of those is, imagine a long rectangular structure with no real roof but plenty of Corinthian columns. Another term for this kind of structure is a Croquet Shelter and they do have a very ancient Greece kind of look to them.

Especially since the one in Washington Park had been left to rot since 1929. Redesigns of the grounds had left it out of sight and out of mind. Sure every few years there were outcries from the local community to either restore it or knock it down but nothing ever got done.

That kind of thing happens a lot in Albany.

The structure was overgrown with vines and some of the columns looked ready to give way but that was to be expected; what wasn’t to be expected was the ugly purple glow coming from the inside. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I drew closer.

“Auditurum cantáte!” A voice cried, “Salve regina red!”

Great. I thought. Latin. That’s never a good sign.

Once I was close enough I could see that the illumination was coming from a device that looked like something a meth head locked in a Radio Shack overnight might build. There was a sickening odor in the air, like pork but sweeter. I did not want to be there, I didn’t even want to be in the same area code, but if I was right, who else could put a stop to this?

The voice cried out, “Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!” It was ragged but still familiar. Everyone in the Capital District knew that voice, it was one of our local celebrities; children’s’ author and philanthropist Preston Myers.

Whenever these murders happened it was always at the hands of a children’s’ author, always at the height of their careers and always when they were in their fifty-sixth year: Preston Myers, Tove Kontio, Annette Richter, Xavier Perrault, Charles Dodgson- the pattern fit perfectly.

“Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!”

I would have loved to have gotten a picture of this but my phone was in bits back down the path. The purple glow deepened, I stepped into the Grecian Shelter.

Preston Myers was visibly startled by my appearance, so I had that going for me at least. He was pudgy and bald, his beard was black and flecked with gray. He always went out in public wearing a suit and a tie, but as you can imagine his suit and tie were streaked with gore. When he spoke he didn’t growl or hiss, he used exactly the same tone he used when doing readings for the kids at the public library. He said, “Who are you?”

“I’m Brian Foster,” I stepped closer, “and I want to know who you’re doing this for.”

“For the Rubrum Regina of course,” the knife he pulled out of his jacket was cruel and curved, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he stalked forward, “if you’re a good boy I’ll make it quick but if you run… If I have to chase you…”

“What is the Rubrum Regina?” I stepped left, he stepped right, like it was all some kind of murderous dance. “What makes you do this?”

“Rubrum regina mater omnium mortalium est!”

Not the answer I was hoping for. I pointed to the tangle of wires and bulbs, “And what is that?”

…I’m not telling if I wrecked that crazy machine by accident or if it was all part of a brilliant plan. What I will tell you is that as soon as it broke apart Preston Myers dropped the knife, fell to the ground and started to convulse. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I watched him struggle for breath but didn’t lift a finger to try and save him.

The police discovered Preston Myers’ body about an hour after they found Mary Durward’s remains. The reports of his death overshadowed everything else. By the six o’clock news the murders of five Albany hookers had been dropped in favor of tributes to and remembrances of the great author.

 All I have left now is questions. Why the cover up? Was what I did enough? Did I break the chain or will the bodies start piling up again sometime around 2037? 

If so, I doubt I’ll be around to worry about it.

By the way did you figure out the last part of the story? The kicker? Remember how I told you the first murderer was named Charles Dodgson?

And remember the ‘Rubrum Regina’ Preston Myers kept going on and on about?

Well, ‘Rubrum Regina’ is Latin for ‘Red Queen’.

And you might know Charles Dodgson by his pen name Lewis Carrol.

Sleep tight kids.

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

Part Thirteen: Run In With The Devil

Part Fourteen: Women And Children

Part Fifteen: The Tarantino Situation 

Part Sixteen: Our Nada Who Art In Nada
Part Seventeen: Photo Finish

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

Part Thirteen: Run In With The Devil

Part Fourteen: Women And Children

Part Fifteen: The Tarantino Situation 

Part Sixteen: Our Nada Who Art In Nada
Part Seventeen: Photo Finish

 

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

Part Thirteen: Run In With The Devil

Part Fourteen: Women And Children

Part Fifteen: The Tarantino Situation 

Part Sixteen: Our Nada Who Art In Nada
Part Seventeen: Photo Finish

…May 9th: Hello again, I know it’s been a while. We have a lot of catching up to do and I’d like to begin at the ending.

Right now, I’m sitting in an all night doughnut shop on the outskirts of Troy. So far I’ve eaten two chocolate frosted, two jelly filled and one glazed. 

The last meal of a condemned man? Kinda.

As soon as I’ve proofed and posted this I’m going to smash this laptop and toss it into the dumpster out back. Then I’m going to call Inspector Bradshaw and tell him where he can find me. 

Once the boys in blue get here I’ll go quietly. When they ask me about the events of March 18th, I’ll tell them all of it; the stuff they can corroborate, the stuff that contradicts what they know and the stuff that will make no damn sense.

Will they send me to the nut-hatch? Will I go to jail? Will Mrs. Vincenzo ever forgive me?

With that said let me fill you in on what I’ve been up to for the last fifty-two days…

…many of you that read my last blog post probably thought the same thing- “You idiot! You just confessed to a murder on the Internet! What do you think this is? Reddit?”

Well not so fast everyone Don’t go jumping to conclusions, just look over what I actually said;

…if this had been a movie the camera would have pulled slowly away from the bleak remains of Colonie Village Elementary… If this had been a movie the scene would have ended with the sound of a single gunshot.

Nowhere in that stunningly well written sentence does it say who shot who. Was I the only one there? Had Suzie brought a gun of her own? Was the Slender Man packing heat?

All I will say is that no one will ever find the gun or Suzie (REDACTED). They’re gone.

Still though, I had broken my parole so leaving town seemed like a nice idea.

Did I mention that Ashley Fowler left a wad of hundred dollar bills in the back of her car? If she will forgive me for saying so, she had some serious junk in her trunk; aside from the money there had been a 2-liter bottle of soda, a gas can, a crowbar, some comic books and magazines, a length of rope, a flashlight, a chemistry textbook, a hand saw, a tape measure, some shotgun shells (but no shotgun), jumper cables, a tool box, a book on steam power, and the headlight for an Oldsmobile.

I decided I wanted to see Cape Cod but for some reason I thought Cape Cod was in New Hampshire so I found myself in the town of Plaistow. It seemed like a nice place so I booked a hotel and settled in.

It was a relief to know that Tameka (REDACTED), Leroy (REDACTED) and Bob (REDACTED) were safe. Suzie had been the center of the disturbance and now that she was gone there would be no further visits from tall, dark and awful. In time Tameka and Bob would forget.

Leroy still emails me, I never answer him though. He needs to forget too.

I spent all day and night in my little motel room, only going out to get food or reading material. For a little while I toyed with the idea of writing a novel; something deep, meaningful and mundane but it turns out that unless I’m sharing my nightmares with the world I don’t have much to say.

Afternoon trash TV became my addiction; the People’s Court and the Maury Povich show were my only friends and honestly? I was OK with that.

More than a few websites talked about my encounter with the Slender Man, a lot of them didn’t believe my story. Reports of the Entity being in High Point, North Carolina at the same time I was dealing with it made people suspicious. 

I say so what? Weren’t there stories of the saints appearing in two places at once? Didn’t the government refer to the Priest of Nothing as a ‘Quantum Organism’?

And what about what Suzie had said? That she’d only met the creature a few months ago and that it had ‘sent a blessing back in time’?

Considering what I know now I don’t like to think about the ramifications of that

For the first few days of my life as a fugitive I expected every day to end with discovery and arrest but by my second week in Plaistow I figured that no one was looking for me, I wasn’t a priority.

I figured wrong.

It was about two weeks ago around three in the morning. Footsteps right outside my room woke me from a deep sleep. I rolled out of bed and crawled to the window. How long did I gently fuss with the curtains so I could peek outside without being detected?

Don’t ask.

Finally I saw something. It was some guy, maybe my age, he had on glasses and a windbreaker. He didn’t look like anybody I knew so I stayed quiet.

The part that caught my attention the most was that the guy was wearing some kind of a harness. And not the pervy kind of harness either, it was just a pair of nylon straps that he was using to  fasten a video camera to his chest.

He didn’t knock, he didn’t kick in the door, he scratched at it for a few minutes, then walked away. I waited until the bright safety of morning before I checked to see what he had done. 

A circle with an X through it had been carved over the peephole…

…I never stayed in the same place twice after that and as a result I never saw that guy again. What had he wanted? 

I Don’t know and I don’t care.

Six weeks on the lamb and I started to feel lonely. It made me a spendthrift, I bought a Playstation and some games. I started visiting whatever tourist attractions the town I was staying in had to offer. No matter where I was there was always a strip club to be found via Google Maps so I spent a lot of money on lapdances.

Seriously, a lot of money.

Yesterday I found a Dropbox account I had pretty much forgotten about. It didn’t have much in it, mostly personal photographs- Mom, Grandma and crazy Cousin Roy.

And one of Sara Bishop and me; a selfie. It was after we had started sleeping together but a little bit before I had fallen in love with her. I had tried to make her forget about her problems by taking her to Lake George Village. I loved the place with its wax museum, arcades and historical landmarks. It had been a good day, a perfect day.

It hurt to delete that picture but I never want to see it again. I just want to get back to New York and let the chips fall where they may. I’m almost looking forward to the idea of a long jail sentence. 

This life of mine, these encounters and adventures, I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to be the Night Blogger, I don’t even want to be Brian Foster, I’d much rather be known by an inmate ID number.

That picture, that memory, is ruined forever and I bet you can guess why. If I emailed it to you the first thing you would see is me and Sara, cheek to cheek and grinning like fools. 

But look more closely and you can see Judd’s Bar in the background and to the right of that an alley. I never noticed it before but there was a man standing in that alley.

You can’t make out his face but you can see he’s very tall.

And slender.

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

Part Thirteen: Run In With The Devil

Part Fourteen: Women And Children

Part Fifteen: The Tarantino Situation 

Part Sixteen: Our Nada Who Art In Nada

…March 18th: if this had been a movie the scene would have begun with a distant shot of Colonie Village Elementary at midnight. The building was on the edge of the streetlights’ illumination. All the ordinary sounds of Central Avenue were subdued, what little traffic there was sped past with an empty whoosh.

If this had been a movie the camera would have slowly, cautiously drawn in closer. There was a scrap of police tape snagged on an old hedge and a patch of oil to mark where Clayton (REDACTED) had spent the last night of his life. A flashlight beam, my flashlight beam, panned across the tableau to reveal boarded over doors and windows; each one had a circle with X’s spray-painted on it. The brim of my new fedora was pulled down low and I had a crowbar in my other hand. After a moment I put the flashlight away and started prying at the slabs of plywood blocking the side door. I’m wasn’t the least bit cautious or quiet about it.

After a few moments of grunting and cursing the boards cracked and fell loose. That done I dropped the crowbar, it can’t help me anymore. Then I retrieved the flashlight from my pocket. My first steps into the building were careful to the point of timidity, as though I was afraid the structure would collapse around me. If this had been a movie the last thing the audience would have seen of me was the illumination from my flashlight slowly fading away…

…if you’ve been following along then you know that I’m doing this for the sake of three kids I barely know; two of which have recently threatened my life.

But I don’t hold that against them, in their place I might have done the same thing. Originally I had planned for them to join me on this little excursion-slash-exorcism but they had still been out cold on the floor of Tameka’s apartment when I started hearing sirens. No doubt it was the boys in blue coming to investigate Tameka’s futile attempt to put a cap in the ass of a meme with a body count. I’d had no choice but to run, run here, to where it all started.

As I made my way through the first floor of the school the only things I heard were my nervous breaths and the sound of debris crunching underfoot. I don’t like to think of how many abandoned structures I’ve made my way through over the years. Cellars, attics and tunnels. Oh my!

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

I was halfway to the middle of the building when I stopped dead in my tracks and switched out my flashlight. I stood there for a minute or so, just waiting and listening. Then I clicked the light on and started walking again. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Funny thing about burnt out structures, it always sounds the same when you’re walking through them. All the fallen sections of ceiling and cracked floor tiles, all those bits of wood and glass; it can almost fool your ears into thinking you’re walking through a fresh snowfall.

But your nose won’t let you believe that because the smell of burnt wood and plaster that has been scorched, soaked and dried is unmistakeable. I swept my flashlight through one of the classrooms, it had been emptied out and boarded over like all the others, but this one still had its chalkboard intact. Someone had written on it; 

“Our nada who art in nada

nada be thy name 

thy kingdom nada 

thy will be nada 

in nada as it is in nada.”

Of course I recognized the quote. Between this and the Mark Twain it looked like someone was trying to wring every last drop of value from their English degree.

Dead center of Colonie Village Elementary were the stairs that lead down to the basement level. The articles I’d read told me that one half of the basement was where the janitor kept his tools of the trade, and the other half had been converted into a music room. Twenty kids had been there the day of the fire; they had all escaped but most ended up being hospitalized for smoke inhalation.

The janitor hadn’t been so lucky, but before you start trying to connect the dots, he was a short, stocky man with an actual face. I headed down the basement stairs, they were nice solid concrete steps, no crumbling wood for me to go crashing through at the worst possible moment. Still though, I walked cautiously with one hand pressed against the wall. After all we can’t be too careful when we marching towards almost certain annihilation can we?

I stopped again and killed the flashlight. I was in the basement now and it was so dark that my eyes were playing tricks on me. “Who’s there?” I called out, “I can hear you!”

Actually I couldn’t hear a damn thing but if you’re going to go looking for trouble it’s always polite to make yourself easy to find.

Then it was lights back on and a quick turn to the right.

Back in the day the music room must have been the most depressing music room in the history of music rooms. It was a perfectly square, perfectly windowless brick pit. All the fire did was scorch the gray walls to a sooty black. And honestly? That probably improved it. A music room? Only if you want to raise a generation of goths and death metal aficionados.

Once my back was against the far wall I called out “Come on then. Don’t keep me waiting.”

A figure walked into the circle of my flashlight beam; hooded, slightly hunched and still wearing that fanged, googly eyed mask. “…I, yOuR pOoR sErVaNt,” Crooked Teeth spoke into its smartphone again, autotune was set to maximum, “HaVe ReVeAlEd YoU tO yOuRsElF aNd SeT yOu FrEe….”

“Why don’t you just cut the shit…” I said calmly, “…Suzie.”

The smartphone clattered to the floor, the masked figure stood perfectly still. Was it shock or anger I was seeing? I took ten steps foreword. Finally Crooked Teeth spoke, “How long have you known?”

“Not long.” I admitted, “The finger was a nice touch.”

“The Priest should have taken it… And you.”

“Was that… The Priest’s idea or yours? How much of all this was your doing?”

“The Priest of Nothing saved us from the fire,” she said, “and saved us for the smoke. We all promised.”

“No,” I said, “be honest.”

“Alright then,” Suzie looked feverish and pale. She said, “I promised them to the Priest. Seven children. One for each arm.”

I switched off the flashlight. The dull illumination from the smartphone had a sickly underwater quality to it. Was enough for her to see my expression? Did it matter? “Listen,” I said, “you were a kid when you made that promise.”

“I wasn’t a child, I was 18 years old. It was only a few months ago,” she explained, “the Priest of Nothing sent a blessing back in time, that blessing became a fire.”

A blessing back in time? That was one headache-inducing revelation I neither wanted or needed so I blew right past it. “The Slender Man is nothing but a figment of the Internet’s imagination. A high tech demon called a Nirmita. You can stop this.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“He’s here,” she smiled.

Air wafted over my back like something rushing forward. I had heard no footsteps but I could feel a presence behind me, it made my skin prickle and my mind ache. When I blinked my eyes I heard static.

I did not, would not turn around.

“He’s here,” Suzie spoke reverently. Her eyes glimmered, her vision was focused on something at least a foot over my head.

How can you not see something but know exactly what it looks like? Even without turning around I knew every detail of the Entity. The empty face, head cocked to one side like a curious bird. The necktie the color of smoke, or maybe it was smoke. It’s suit was immaculate and a perfect fit for a body that bent and stretched and swarmed with limbs.

“Never to have lived is best…” the voice was in my head but it was not mine. It was soft as the prayer of a dying man, “…never to have drawn the breath of life, never to have looked into the eye of day.”

That was Yeats. Yeats here and Hemingway on the chalkboard upstairs. Where were these quotes coming from? Why was this monster so well read? It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t let it matter. 

This time, when I pulled the pistol from my waistband it didn’t snag. I could feel long fingers curling around me but I didn’t look. I drew a bead on Suzie.

“Don’t make me do this,” I said. It was time for one last chance, one last cliche, “Don’t make me shoot you…”

…if this had been a movie the camera would have pulled slowly away from the bleak remains of Colonie Village Elementary. Seconds would have ticked by with agonizing slowness, the nearby streetlights would have flickered and dogs would have howled in the distance. Earlier there had been stars in the sky, but now the horizon was black.

If this had been a movie the scene would have ended with the sound of a single gunshot.

Part One: The Graveyard Game

Part Two: A Firesign Variation

Part Three: Digging In The Dirt

Part Four: The Red Chimes

Part Five: Back From The Shadows Again

Part Six: The Devil’s In The House Of The Rising Sun

Part Seven: The House Of Gorgo

Part Eight: The Parliament Of Moloch

Part Nine: Under The Eye Of Luna

Part Ten: The Tale Of Detective Bradshaw

Part Eleven: Waiting For The Mortician Or Someone Like Him

Part Twelve: The Shape On The Stairwell

Part Thirteen: It’s What’s Inside That Counts

Part Fourteen: Dies Irae

 

Part One: The Graveyard Game

Part Two: A Firesign Variation

Part Three: Digging In The Dirt

Part Four: The Red Chimes

Part Five: Back From The Shadows Again

Part Six: The Devil’s In The House Of The Rising Sun

Part Seven: The House Of Gorgo

Part Eight: The Parliament Of Moloch

Part Nine: Under The Eye Of Luna

Part Ten: The Tale Of Detective Bradshaw

Part Eleven: Waiting For The Mortician Or Someone Like Him

Part Twelve: The Shape On The Stairwell

Part Thirteen: It’s What’s Inside That Counts

Part Fourteen: Dies Irae

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

Part Twelve: The Clemens Callback

 

…March 17th: Yeah I’m pretty sure it’s March 17th but I seriously doubt I was almost waterboarded by the cast of Spongebob Squarepants.

No. What happened was that a bunch of government goons kidnapped me and put me through some vaguely enhanced interrogation. The drug they talked about giving me- ‘Haloperidol’, officially doesn’t exist but there are plenty of rumors about it out there if you know were to look.

I wonder how much they gave me. Too much can lead to cancer, madness or worse.

Best not to think about it though. I mean I sure as Hell wasn’t thinking about it when I woke up tied to an overturned chair…

…I think I was in the back of the trailer for an eighteen wheeler but it was one of those brightly lit high tech trailers that should only ever have existed in Knight Rider reruns.

All that was left of my captors was four empty hazmat suits. Why were they wearing those? What were they trying to accomplish? Were they trying to lure Mister tall, dark and otherworldly here? If so they’d gotten all the Spindly Man they could handle and then some.

But there was no sign of the entity now, it was just me and Crooked Teeth. The only light came from the malfunctioning banks of electronics and even by that pale, strobing illumination there was no mistaking that ugly-assed mask. It was like the caricatures from Mad Magazine, the tribal masks from a dozen different issues of National Geographic and the scribblings of a demented child all brought to life.

Crooked Teeth reached into the pocket of its hoodie and pulled out an iPhone of its own. A newer model than mine actually. It held the phone to its hidden mouth and when it spoke into it the voice that came out was amplified, synthesized and melodic. 

That’s right, Crooked Teeth was communicating with me through that stupid downloadable Auto-Tune app.

“iN a LiTtLe WhIlE yOu WiLl Be AlOnE iN sHoReLeSs SpAcE, tO wAnDeR iTs LiMiTlEsS sOlItUdEs WiThOuT fRiEnD oR cOmRaDe FoReVeR…” the masked figure leaned closer, “…ThErE iS nO gOd, No UnIvErSe, No HuMaN rAcE, nO eArThLy LiFe, No HeAvEn, No HeLl. It Is AlL a DrEaM―a GrOtEsQuE aNd FoOlIsH dReAm…”

Auto-tuned or not there was no hiding the fanaticism in that voice, this was a true believer and there’s rarely anything in the world more dangerous than that. When faced with a fanatic you either throw yourself at their mercy or try to put them off their game by acting like a complete asshole.

Guess which option I picked.

“See here Kanye,” I began, “I love Mark Twain as much as the next failed English major but if you’re gonna scare me you better do more than throw quotes from The Mysterious Stranger at me.”

Crooked Teeth cocked its head at me. Now I had its attention. I pressed home my advantage.

“What do you want?” I asked, “What does it want?”

“A dEbT iS bEiNg RePaId. ThE fIrE wAs TrAdEd FoR tHe SmOkE. tHiS wAs nEvEr FoR yOuR eYeS.”

“Wow,” I said, “does that sound familiar.”

But it was more than the sentiment that sounded familiar, there was something in that electronically mangled voice I recognized but could not place.

“yOu CaN sTiLl RuN. tUrN aWaY aNd YoU wIlL bE sPaReD.”

“I can’t do that.” I said, “But you can stop this. No one else has to be taken. That thing, that scrawny bastard needs you. It isn’t an angel or a god, it’s just a boogieman with a Facebook page.”

With that Crooked Teeth put away the iPhone and pulled out a knife. It gleamed green in the failing light of the LCD monitors or at least it did until it was pressed against my throat.

“Now now… wait wait…” I stammered. There was no doubt about it, I had lost the advantage, “Let’s not do anything rash.”

The business end of the knife pricked the against my the underside of my chin, pressure became a sudden pain. Blood began to leak down from where I had been cut. I felt the tip of the blade scrape against the underside of my jawbone. Ever been stabbed? The pain is always bigger than the wound, it balloons out, it feeds on your fear. You imagine yourself coming apart from the inside, you envision what your skinned face would look like in the mirror.

I started to cry. I hated myself for every sob, I hated myself for being scared and helpless, I hated myself for not having all the answers, I hated myself for not being able to save Sara.

Most of all I hated myself for not being a hero, for never even being able to come close.

Crooked Teeth put the blade away and stood, I watched the hooded figure walk away. I felt relieved that all I was going to need was a few stitches instead of a pine box. I wanted to say ‘Thank you’, I really did.

…for those of you keeping score at home I was now bleeding, sobbing and tied to a chair in a trailer in the middle of I didn’t know where.

How was I going to get out of this one? Wait and hope that someone was going to find me? Pit the strength of my bonds against the muscles I’d developed and lost and almost developed again? Was I going to end up dragging myself home by my lips?

Of course I wouldn’t be writing this and you wouldn’t be reading through this if I hadn’t got out of the mess somehow. So what happened? Let me explain with a sentence I thought I’d never ever write.

Suddenly, when all hope seemed lost, the Devil showed up.

 

Part One: Hello Operator, Give Me Number Nine

Part Two: Where There’s Smoke…

Part Three: Crooked Teeth

Part Four: Twizzlers And Beer

Part Five: The Canned Hunt

Part Six: Who Can It Be Now

Part Seven: The Box

Part Eight: Kalo Junction

Part Nine: Foster Got Fingered

Part Ten: Assignment Terror

Part Eleven: Pineapple Rendition

…March 17th? How can it be March 17th? Wasn’t it the 15th like five minutes ago?

I remember… I posted the files from ‘Assignment Terror’ but something went wrong. Nothing saved right, it was all just text and nonsense. I tried to fix it over and over and nothing worked.

Then I… Then I woke up.

But when did I fall asleep?

My memories don’t make sense. Where do the hallucinations end and reality begin? There are holes in my arm marking where I was given shots of some kind of drug that has turned my memories into Swiss cheese.

All I can tell you is what happened, or at least what I think happened…

…all around me are the sounds of work; shuffling footsteps, hushed voices and the hum of electronics. It could have been any office any where in the world, except that I don’t work in an office and even if I did I sure has Hell wouldn’t let them zip tie me to a chair in the middle of the room.

And I sure as Hell wouldn’t let them do it to me while I was in my boxers.

“Is it casual Friday?” I mumbled to no one in particular.

“He’s waking up again,” a miserable and strangely familiar voice said.

I blinked my eyes trying but the room was twisting and shifting as though I was underwater. Once the thought I was under the sea got in my head I couldn’t get rid of it.

“How am I breathing?” I asked.

A female voice chimed in, it had a thick Texas twang, “What in tarnation? How much Haloperidol did you give him?”

“Whatever was in the hypodermic,” another voice said, this one was high pitched, annoying but nominally male.

“Who are you people?” I spoke carefully, afraid that any moment seawater would rush in my mouth and rob me of breath, “Where am I? What’s the water pressure? Do I have gills?”

“What is he talkin’ about? You better not have killed another test subject.” The owner of the female voice drew close enough for me to make sense of her outline. Now I could see she was a giant squirrel wearing a space suit.

Suddenly everything made sense.

“Sandy Cheeks?” I said, “From Spongebob Squarepants? Is that you?”

“Uh…” a confused look crossed the rodent’s face, “sure. Sure it is.”

A turquoise octopus shoved Sandy out of the way and shone a penlight in my eyes, “You gave him too much you idiots! He’ll be incoherent for days!”

I started laughing, how could I not? “Are you the guys that messed up my blog?”

“Oh no,” the familiar, friendly and porous shape of Spongebob Squarepants shuffled into view, “we just kidnapped you. Your website had an incursion from the Entity.”

Squidward snarled at the yellow sponge, “Shut up would you?”

“Aw come on, how much is he going to remember at this point?”

I squinted my eyes and for a moment instead of comical characters I saw strangers in hazmat suits but I knew that was crazy. I knew that the seawater must have been playing tricks on my eyes. “What do you guys want?”

Suddenly a huge pink starfish grabbed hold of my shoulders and started shaking me, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FILE YOU HIPPIE PINKO?”

“What file? ‘Assignment Terror’?” I asked, “My friend Mike Whitehead gave it to me. It’s all there in my blog updates.”

“THERE IS NO SUCH PERSON AS MIKE WHITEHEAD! WE CHECKED!”

“Oh yeah,” I chuckled, “I totally made that name up to protect his identity.”

Patrick Star gestured in one direction, “WE NEED TO TAKE HIM FROM THE CHAIR-” Then in another, “AND PUT HIM ON THE WATERBOARD.”

Slowly and carefully the space suited squirrel pried Patrick’s grip from me, “Respectfully sir that isn’t why we’re here.”

“Yeah,” I said, “you tell him Sandy!”

They all stared at me in confusion. I hoped I hadn’t offended them, I was eager to get untied from the chair and go off with them to have whacky adventures. Sure I knew that living under the sea would violate the terms of my house arrest but I didn’t care. 

There was something I did care about however. Something that gave me a pang of guilt. Wasn’t there something else I was supposed to be doing? Something involving a bunch of kids and a… And a…

“Slender Man…” I said, “Is this about Slender Man? Is he threatening Bikini Bottom?”

“Oh pul-ease,” Squidward turned away in disgust.

“Hey, lets talk about that scary Slender Man,” Spongebob put his arm around my shoulder, “have you seen him?”

“Not in person no,” I said, “I dreamed about him once.”

“Very interesting,” he scratched his chin, “and this happened after you started your investigations?”

“Yes.”

“Then how do you know he really exists?”

“There were videos.”

“How do you know the videos weren’t faked?”

“I don’t… But they looked real.”

“Ha!” the octopus said, his voice oozing with condescension “and I suppose you believe everything you see?”

I stared long and hard at Squidward, “Mostly.”

“Oh the irony,” he said before turning back to his sensors and monitors.

Everyone got quiet again. I think I heard mellow surf rock playing gently somewhere in the background. I began to feel uneasy, this conversation was starting to have sinister undertones.

“WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?” Patrick Star grabbed me by the throat, whenever he shook me the legs of the chair rattled against the metal floor, “WHAT ARE YOUR CRIMES? WHY ARE YOU WITHHOLDING INFORMATION ABOUT THIS UNIQUELY AMERICAN RESOURCE?”

My brain rattled around in my skull, my eyeballs bulged comically. I was still zip tied to the chair so I couldn’t defend myself. I choked and gasped, my only thought was that this wasn’t even remotely the way I thought I would die.

At first I thought I was starting to faint then I realized the lights were flickering. The pink starfish dropped me to the metal floor, I hit it with a bone jarring clang. Spongebob shrieked. Sandy started yelling “It’s here! We did it!”.

There was a shape peeling itself out of the corner, a tall, squirming shape with an immaculate suit and an empty face. The sight of the entity drove Squidward to draw a revolver and put it to his head. Patrick began shouting at the thing, “I AM PLACING YOU UNDER ARREST IN THE NAME OF THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT!”

The lights flickered again and then every monitor and screen was filled with the face of a Synchro-Vox pirate. The pirate shouted, “Are you ready kids?”

A dozen arms erupted from the figure. Screams filled the air. Wherever those slender limbs touched my cartoony captors they burned the color away…

…you don’t have to believe a damn thing I just said. It’s just what I remember and whoever those people were it looks like they shot me up with the full contents of the Keith Richards home game.

What I can tell you is that I passed out again and when I came back to my senses I found I was almost alone in a narrow room filled with malfunctioning electronics. I was still lying on my side and still zip tied to a chair.

But like I said I was almost alone.

A familiar figure in a dark hoodie and a grotesque mask was crouching beside me.

My long strange night was just beginning…