Have you ever had one of those days?

Del often had "those days" — they seemed to happen all too often for him. Endless nights where sleep refused to come, filled with frustration and pain. This night was no different.

He sighed as he grabbed a coffee and turned on his laptop. Distraction, he often found, was the best way to take his mind off life’s annoyances.

Del had always considered himself a nobody, just an average man worn down by hypocrisy, age, and a misspent youth. In truth, it hadn’t been overly wild but had left its mark. Once, he’d been more than the wreck he was now. He could walk without a stick. He had real friends, not the superficial connections cluttering his inbox and social media profiles. There was a time when his days weren’t dominated by the struggle to choose which painkiller might slightly dull the ever-present ache in his legs.

‘Stop it, Del,’ the voice he kept in his head berated him. Del had once thought this inner self was his check on sanity, keeping him from the stupid. Maybe it was but then again, it more concerned him when he got into arguments, with his other, more antagonistic self—and lost.

Life could undeniably be difficult, but he’d always believed it wasn’t the shit you were dealt but how you handled the mess you were dealt that mattered in making the man.

His laptop screen blinked to life. Emails held nothing of interest — some Nigerian prince wanted to be very kind and offered him a large wedge in exchange for help with diamonds. Social media wasn’t much better. His local pub advertised an upcoming karaoke night that might be worth attending if only to torture a few eardrums. A distant relative had posted a picture of their newborn.

‘Ugly little bugger,’ Del thought as he posted a smiley face and a heart emoji

One post caught his eye briefly: a free life-skills course. Curious, he clicked the link. The page loaded, but it wasn’t for him. It was cluttered with ads and banners, a maze of distractions that left little actual content. He moved on, clicking through random links. Scammers, ads for cars he couldn’t afford, dating sites he had no interest in. He lingered a moment on an image. ‘Nice tits, though,’ he considered wryly before moving on.

The internet was a deep, dark hole filled with dreams and nightmares, promises and platitudes. It offered everything and nothing in equal measure, pandering to desires only to whip them away. Del sipped his coffee and grimaced. It was cold now, bitter and unappealing, much like a frigid January morning.

Another click, another dead end. A “404 error” greeted him. He muttered under his breath. Then, a new banner appeared: “Are You Good Enough?”

“Good enough to waste my nights on mindless clickbait,” he muttered but clicked anyway. Anything to pass the time and distract from the throbbing pain in his legs.

The site loaded quickly, revealing a retro design with soft background music that struck a faint chord of nostalgia. Unlike most pages he encountered, this one held his attention. It was a mix of quizzes, IQ tests, pattern recognition games, and riddles with moral dilemmas. The questions were engaging, the sort he hadn’t encountered in years. One puzzle asked him to make an impossible choice, reminiscent of the classic “trolley problem” but with a unique twist.

The experience was oddly fun, a rare feeling for Del. Yet beneath the amusement, something gnawed at his gut. It wasn’t hunger — the dried crusts of a sandwich beside him were the only remains of his supper. No, this was something deeper. The kind of disquiet one felt during a horror movie when some guy made the inevitable bad decision to go look in the basement.

The questions and puzzles felt intrusive, almost as if they were peeling back layers of his psyche to understand him. It unnerved him even as it fascinated him. What was this site trying to determine? Was it truly about being “good enough” for something? His instincts told him it was leading to a scam or a sales pitch, but he’d played along anyway. It had whiled away the darkest hours and in the end, been fun.

As dawn’s light began to filter through his window, he closed the laptop with reluctance. Sleep called to him, and for once, it came easily. Del settled into bed, the familiar thump of his cat Misty landing beside him providing a comforting end to the night.

Del awoke with his body stiff but functional, reluctant to open his eyes. He knew it was well into the morning, perhaps later. The sound of scratching at the door signalled Misty’s impatience to be let out. His mouth felt dry, with a tongue that felt like a fur rug stuck to the back of his teeth.

With a groan, he smacked his lips and tasted the air. ‘Must be Tuesday.’ Mondays had a sour, bitter tang to them, and this wasn’t it. Rubbing his eyes open, he glanced at the clock. Its flashing green dashes betrayed a recent power flicker. The radio had mentioned solar storms, after all. ‘At least it didn’t fry my computer,’ he thought. Frying chips was only good for a fish supper.

After handling the necessities in the bathroom and scrubbing his teeth to a tolerable state, Del headed for the kitchen. Coffee was the priority; his day wouldn’t properly begin until his second cup.

In the back of his mind, something nagged at him. He checked the cupboard and fridge. Bread and milk were accounted for, so it wasn’t that. Whatever it was would come to him eventually, no sense worrying over it now. Coffee in hand, he settled into his favourite chair, only to sigh and get back up to let the cat out.

‘OK mate, so what are the plans for today?’ Same as always, he supposed. Catch up on the news, shake his head at the sheer stupidity of the world. He’d once thought about having kids, but life hadn’t gone that way, and now, in his fifties, he was grateful it hadn’t. He’d be long gone soon enough. It was the youth he felt sorry for. What a damn sad, dangerous, and spoiled world they’re inheriting,’ he considered, not for the first time. Now, his own youth hadn’t been perfect—far from it. Life had always been a series of struggles, just ones tailored to the times. But today’s kids didn't realise what a fucked up place the world was rapidly becoming

Del picked up his phone. No signal. Odd, but not unheard of. He wondered if the internet was down too. Shrugging on his shoes and grabbing his coat and stick, he decided to head to the shop and pick up something for dinner.

As he opened the door, Misty shot back in, moving faster than usual. The neighbour’s dog must have been tormenting her again. Del would have to say something if it continued. Stepping outside, he headed up the street. Something felt off, though he couldn’t quite place it. He lived in a quiet part of town, but not this quiet. The usual background noise of distant traffic was absent. No birdsong greeted him, nor even the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

He stopped. This wasn’t right. Unease began to build in his gut. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he thought, the only sound now the clack of his stick against the pavement and the tread of his feet.

Determined to shake off the feeling, he pressed on toward the corner shop. Ishmael, the owner, was a hard worker and rarely closed. A chat with him might help restore some normality.

“Del, you really are losing the plot, my old mate,” he muttered, shaking his head as he walked. A chuckle escaped him as he considered the peculiarities of his semi-hermit lifestyle and the onset of what he jokingly called ‘his senility.’

Rounding the corner, the shop came into view. It had stood there since before his time, a cornerstone of the village. This place and the local pub had been the centre of village life until slowly being swallowed up by the expanding town along with the rest of the close-knit community. Ishmael had owned it for around two decades, transforming it into a compact haven of overpriced essentials.

Del approached the door. Oddly, it was closed. The lights were on, but neither Ishmael nor his wife was in sight. He rattled the handle, but the door was locked tight. Knocking yielded no response. Concern crept in as he remembered Ishmael’s hospital stay the previous year. Even then, the shop had remained open, run by his nephew. The prickling at the back of Del’s neck intensified. This wasn’t right. None of it.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Not one for conspiracy theories, Del nonetheless felt his unease deepening. He checked his phone again—still no signal. Resolved, he turned back toward home, moving as quickly as his stiff legs allowed. Fast wasn’t the right word, he thought with grim amusement, but there was no denying the urgency in his step now.

Del had often joked about encroaching senility, but as he turned the corner and saw his door ahead, a different sensation overtook him—paranoia. He wasn’t alone. Someone was waiting at his gate, standing patiently. As he drew closer, he realised it was a woman, youngish—or so he thought, hard to tell these days—dressed in a business suit and holding a briefcase.

She turned to face him as he approached.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone wary.

She smiled. “Mr Axholm, I can certainly help you. May I come in?”

Del’s mind reeled. ‘Who the hell is she? How does she know my name?’ Nothing about this day was normal.

“No, you can’t,” he snapped. “Whoever the hell you are and whatever you’re selling, I DON’T WANT IT.”

He moved to push past her and reach his door. It was an awkward manoeuvre; he really needed to get fitter. She didn’t make it easy pretty much blocking the gate.

“Do you mind!” Del snapped. The woman took a step to the side allowing him to squeeze past, making sure to clip her shin with his stick as he did. The door slammed shut behind him with a satisfying thud.

Leaning against the door, he closed his eyes and sighed.

‘What a fucking godforsaken day this is turning out to be.’

Del’s house wasn’t large. To the left of the front door was his bathroom, which became his first stop. Cold water splashed against his face, grounding him slightly.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Opposite the bathroom lay the kitchen. Down the corridor to the left was his bedroom; to the right, a small but functional sitting room. He’d always described the house as compact, though an estate agent would undoubtedly label it “bijou.”

‘Right, coffee,’ he thought. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have headed out before my second cup.’ The kettle boiled as his thoughts began to untangle.

‘This is ridiculous. It must have been that cheese sandwich last night. I’m being irrational.’

His mind worked overtime to explain away the day’s oddities. Surely Ishmael and his wife were fine. Tomorrow, they’d have some outlandish story about why the shop had been closed.

‘As for the rest,’ he thought, ‘the mind is well known for inventing absurdities to fill gaps. That woman can go fuck herself and you, Del, are a complete and total pillock.’

With a rueful smile, he picked up his coffee and wandered into the lounge.

The mug slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor and splashing hot liquid across his foot.

“Fuck, damn… You! What the actual hell?”

Sitting primly on his desk chair was the woman from outside. Her smile lingered, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Del’s heart raced. ‘OK, now I know I’m going mad.’ His foot throbbed, a mix of its usual pain and the fresh sting of the burn. She sat motionless, her gaze fixed on him, unnervingly calm. He felt like a specimen under observation.

“How the hell did you get in here? Actually, don’t answer that. Get the hell out of my house, or I’m calling the police.”

He grabbed his phone. No signal. Frustrated, he hurled it across the room, where it landed unceremoniously on his chair.

Del still had a landline, a relic of his old-fashioned ways. He stepped to the sideboard and lifted the receiver. No dial tone. His sense of isolation deepened, trapping him in a nightmare where reality frayed at the edges.

“Are you leaving, or do I have to throw you out?” he barked. Anger edged his voice, fuelled by frustration and unease.

The woman remained unmoved. Her gaze held a hint of sadness as she crossed her legs and brushed an invisible speck from her suit jacket.

Del had always been a realist. ‘Who the fuck are you kidding mate, you could no more throw her out than wag your tail.’

He exhaled sharply and dropped into his chair, resigned. He removed his sodden shoe and steaming sock, examining the angry red of his foot. ‘This had better not be a damn timeshare she’s trying to sell,’ he thought bitterly.

“OK, let’s have it,” he said at last. “Who the hell are you, what do you want, and how the hell did you get into my house?”

Her calm gaze met his. “As I said outside, Mr Axholm, I am here to help you.” Her voice carried an air of dignity, a quiet authority that commanded respect.

“I got that. Help me with what? I have no money, so whatever amazing gadget or lifestyle you’re selling, I can’t afford it. So if that’s all, you might as well go.”

“I’m not selling anything,” she replied with a measured smile. “But I am here so you can fulfil your contract.”

Confusion replaced anger.

‘What? Contract? What contract?’

The tension in his body ebbed slightly, replaced by curiosity. The burning throb in his foot barely registered as he tried to make sense of her words.

Del stared at the woman, her calm demeanour making his confusion deepen.

“Some months ago, we put out a job application. The criteria were strict, and although we’ve had many applicants, you are the first—and so far only—applicant to pass the initial selection process,” she said, her tone unwavering.

‘Now I’m really confused,’ Del thought, his brow furrowing. He’d been medically retired for five years, ever since the accident that had left him disabled. Work hadn’t been a part of his life since then, nor had he been looking for it. The compensation he’d received, while not vast, had been enough to clear his mortgage and sustain him with frugal living. His only real commitment now was Misty, and he’d made peace with living out his days without the stress of a job.

‘What application?’ He wracked his memory. Surely he’d remember applying for something. This situation was starting to feel more surreal by the second. ‘Am I losing my mind? Is this just some delusional conversation with my cat?’ He glanced over at Misty, who was curled up in her favourite cardboard box. ‘Nope, the cat’s there. And so is this woman. I shoved against her outside, so she’s no mind-fucked illusion.’

The woman’s gaze remained steady, almost as though she could follow every step of his internal monologue.

“Let’s start over,” Del said finally. “You know who I am, so how about, for politeness’ sake, you tell me who you are.”

She inclined her head slightly. “Certainly, Mr Axholm. I am Menolly Swift,” she replied, her voice soft yet firm.

“Call me Del. This ‘Mr’ stuff is unnecessary and too formal for someone who breaks into my home.”

A brief smile crossed her face, one that actually reached her eyes this time. “Of course, Del.”

“Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I think I need some answers. For a start, I haven’t applied for a job with anyone. The last time I signed a contract was for a new phone three years ago.”

Menolly nodded, as if she’d expected his reaction. “Let me try to clear things up for you,” she began. “Last night, you made an application and signed the contract for your initial role suitability assessment.” She smiled faintly. “You passed.”

Del’s eyebrows shot up. “Hold on,” he interrupted, “I never signed anything. Certainly not any job application or contract.”

Menolly calmly lifted her briefcase from the floor, spun its combination lock, and opened it on the table. From his chair, Del couldn’t see what it contained, but he figured she’d show him whatever she deemed necessary. This whole damned encounter seemed very much her show.

She removed a notepad and swiped through its pages before finding what she sought.

“Ah, here we are. At 03:18 this morning, you accessed the application and assessment room and accepted the contract.”

“The what?” Del asked, incredulous.

“You ticked the box to accept, Del,” she said, sighing quietly as though this were all too predictable. To herself, she added, “You humans never bother to read the T’s & C’s.”

‘What was that? Did she say humans?’ Del’s mind stumbled over the word, but he shook it off. ‘Nah, I must be hearing things. With the way this day’s gone, it’s not surprising.’

“So I ticked accept—doesn’t everybody?” he said with a shrug. “So what, do tell me, have I got myself into?”

Menolly set aside the notepad and instead pulled out a stack of papers. They appeared to be printouts from last night’s games and quizzes. She handed them to him.

The top sheet made his breath catch. It was a summarised biography. His full name, date and place of birth, his mother’s name… and his ‘father’s’ name. ‘Damn. I never knew who he was.’ He stared at the page. ‘Well, there’s a corker.’ Mum had never told him, and she’d been gone a long time now. She’d probably turn in her grave if she knew he had this information.

A chuckle escaped him. ‘Who would have thought? My old schoolmaster, the dirty dog.’

‘Stop getting distracted, Del.’ He focused back on the sheet, which was packed with personal details: jobs he’d held, places he’d lived, even a library fine for a book he’d lost years ago.

Well, I have to give them credit for a background check,’ he thought, ‘but it’s also bloody creepy. Who are these people?’

They knew too much for this to be a scam or sales pitch. And it didn’t feel like a hallucination; if anything, everything felt more vivid and real than usual. They knew things he’d never shared, and even things he hadn’t known himself. The accuracy of the details he did know, lent weight to the ones he hadn’t been aware of.

Del’s thoughts wandered briefly. ‘I wonder if Mr Willhelm ever knew I was his bastard son. Sharing a class with his daughter while he crammed Geography into our heads…’ He almost laughed. ‘I nearly asked her out once. Then she met the guy she married. Last I heard, they’d moved to New Zealand.’

He shook his head, refocusing. The rest of the papers were from the website: evaluations, scores, graphs, and charts. It was an unsettlingly thorough dossier.

“So I had some fun passing a sleepless night on your website,” Del said finally, his tone sharp. “Your information on me is disturbingly scary, and you’re saying I’m now in some sort of selection process?”

He glanced at the shards of his broken mug on the floor. ‘I need coffee… preferably in my mouth, not on my foot.’

“Do you want one?” he asked curtly gathering the broken mug and heading for the door. “Then you can skip the BS and tell me what I’ve got myself into. Let’s cut the crap and get down to it.”

“I’m good, thank you,” Menolly replied smoothly. “And yes, we can now ‘cut the crap,’ as you say.”