Have you ever had one of those days?

Mine seem to happen all too often, usually late at night when sleep evades me and the pain won’t subside. Tonight was no different.

With a sigh, I grabbed a coffee and turned on my laptop. Distraction can be a good way to take life’s annoyances off my mind and help me relax.

Who am I, well, nobody really; call me Del if you like. I’m just your average mug, worn down by hypocrisy, age, and a youth not too wild, but definitely misspent.

I wasn’t always the wreck you see now. Once, I could walk without a stick. Yay me! There was a time when I had more friends, real ones, not the fake fools who clutter my inbox and social media profiles. Once, my days didn’t revolve around which painkiller wouldn’t really do anything to ease the ever-present throb.

Damn.

‘Stop it, Del!’

I’m beginning to sound like some pathetic whinging mess. Life’s a shit, no denying that, but it’s not the shit you get; it’s how you make the best use of it that counts. Bloody hell, I’m bored; my mind is wandering down all sorts of paths I refuse to tread.

‘Now, where was I.’

Nothing interesting in my email. Looks like a Nigerian prince wants to give me a wedge of cash to sell his diamonds. That’s nice.

Good old social media. I see my local pub has karaoke coming up; maybe I will show my face and torture a few eardrums. Some family member I can’t remember had a kid. ‘Damn thing looks ugly as hell.’ They always do just after they get squeezed out into this unforgiving world.

This post looks interesting, hmm, life skills, a free course. I click, look. Nope, definitely not for me, and the page is so full of ads and banners. These days the internet is more links than information.

I start randomly clicking: scammers abound, ads for cars I don’t want and certainly can’t afford. “Find your perfect partner?” No thanks. ‘Nice tits, though.’

The internet is a deep, dark hole into dreams, and often nightmares. Promises and platitudes. A place where every desire and need can be pandered to, promised, and then whipped away faster than you can count your cash.

I sip my coffee. ‘Bah, cold.’ Ah well, it’s wet and bitter like a cold January morning. I can appreciate that. And time flies when you’re having fun, so they say.

Fun, yeah right.

OK, so what’s this next click going to bring me? Nothing apparently. I click again on another, nope: ‘404 error page not found’. ‘Got to love the net.’

Are You Good Enough, the next banner reads. Yeah sure, good enough to waste my nights in mindless clickbait and eye candy.

I click it anyway.

Anything to while away another minute or hour and take the throb in my legs off my mind. Well, at least it’s a decently designed site. A bit retro-looking, with quiet background music that reminds me of something I may have heard in a movie sometime.

I don’t normally stay on pages long. Just read a bit here and there, a quick scan, check out an image or two, and then move on to the next step along the path of distraction.

For some reason, this one held me. It was like a quiz and IQ test wrapped up in a game of pattern recognition and morally challenging riddles.

You know the one about a train on the track? Do you set the point to go right and kill one person or go straight on and kill five… Well, not that one but absolutely that sort of thing.

All in all, it was fascinating and fun. Something I had not found on the net for so long, as it had all got so predictable and bland for me over the years.

Yet even so, in my gut, there was something gnawing, and no, I wasn’t hungry. The remains of the sandwich I had for supper sat beside me, crust curling slightly as they dried out.

It was more a disquiet. You know when watching a movie, especially some horror, and you know the guy going up the stairs is going to get it? Yeah, that.

The site, the questions, and the puzzles seemed somehow almost intrusive and, at the same time, intuitive. Almost as if it knew me and was trying to understand me. Well, I guess it did ask if I was good enough. Maybe it was indeed trying to assess that. Good enough for what, who knows or cares? But my money is on a credit card application at the end of this or else an offer of a course in making millions if I ‘have the right stuff’. Who cares, I really don’t, and as I said, it’s been fun.

I looked towards my window. I could see that faint lightening of the sky that indicated dawn was soon approaching. With reluctance, I closed the laptop. I could always come back and finish another night, but for now, I needed to try and get some sleep.

For a change, it came easy to me. As my head settled into my pillow, I was able to snuggle down and roll over to sleep. The last thing I felt was a thump as Misty—my cat—landed on the bed to curl up next to me as she always did.

I awoke, body stiff but OK, reluctant to open my eyes. I knew it was well into morning, maybe later. The cat was scratching at the door to be let out, and my mouth felt like a fur rug had landed on my tongue to have a conversation with the back of my teeth.

With a groan, I smacked my lips and tasted the air. Must be Tuesday. Mondays had a sour, bitter taste to them, and this wasn’t it. Rubbing my eyes open, I looked at the clock. It was flashing green dashes rather than the time. Must have had another flicker on the power at some point. I know the radio had said something about solar storms being likely. Well, I’m glad it didn’t happen when my computer was on. Last thing I need is to fry some chips when it wasn’t for dinner.

I went into the bathroom and took care of business. My mouth felt better after I had scrubbed away for a minute or two, and so I headed for the kitchen. Coffee: the day can’t start until after my second cup.

In the back of my mind, something is nagging. I checked the cupboard. Nope, I had bread and milk, so it wasn’t that. I’m sure it would come to me, so no point worrying about it for now. Not bothering with breakfast, I took my coffee and sit down in my comfy chair—sigh, get up again and let out the damn cat.

OK, so what are the plans for today? Same as always, I guess. Catch up with the news and shake my head at the stupidity of the world we live in. I would have liked kids, but it never happened, and now, in my 50s, I am grateful that I didn’t. I will be long gone soon enough. It’s the youth of today I feel sorry for; what a damn sad, dangerous, and spoiled world they are inheriting. I’m not saying we had it all good. Heavens, no, life wasn’t bad, and we got by without the modern conveniences, but I don’t have rose-tinted spectacles either. Times were tough as people struggled to come to grips with the realities of the changing face of society. But it wasn’t better then, or now. Just different struggles for a different age.

I picked up my phone: no signal. That was odd, but it happens. I wondered if the net was down as well. No worries; I could check later. Shrugging on my shoes and grabbing my coat and stick, I decided to head to the shop to get something for dinner. As I open the door, the speed with which Misty flew back through told me next door’s dog had been tormenting her again. I would have to have a word or two with them if it carried on. Stepping outside, I head up the street. Something was off, but I couldn’t place it. It was quiet, really quiet. I live in a sleepy area of town, but even so. The distant rumble of traffic on the main road was missing, there were no birds. Hell, even the wind rustling the leaves was decidedly absent. I stop. This just wasn’t right, and I feel a distinct sense of unease starting to build.

‘What the fuck is going on?’ The only real sound was that of my own feet as they hit the pavement and the accompanying clack of my stick.

I decide to head on up the road, continuing on to my local corner shop. Ishmael, the shop’s hard-working owner, I don’t think he ever closed, would be chatty as always, and that would bring some normality back.

“Del, you really are losing the plot, my old mate,” I say to myself, as I shrug and carry on, softly chuckling to myself about the onset of senility and the perils of living the life of a self-induced hermit. I turned the corner, and ahead was the local shop. The place had been there since long before my time. When this was a village on the outskirts of the growing town, this, along with the pub, had been the centre of village life. Ishmael had owned it for about 20 years now and made it a microcosm of enterprise where everything was conveniently available at a price to make eyes water and bank managers weep.

I walk up to the door. Strange, the door was closed. Lights were on, but there was no sign of the man or his wife, who between them ran the shop.

I rattle the handle in hope, but it was locked tight, and even my knocking garnered no response. I hoped they are OK. Ishmael had had that nasty episode where he ended up in hospital for a couple of weeks last year, yet even then, the shop had been kept running by his nephew. The hair on the back of my neck prickles—this isn’t right. None of it.

Now, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but hell. Something very odd is going on, and I’m not feeling quite so blasé about it anymore. I look at my phone, still no signal. Mind made up, I turn and head, as fast as I’m able—hah, that’s a joke, by the way—back towards my home.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Yup, that’s right. Paranoia. I joke about encroaching senility, but maybe I really am losing my mind. As I round the corner and see my door ahead, it isn’t the only thing I see. Someone’s waiting, patiently it appears, at my gate. As I get closer, I see it’s a youngish—hard to tell these days—woman in a business suit, holding a briefcase.

I get closer, and she turns to face me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

She smiles.

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

Who the hell is she? How does she know my name? What’s going on today?

This whole day started screwy and is only getting worse as it goes on.

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

I go to push past her to get to my door. I really need to get fitter, and she doesn’t make it easy for me, but I’m rapidly getting pissed off with this whole damn day, and all I feel like doing is going back to bed and waking up to a normal Tuesday.

“Do you mind?” I say acerbically. She takes a step to the side, and I squeeze past, making sure to catch her shin with my stick on the way by. I open my door, slam it forcefully behind me, and, leaning against it, close my eyes and let out a long sigh.

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

My place isn’t large. To the left of the front door is my bathroom, and it’s my first stop. I splash cold water on my face and use the toilet.

Damn.

Opposite that is my kitchen, and just up the corridor to the left is my bedroom; to the right is my small but functional sitting room. I call my house compact, though I’m sure an estate agent would market it as “bijou.”

Right, coffee. I knew I shouldn’t have headed out before my second cup. That was just setting myself up for all sorts of bad vibes in the day, and today certainly fits the bill. As the kettle slowly comes to a boil, I let my mind relax and realise that it’s been working overtime. Must have been that cheese sandwich last night. I’m being irrational, that much is obvious. I’m sure Ishmael and his wife are OK, and tomorrow they’ll regale me with some crazy happenstance that made them have to close up for a couple of hours. As for the rest—well, it’s well documented how the mind can invent absurdities to fill gaps and create weird and wonderful shit out of pure, overexposed imagination.

‘You, Del, are a complete and total pillock,’ I say to myself with a rueful smile.

Coffee in hand, I wander through to the lounge. My coffee cup drops from my hands and smashes on the floor, splashing hot liquid across my foot.

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

Sitting primly on my desk chair, facing me, is the woman from outside, smile still on her lips, though I notice it doesn’t really reach her eyes.

OK, now I know I’m going mad. How can she be in here? She was outside, at my gate. My foot throbs with a mixture of its normal godforsaken pain mixed beautifully with the sting of hot coffee scalding my ankles. Yet she just sits there, watching me, unmoving and unmoved. I feel like some sort of specimen in a collection under her unwavering eyes.

“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.” I grab my phone, see there’s still no signal, and throw it across the room to land unceremoniously on my chair.

I’m an old-fashioned guy, so I still have a landline. I take a step to the sideboard and grab the receiver. No dial tone. What is wrong with today? I’m beginning to feel trapped in some sort of nightmare, isolated from reality and more alone than I’ve ever felt before.

“Are you leaving, or do I have to throw you out?” I shout angrily.

She hasn’t moved. She just looks at me calmly. If anything, I might even say there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes as she witnesses my frustrated anger. She crosses her legs and brushes an invisible speck from her suit jacket.

I’m a realist. I could probably no more throw her out than I could push past her outside. With a subvocal growl, I go and sit in my chair. I pull off my sodden shoe and still-steaming sock. My foot is an angry red. I’m going to pay for that later.

‘This had better not be a damn timeshare she’s trying to sell,’ I think.

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

She looks at me for a moment that seems to stretch forever, her eyes assessing, her face calm.

“As I said outside, Mr Axholm, I am here to help you.” Her voice is soft but holds a certain dignitas. She’s someone used to commanding respect without being authoritarian.

“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 smiles in reply. “But I am here to fulfil your contract.”

What? I’m confused. Contract? What contract?

“What are you talking about?” All anger slips away from me now, set aside in a mixture of throbbing burn and confused curiosity.

“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.”

Now I’m really confused. First off, I’ve been medically retired from my job for five years after the accident that left me disabled. I haven’t worked since, or looked for work. I’ve had no intention of doing so either. The compensation I finally won from the firm, while not massive, was enough to clear the mortgage on my home and, by living frugally, will see me through until I need a box to rest in. My only real commitment or family is my cat, so I’m OK and happy to live the remainder of my time without the stress of a job to consider.

Next and most important—what application?

I’m sure I’d remember if I’d applied for a job. This is definitely getting freaky. Am I losing my mind? I mean really, no joking here, but have I actually lost the plot? Hell, is she even here, or am I just talking to my damn cat? I glance around. Nope, there’s Misty, curled up in that cardboard box she prefers over every fancy bed I’ve ever bought her. OK, so the woman is here. I shoved against her outside, so she isn’t some mind-fuck illusion. She’s watching me calmly now, her eyes still assessing, as if she can see and hear every step of my internal monologue.

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

“Certainly, Mr. Axholm. I am Menolly Swift,” she replies in her soft, firm voice.

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

She smiles; this time, it reaches her eyes briefly. “Of course, Del.”

“Now,” I say, “I think I need some answers. For a start, I haven’t applied for a job to anyone, and the last time I signed a contract was to get a new phone three years ago.”

“Certainly. Let me try to clear things up for you,” says Menolly.

“Last night, you made an application and signed the contract for your initial role suitability assessment.” She smiles. “You passed.”

“Hold on,” I interrupt, “I never signed anything. Certainly not any job application or contract.”

She lifts her briefcase from the floor, quickly spins the combination, and opens it on the table. From where I sit, I can’t see inside, but what the heck, I’m sure she’ll show me whatever she feels necessary. After all, so far, this all seems very much her show.

Removing a notepad, she swipes through some pages.

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

“The what?”

“You ticked the box to accept, Del.” She sighs quietly, adding to herself, “You humans never bother to read the T’s & C’s.”

‘What was that? Did she say humans?’ Nah, I must be hearing things. With the way this day has gone, that’s not really surprising.

“So I ticked accept—doesn’t everybody? So what, do tell, have I got myself into?”

She puts away the notepad and instead pulls out a stack of papers—printouts that are very clearly from last night’s games and quizzes.

She hands them to me. The top sheet is startling, to say the least.

It’s a summarised biography. My full name, date and place of birth, mother’s and ‘father’s’ name; damn, I never knew who he was. Well, there’s a corker. Mum never told me, and she’s been under the ground for a long time now. She’d turn in her grave if she knew I had this information.

I have to chuckle. Who would have thought, my old schoolmaster, the dirty dog.

‘Stop getting distracted, Del.’ The sheet is full of all sorts of personal details: jobs I’ve held, all the places I’ve lived, an old library fine for a book I lost years ago.

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

They certainly know too much for this to be some sales gambit or scam. I can’t even say it’s a hallucination. Everything feels more real than I’ve ever known before. They know things. Things I have never shared and other stuff even I never knew. Only the accuracy of the statements I know to be true lends credence to the veracity of those I had no idea about.

I wonder if Mr Willhelm ever knew that I was his bastard son, sharing a class with his daughter as he tried to cram Geography into our wandering brains. Heck, I nearly asked her out on a date once, and then she met the guy she married. Last I heard, they’d moved to New Zealand or some other far-flung place. Mr Willhelm died during COVID a couple of years back. Shame really; he was a nice guy and a good teacher. The rest of the papers are from the website last night: evaluations, scores, lots of graphs and charts.

“So I had some fun passing a sleepless night on your website last night. Your information on me is disturbingly scary, and you say I’m now in some sort of selection process.”

I look at my broken mug, I need coffee to put down my throat and not over my foot.

“Do you want one? Then you can skip the BS and instead give me the what, why, and how of all this. Let’s please just cut the crap and start getting down to what the fuck I’ve got myself into.”

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