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I had a thought,
That one day… I would wake up;
I would wake up and realize that my life had been a dream.
It would all make sense. I would finally feel… right.
That unexplainable feeling of disconnectedness, like I was tagging along on someone else’s life, like I was watching from the outside, quietly waiting for it to be my turn; I fostered an unrealistic wish that one day that feeling would disappear.
Chapter 1: Pancakes
Logan collapsed onto his mattress. Dim light emanated from the power outlets in the small kitchen and bathroom that joined his bedroom to form the U shape of his studio apartment.
He was fully clothed; In bed, he pushed off the heels of his sneakers with his toes, flicking them off to land beside him. They hardly made a noise on the hardwood paneling below, dropping only a few inches as his mattress was lying directly on the floor.
The fan above him whirred rhythmically. He stared up at it, flat on his back, his blanket cast aside next to him. Logan squirmed uncomfortably. No matter how he positioned himself it didn’t feel right. He pulled the blanket over his body, tucking it under him until he was wrapped up in it like a mummy, only his face remaining exposed.
His stomach growled, condemning his lack of energy and his failure to cook something for dinner. Rolling over, he extricated an arm from the blanket and grabbed his phone from the floor next to him. A black screen with the numbers 23:11 at the top shone dimly back at him.
No new messages. What did he expect? He unlocked the phone and opened Tinder for a second or two before closing it, exasperated. He opened the safari web browser and tapped the search prompt. He stared at the screen, blankly wondering why he'd opened it in the first place, then locked his phone and put it back on the floor.
A thought flitted through his head, one that he'd had countless times.
If only I could just wake up and it'd all be different. What would it feel like to want to live, not just floating in the abyss, waiting for the days to pass until I'm mercifully dead?
Logan drifted into a forlorn, anguished sleep. He awoke to the sensation of a cold finger pressing down on his lips, almost as if to shush him. He tried to open his eyes but could not. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move at all. Panic began welling up inside of him. The finger withdrew, and Logan felt a weight on his chest that he hadn’t noticed before starting to alleviate.
Denied his vision, Logan listened intently. All he could hear was the whirring of the fan, rhythmic, impassive and uncaring, unable and unwilling to help him. Suddenly, Logan found that he could open his eyes. He drew in a sharp gasp as his vision adjusted to the dim light, revealing a dark figure, cloaked in shadow, standing at the foot of his bed.
He tried to sit up, but he still couldn’t move. Panic welled in his chest, threatening to drown him, and he tried to open his mouth, tried to scream, but his jaw was locked in place, icy and frozen. All Logan could do was sit, helpless, and watch the figure, standing grimly like the angel of death, watching him.
His eyes darted to the door. Closed, locked. He was on the third floor of his apartment building. There were no balconies, and his window stayed closed and locked anyway. How had they gotten in? He struggled desperately, straining with everything he had, but his limbs were locked and rigid, stiff as a corpse.
A wave of weariness passed over him like a curtain being pulled across a stage. He fought desperately to keep his eyes open and the figure in sight, but he couldn’t resist the weight of his eyelids as they subjugated him to sleep’s dominion.
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Logan turned the alarm off with one hand, sitting up in bed. He was uncharacteristically cold in his apartment; It was the middle of July in Southern California, and he had made it his habit to sleep on a towel to avoid staining the sheets with sweat.
Rolling out of bed, he walked to the bathroom, slapping on the light as passed through the door and moved to the sink, where he doused his face with water. He lifted his head and looked in the mirror.
Logan was 23. He wasn’t terribly attractive, he knew, but he’d done well enough for himself and considered himself moderately handsome. His jaw was well defined, made more prominent by the lack of facial hair. His skin was pale but not uncomfortably so; mustering the energy to get to the beach, even though it was only a brief drive away, felt like an impossible task. His blond hair was short on the sides and a bit longer on top; today he brushed it lazily to a side, but often he left it alone to sort itself out.
Pale grey eyes stared back at him as he inspected himself. Water droplets clung to his face until he wiped them away with his hands. He was tired, moving and thinking slowly. Logan closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths through his nose, hands resting on the sink’s countertop. He opened them again, his gaze falling on the mirror; there was something in his eye.
He leaned in, rubbing at it with the butt of his hand. There, in the corner of his eye, something small and black was squirming. Was it a tiny baby worm? His hand tingled, the one he’d rubbed at it with. He turned it over to inspect the palm.
Tentacles protruded from the skin, an inch or two long, black, and dark violet, writhing. He held the hand away from him, frantically backing against the wall and shook it violently, shuddering. The tentacles undulated and twisted in the air, moving with a mind of their own. He turned and slammed his arm into the wall with vicious intensity several times, trying to crush the vile things between his hand and the drywall.
Hand aching, he turned it over and looked again at his palm. The skin was unmarked save for his callouses and some redness from the repeated impacts. There were no tentacles, no holes or breaks in the skin. Was he losing his mind? He’d never had a waking dream before, but he supposed they weren’t all that uncommon.
Forcefully pushing the thoughts from his mind and calming his still pounding heart, he walked slowly to the kitchen. He put on a pot of coffee — generic medium roast from the supermarket. Two mugs worth. Logan then stripped off the sweaty clothes from the day prior that he’d worn to bed and made his way back to the bathroom uneasily and turned on the shower.
Cold water poured over his head and down his shoulders as the scent of coffee wafted in from the open door. Logan closed his eyes as he lifted his face to the showerhead. The water soothed him. As he stood in the shower, Logan recalled the voice that had whispered his name. It was a familiar voice. A voice that the passing of ten years couldn’t wash from his memory.
Why had he heard that voice again, now, after so long? He remembered his reaction when he was a kid. He’d convinced himself he was making it up. He was making it up again. Probably. Logan turned off the water and sighed. He toweled himself off, looking in the mirror, apprehensively at first, as he did.
Working out was one of the few interests that stuck for him. It was a chance to be alone with himself, creating something that would last. He’d been at it for the past several years, his long, lanky body slowly transforming into one of hard, lean muscle. His progress was one of the few things in his mundane life that gave him pleasure. He got dressed.
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A short stack of protein pancakes, three eggs, scrambled and cheesy, and four strips of extra-crispy bacon lay on the plate in front of him. It was a firm, plain plastic plate, uninteresting but functional. Scored in dozens of places by shallow knife marks, it reminded Logan of himself.
Hang in there, buddy. Everything's gonna be alright.
Logan poked at the food with his fork, pushing a bit of egg back and forth. Slowly, he ate.
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Logan slipped into the car, pulling the door closed behind him. It was mostly clean save for a few crumpled energy drink cans stuffed in the center console. The leather seats of the 2014 Ford Fusion soaked up heat during the day, but in the morning, they were nice and cool. The windshield was a bit foggy, so Logan turned the AC on high and set it to defrost.
His car comforted him, it felt like an old friend; regardless of the events of the day, no matter how chaotic or challenging, the interior of that black sedan was his own personal escape, his own little bubble of reality. Many nights spent sleeping in the car had led him to regard it more as his home than whatever apartment or house he found himself living in at the time.
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A light rain drizzled on the street outside; the asphalt glistened, black top reflecting the wetness. Droplets fell and merged on the windowpane wall of Dave’s Tech and Repair, lazily traversing the glass. One shop among many tucked into a wall of storefronts that continued block after block, there was little to distinguish Dave’s.
Logan watched the taxi cabs as they passed outside, their tires throwing up little wakes of water where they disturbed the street. The store's pale-blue lighted sign flickered lethargically in the night, as if it had given up on luring in would-be customers.
“Logan, I’m going home. Lock up, will you?” a gruff voice called from the breakroom office behind him, accompanied by the shuffling and scraping of papers and furniture.
Dave.
“Will do, boss,” Logan replied.
Although they’d worked together for the last two years, their relationship had never grown past the sterile formality of employer and employee. Maybe he'd lost the ability, or motivation, to make meaningful relationships somewhere along the line.
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The cool air of the night and the AC that was always a bit too cold for his liking caused the hair on his exposed arms to stand up. He drew a deep breath and sighed. Raising his head, he straightened and looked around the shop. It was empty, and he was tired. Dave had left hours ago, and he was alone in the shop with two more hours to go.
The ringing of the bell attached to the wall above the door roused Logan from his reverie.
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“That’ll be nineteen thirty-five,” Logan said to the man at the counter.
The customer slid a 20 from his pocket and handed it to Logan. Logan tucked the clip-on Sony microphone into a plastic bag, grabbed the bill and opened the register to get change for the man.
“Sixty-five cents is your change, sir. Thanks for visiting Dave’s,” he said, pushing the bag and the coins across the countertop.
Logan hadn’t really been paying attention to the man but looked up at him when he said nothing in response or take the items.
He was dressed in business casual attire, brown slacks and a belt ending in a tucked in button up long sleeve shirt. Above the collar of his shirt was a living nightmare. A sea of tentacles, midnight black and purple, seethed and writhed in a roughly head-shaped mass. Like the bodies of snakes somehow held together, they seemed in constant motion, moving vertically, originating at the collar then migrating upwards, over the top of his head and entering again down the back of his shirt. The tentacles were parted in three places: a sinister mouth with tightly pressed bloodless grey lips, and two holes above it, within which shone calculating, emotionless violet eyes that glowed vibrantly as they bore into Logan’s skull. The face leaned in towards him. Those eyes, cruel and uncaring, were locked onto his. They were inescapable, drawing him in and squeezing him in a vice grip until he was sure he’d pop like a balloon.
A hand waving in front of his face snapped Logan out of the trance.
“You good there buddy? You look like shit."
The customer withdrew his face after seeing there was nothing wrong with Logan’s eyes and sneered in thinly veiled disgust.
“You really shouldn’t get high at work man."
He picked up the plastic bag and pocketed his change, turned, and left the store. The bell dinged on his way out.
Logan stood with his hands on the counter for support; his legs trembled, and he felt like he might collapse. He panted, drawing short, rapid breaths. Cold sweat drenched his back and beaded on his forehead, which he wiped away as he looked at the door to the shop where the man had left moments before.
Streetlamps cast dim yellow light on the sparsely populated sidewalk where the man was walking casually away, talking to someone on the phone at his ear.
What the fuck is going on?
He gathered himself and walked quickly to the door, flipping the hanging sign from open to closed. Locking the door, he returned to the counter and sat down hugging his knees. He’d never been this frightened in his life. Why was he suddenly hallucinating? The hideous face loomed in his mind, piercing violet eyes mocking him; It had seemed so real. Being alone in the shop had never bothered him before, but now he felt exposed and vulnerable. He resolved to finish up quickly and go straight home. He’d take a sick day tomorrow; Dave would have to manage without him.
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The door clicked behind him, cutting off the ding of the bell. He locked it, then turned away, hunching his shoulders against the cold. He was wearing the company T-shirt and khakis.
Should've brought a jacket.
He shivered, goosebumps rising on his arms. Logan looked over his shoulder as he walked down the sidewalk, noticing a surprising lack of pedestrians. Even in the middle of the night there were usually at least a handful of people about, but he saw no one. He felt utterly alone. Usually that would comfort him, but tonight he longed to be seen, to walk among others, to share in the protection of numbers.
What was he thinking? He just needed some uninterrupted sleep. Too many nights of late had been spent playing games on his PC until the early hours of the morning, and it was getting to him. He walked down the deserted sidewalk, comforting himself with similarly far-fetched explanations to his paranoia as he walked to his car parked some blocks away.
Though there were few people walking the sidewalk, cars drove past on the street next to him, and he tried in vain to take comfort in their presence. One honked, and he jumped from startlement.
He was nearing his car now; it was a block away, around the corner. He began to relax as he drew closer.
Cross the intersection up there, turn the corner, and go home. Simple.
In front of him, a streetlamp flickered, then went out. His heart started beating faster.
Should I cross the street? There was no crosswalk, not that he cared.
Stupid. I’m being stupid. It’s a lamp, stop overthinking and just walk.
As he passed the broken light, he slowed to a stop.
There was an alley to his right that he hadn’t noticed before. It was dark, shadowed by the tall buildings on either side; getting no illumination from the street, it was an eerie maw of blackness. He was drawn to it, the impenetrable darkness calling to him, holding his attention in an unbreakable grip.
He was rooted in place, unable to move so much as an inch. Panic overcame him, the feeling he had when he’d seen the face with violet eyes returning in force. He began trembling where he stood; every instinct he had screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t even close his eyes. Slowly, moving with inexorable promise, slimy, glistening tentacles crept from the shadows of the alleyway.
They slid towards him soundlessly; they slid on the ground and clung to the walls, covering every surface. They were thick cords of oily flesh, blue and black and purple. They moved along the walls and the floor, raising themselves up, their ends coming to rounded tips. Some were thick as tree trunks, others the girth of man’s torso, and still others thin like cords of rope.
Horrified, Logan began to take hurried steps backwards. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t turn his back on the monstrosity. He tripped; he’d stepped off the curb. Almost falling, he took large, stumbling steps backwards that sent him reeling into the street. Light shone brightly on the surrounding asphalt, and he turned, too late, as the headlights of a massive truck blinded him. His ears were filled by the screeching of tires and the blaring of the truck's horn, then silence.
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Mikey hovered above the body, inspecting it like a child kneeling over a line of ants; except that he was floating parallel above the corpse.
This is where they’d use the expression “flattened like a pancake,” but only portions of him are flat. That doesn’t make much sense.
Are pancakes really even cakes? Wedding cakes, those things are huge; there’s no way pancakes and those multi-level monstrosities are the same thing. Human language is so peculiar! Fascinating creatures. Fascinating. But I’m distracting myself! First day on the job and I’m woolgathering.
What a delightful term! Woolgathering. Why do they count sheep to fall asleep? What connection do sheep have to sleep? Or to getting distracted? And they’re not even counting real sheep, they’re creating fake sheep in their heads intentionally just to count them.
How is that not just forcing them to stay awake? Mikey mused; creating a small floating sheep in the palm of his hand, spinning it around and giving it a cursory inspection before, upon realizing what he was doing, tossed it into the air where it vanished with a poof into a white cloud of mist that quickly faded into nothingness.
The man standing stricken over the body, frantically dialing a number on his cell phone, didn’t notice.
Distracted, distracted! Silly sheep, Mikey thought.
He looked on as Logan’s soul, a mass of thick viscous substance exited his body and began to float away down the road. Mikey righted himself and drifted after it. The soul squirmed, darting frantically back and forth, changing colors in flashes between red, black, purple, and blue.
It expanded and contracted, the amorphous shape changing rapidly and continuously. The substance folded in on itself before bursting forth again and thrashing out with instantaneously generated tendrils that slashed the space around it, seeking the source of its pain. The air, or rather, the plane that Mikey and the soul inhabited, reverberated with its agonized shrieks.
The sounds of a dying soul, this is what they’d referred to. It’s worse than I imagined; worse than they could’ve possibly described.
None of this was detectable to the human who was still speaking frantically on the phone over the body below, but Mikey watched and listened forlornly. He raised a hand in the soul’s direction, beckoning to it, promising to ease its suffering.
Poor creature, come to me, let me ease your pain.
His first soul. Now Mikey realized the necessity, the gravity of his task and was glad to be doing it. Mikey emanated a pervading aura of calm and trustworthiness; his very presence instilling a sense of safety. The soul had been deteriorating since it had taken shape, slowly losing substance and becoming incorporeal.
Now a cloud of dark smoke that flashed internally with color like lightning in a storm cloud, it collected into a stable form that floated in place a few feet in front of Mikey. Its surface rolled like waves atop the ocean, its interior thunderous and dark. The soul’s shape no longer transformed or changed color holding steadily to a dark grey that belied its barely restrained pain; portions of the inside pulsed and flashed with black and red, revealing its torment.
Mikey floated forwards to meet the soul, outstretching his arm, and reaching towards it with a single extended finger. They touched, and everything disappeared.