The station is tucked away at the end of a strip mall. It looks more like a post office but the big storefront window says, “Portage County Sheriff’s Office” in a stylized font that screams law enforcement somehow.

We pull around back where there’s a small fenced-in impound lot and one other squad car. All the others are probably spread around town dealing with the aftermath of my last twenty-four hours.

Hell, it hasn’t even been that long. It’s just after lunch and I left the bar last night at nine-thirty. That seems like ages ago.

People always say that, don’t they? A bunch of stuff happens all at once and then, afterward, the life they had before seems like it might as well have gone on while Lincoln was president. All I can say is, yeah, it really does feel like that.

Officer Rigby parks his car and lets me out of the back. I keep waiting for handcuffs but they stay on his belt. He’s been quiet and I’m grateful because it’s let me think.

I’m pretty sure that telling the police everything is the way to go though it’s not without risk, I know. I’ll close my mouth and request a lawyer when I think things are going south.

Rigby opens the door for me and we go inside. The dark and light colors in my vision are more well-balanced here, though they’re almost static. Barely moving around at all. I have no idea what that means but it’s worth noting.

“They’ve asked me to put you in an interrogation room, Mr. Walker,” says Rigby. “I hope that’s okay. You want a sandwich or something? There’s a good place just down the block. We order in a lot from there. Deli stuff.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” But something else has caught my attention.

We’re in a short hallway standing in front of a door while Rigby fiddles with his keys, looking for the one that unlocks Room 1, as it says on a little plate by the door. I can see into the space of the former storefront. There are a few desks there and a counter. Beyond that is a waiting area. A cop stands there waiting on a big bearded fellow, hair shot through with gray streaks. Darkness swims all around him.

“That guy,” I say. “Who’s that?”

Rigby looks up from his keys and sees which way I’m looking. “Oh, Eddie? He’s in here every other day for something or other. I’m pretty sure this is the one.” He tries a key and sure enough, the door opens.

“He’s about to try something, I think,” I say. “Not sure what.”

“Eddie?” Rigby looks over at the man, squinting, studying him. “He’s a little strange,” says the officer. “But he’s never…. You know what? Why don’t you go on inside? I’ll be back. Hopefully with your sandwich.”

I go in and Rigby shuts the door behind me. I hear him lock it again. For all I know that’s standard procedure. There’s a small table with an office chair on either side, just like in TV and the movies. The colors in here are faint, almost invisible, I can still feel the dark around that Eddie guy though, even if I can't see it. It’s like a spot of cold where he was standing. I have no idea what the guy was up to or what he was going to do, if anything, but I decide to try to push some light out that way, just in case. I don't want anybody hurt and Rigby and Laura seem like good people.

The door opens and I pick my head up off my arm. I’ve fallen asleep again.

I’m hoping it’s Rigby with my sandwich but instead, two people come in and they’re not wearing uniforms. The man is tall, thin, well-dressed in a three-piece suit that just misses giving the impression that he's overdressed. He could be a butler or a mortician but I'm sure he's a detective. His expression was as blank as I’ve ever seen.

The woman is an African American in her forties. She has on a floral print, reddish brown blouse with a pinstriped suit, and she wears her hair straightened into wavy curls. Her smile is wide and genuine. Her eyes sparkle with intelligence.

“You have had a busy day!” says the woman. She takes the chair opposite me.

The man leans against the wall beside her.

I’m not sure what to say but I can’t go wrong if I simply agree, right? I start to do just that when the man says, “A busy two days.”

He could be referencing the house or my apartment or both. I’m sure they’re watching my reaction. It's time to start explaining.

“I—.”

But the man interrupts me again. “Where’s your phone?” he says.

“I lost it,” I say.

The man shakes his head in disgust but says nothing.

“Sorry about my partner,” says the woman. “I’m Detective Smythe and this is Detective Torelli.” She touches me lightly on the hand. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that you’re required to have your smartphone on you at all times,” she says.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

That was a new one.

“I left it at the bar last night. I—.”

Torelli cuts me off. “Which bar?” he says. “Where?”

I tell him but then remember that it’s now a dry cleaner’s. I describe the location anyway.

“I don’t remember a bar being there,” Smythe asks Torelli. She sounds genuinely perplexed.

Torelli shrugs.

Smythe turns back to me. “Now then,” she says. “Since you don’t have your phone, do you have a sponsor?”

I’m confused. “I don’t drink,” I say.

“I’m sorry?” says Smythe.

“I’m not in AA,” I tell her. “I wasn’t drinking. I don’t. History of alcoholism in my—.”

“Not that kind of sponsor,” says Torelli. “Jesus Christ, this guy.”

I wonder if Torelli is the Bad Cop or if he’s just normally like this. Smythe is trying for a motherly vibe, being soft-spoken and gentle. A natural Good Cop.

“Look,” I say. “You’re right. I’ve had a crazy time since last night. Do you want me to just tell you about it from start to finish? I'm willing. Oh, and no, I don’t have any kind of sponsor.”

Smythe has one of those big purses on her lap. It’s another folksy floral print. Pink roses on a gray background. She takes out a small plastic bag. She places it in front of me but keeps her index finger on it.

Inside is my library card.

Which is how Rigby knew my last name, I bet.

“You are Benjamin P. Walker?” Smythe asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“You have identification?”

I pull out my wallet and remove my driver’s license. It takes me a moment to get it free of its little compartment. I place it in front of her. She hands it back to Torelli who leaves with it.

“He slipped on it, didn’t he?” asks Smythe.

I look at her.

“The robber with the MAC-10,” says Smythe. “Those things have a tendency to go off like that. He slipped on your library card?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“He shoots his friend then shoots his other friend after you blow his neck away?” says Smythe. She’s a lot less motherly at the moment. “And you don’t have a sponsor?”

“I guess I don’t know what that is.”

“You don’t know what a sponsor is?”

“No.”

Torelli comes back in, a tablet in his hand. He hands it to Smythe.

Smythe’s sculpted eyebrows raise almost to her hairline. It’s a little forced.

“Seems you don’t exist, Mr. Walker,” she says. “What’s your real name?”

“I—.”

“Even the library card is fake,” says Torelli. “It’s a good fake but the library doesn’t have a record of him and the number on it is for someone else.”

“Who fakes a library card?” asks Smythe.

“I—.”

“Same guy who doesn’t know what a sponsor is and conveniently loses his cell phone,” says Torelli. “Same guy who’s been present at no less than four crime scenes in less than twenty-four hours where six people have died violently, a family kidnapped, a woman peeped on, and a store shot up.”

“A very. Busy. Day,” says Smythe, looking at me.

I decide to wait.

After a few moments, Smythe says, “Well?”

“I’ll just tell you what happened, okay?” I say.

Torelli shrugs.

Smythe gestures for me to begin.

I leave nothing out. I tell them about the bar, following the kidnapped woman to the strange house, and everything after that. I even tell them about the coat and the car I slept in.

They listen, only interrupting here and there to ask a clarifying question. They are very interested in my description of the house. When I’ve brought us all to the present time, I’m expecting to ask about the weird blotches in my vision. Instead, they ask me again about the house.

Smythe says, “So you entered through the garage, went through the kitchen, the dining area, and living room where there’s a door.”

I nod.

“You open that door and find the woman. You drag her through, then because you think there are more victims in the house, you call nine-one-one on her phone, leaving it behind, and then go back through the door, closing it behind you?”

“Yes.”

“The kidnappers are later upset by this. You closing the door.”

“It seemed that way.”

“You went into a second living room then?”

Torelli snorts.

I say, “It was a little odd, but yeah. Two living rooms. Two kitchens too.”

“There’s only one of each in the house now,” says Smythe but she doesn’t sound like she’s mocking me. She sounds like she’s onto something.

“What?” I ask.

Torelli looks interested too.

“You seemed surprised we were upset about your lack of a phone,” says Smythe.

“You said I’m required to have one?”

“Yes,” she says. “You are.”

“Since when?”

“Since twenty-four years ago,” says Smythe. “Longer than you’ve been alive if the dates on your driver's license aren't fake too.”

“But—.”

“Your fob for your building let you in?” says Smythe. “The key worked?”

“Yes.”

“There was no sign that anybody broke into the apartment,” Smythe says. “But we’re having somebody double-check.”

“The key worked,” I say again. “It’s my key.”

“But not your apartment,” says Smythe. “You didn’t recognize any of the things inside?”

“No.”

“What’s Nick’s last name?” says Smythe.

She’s all over the place. I’m deeply confused but I still think that this is the best way to get answers myself.

“Bonaventura,” I say.

Torelli is tapping that into his tablet. After a moment, he shakes his head.

“He doesn’t exist either?” I ask. “Same as me?”

Torelli shakes his head.

“Take my fingerprints!” I say. “I’m in the system. Had to do that for a job I took once. The FBI ran a background check.”

“We’ve already taken your fingerprints,” says Smythe. “From the bank and the store. You aren’t in the system.”

“But—.”

“The bearded man you say shot the kidnappers at the house,” says Smythe. “Did he say something to you?”

When I first told them that part of the story, my emphasis had been on the fact that I hadn’t shot anybody but that the Beard had done it.

“Right,” I say. “Sorry. Yes, he checked me out and told me he couldn’t help me. It was weird. He swore and said something. I think in Italian maybe? Then he did something else and said it was the best he could do. He left right after that.”

“What did he do?” asked Smythe.

“I have no idea. Well, before he did that it felt like everything was getting darker,” I say. “It’s hard to explain. I know that I’m not really seeing the dark. It’s not visually present, if that makes sense? I was only ‘seeing’ the dark and it was getting darker. Then, he did something and I could see the light thingies the same way.”

“The Italian,” says Smythe. “Do you remember what it was?”

“Something like, ‘malocchio?’ or something like that?”

Both Torelli and Smythe rock back in shock. Torelli leans down and takes Smythe by the shoulder.

She shakes her head. “You go,” she says. “Get everybody out.”

“But—.”

Smythe holds up a hand. “Go. Right now.”

Torelli leaves.

“What’s going on?” My voice sounds small in the little room.

“We’re evacuating the building.”

I stare at her.

Smythe says, “The last known person to be cursed with the Malocchio was crushed by a falling satellite during a professional hockey game in Toronto in 1997. Over a hundred people died.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh,’” says Smythe. “He’d been cursed not twenty minutes before that. Most don’t last that long. How are you even still alive?”