A knock raps at the door at eleven. I'm up, ready to go already, squeezing out every penny for what I pay for. These Black Shucks have run away with enough of my money. Every chance they get, they squeeze harder to keep people down. It is almost impossible to be successful anymore. My father and I run a store in town, reselling what people lock down in metal lockers and forget about. Or can't afford to keep up with. It's not very noble, but we keep it classy nonetheless. I have more family urns with no way of returning them or knowing their owners' last wishes than I'd care to admit.
Can't throw them in the trash. What kind of person would I be then? No better than the rest.
Priceless artifacts: art•vintage•handmade, and I couldn't taint it by not respecting someone's memory. I keep them all to myself before they land in a fire or some landfill. This is my moral compass. It's better to know the person you're reading more closely than just their imagery. This topic will persist. I am a unique individual with a pistol and a pen. A walking contradiction. A paradox in Nike shoes arguing about the ill effects of sweatshops. I play along with your fantasies, but I'll be damned if I don't point them out.
I walk out with my bags. For another moment, I peer through sunglasses into the horizon. The world is too bright and not bright enough. Drowning in the Ram 1500's black paint, I open the driver's door and feel the same heat wave as the 20th century. The fraying cover of the steering wheel brands my palms 'Welcome_another day of glorious capitalism' as the Ram's engine turns over with perfection, a loyal behemoth ready to haul this unwilling accountant downloaded with the final accounts of people's lives. Their chronicles tend to land in my lap; I respectfully learn their sagas.
The A/C sputters, then blasts, a gust of cool relief that combats the oppressive Indiana sun. It's the kind of heat that makes the asphalt dance with illusions, turning the world into a wobbly, distortion_mirage. The air only cools if the truck is in motion, a wiring issue I have yet to unravel. Kinda like looking in the mirror after three days of no sleep and too many uppers_you forget to blink•blink too much, unable to find that sweet spot.
The phone rings. Rings again. I answer the thing. I hate cellphones. The caller is Rain, almost on cue, a common customer in the shop. A young woman. Beatrix Macabre had committed suicide. She left me her storage unit? The phone drops. What an odd acquisition; we only talked in passing. She was a horror poet•writer, and honestly, her work was a little darker than I chose to read. I am no judge of artistry; in my opinion, she was a bit heavier than necessary. But she was a walking juxtaposition, dressed Gothic•pinky up•Hollywood while writing extreme macabre.
Many found her comical and witch-like•intimidating, which she happily hammered home every Halloween. She kept to herself; it was a town rule that outsiders are met with that same side-eye as the nun in the daydream. She lived in the B-£-€. A shitstain on a map you'd miss if you dropped your phone and bent over to grab it.
The place is closed; it's a day for sending out packages. Slowly. Depending on inventory, the shop had its moments. We wouldn't be doing it otherwise. A brand-new business, not even a year old, and we are still working out the kinks. Not losing money, but barely breaking even. We were floating the canoe with close calls here and there, but the ship won't sink. We ride our chances and go down with our boats until we have to pull the cord due to the popping in our ears from the pressure of the deep. Stubborn. Human. We never give up once we start something. Back to the hotel. The bleach.
The thoughts creep in. No one had ever put me in a suicide note before. It is an odd feeling.
My eyes flutter closed.
When they open, nachtmerrie. Not unusual for me; these are usually my favored stories. But this one was different. More real. Japan. The Tokyo glow. A siren's dirge. People running. I stare to see what they're running from: a tsunami. It strikes me. In the bubbles for a moment_a great white_chomps its teeth. In my mind's eye, the video slowed; all I saw were its teeth closing, centimeters from my face, before being ripped back into full speed as the current takes me away. I wash up on a pier. Fog. Snow. I could feel the cool breeze on my flesh. At the end of the pier, a woman in a kimono dress sprints at me. Floral patterns. Soaking wet. "Tasuketekudasai!"
All I could do was nod. "Go, I will follow."
She turns with a twisted smile, her neck popping multiple times as her head does a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn to stare me in the face. "Doko e itte mo moeru. Watashitachi wa mina moeru. Betsu no sekai e no tobira ga shimaritsutsu aru." Her hand points to the right. There she was_the same woman, drowned. Face blue, gaze glassy. I looked back, and the apparition who led me here was no longer in my pathway. I reach in my pocket, a lifeline to make sure I was in a dream. Cigarettes, dry. A lighter that works perfectly. I lit one up. No taste. "Let's see where this dream goes, shall we?"
Cigarette in my lips, I pick up the body. I could almost feel her weight. I sprint into the fog. It was a series of bridges over water, connecting in a surreal, geometric maze. As if inside a Picasso painting, I ran, looking for the meaning behind this specter's strange words. Stumbling upon a candle_set her down. The flame flickered blue, melting the wax into a spiral. Then I woke up. Strange. Online, the translations were just as bizarre.
Tasuketekudasai_Help please (basically).
Doko e itte mo moeru. Watashitachi wa mina moeru. Betsu no sekai e no tobira ga shimaritsutsu aru_No matter where you go, it burns. We all burn. A door to another world is closing.
What an intriguing mental production. For the first time in my life, I left that hotel at eight A.M. What did you leave me, passing stranger. The water was coming down in sheets, iron curtains, as if nature was forcing me to drive through the unknown toward this big discovery. That wave with the shark flashed in my memory bank. This stage set from 'Queen of the Damned' and a front-row seat•ticket handed to me on a notebook containing the final words this person breathed in ink: an edict giving me her belongings. The controls were icy beneath my fingertips. I threw on the flashers. Let the deities know I was on my way, and nothing was going to stop my curiosity. My hands tightened. For a moment, I felt a pulse beating in my veins.
Patience is a virtue. Time is money. Worthless is priceless, and maybe here was a dollar worth saving. I look to my passenger seat. A woman with mountain lion eyes, Beatrix Macabre, a Glock to her temple•smiling with razor-sharp teeth. "Bang!" Her words and the pistol spoke in symmetry. Crimson butterflies fill the cab. I lose control. The flip wakes me. A rap at the door. My eyes find the clock: eleven. Now, that is fascinating. A dream within a dream. I lit a smoke to taste it, and the smoke alarm blared. Great. A $100 fine. This is going to be an interesting day, I do believe.
I step out; the rain is the same. The translation is the same on my phone screen. Goosebumps. A head tilt like a parakeet. What song was the universe trying to sing this morning? Good mourning or good luck? I rev up my truck. I'm the voice of the voiceless, the scream of the silenced, the fire in the belly of the beast. Late Gökotta. The highway to hell opened•has swallowed this narrative. Let's open this unit and see what's in store for us. I arrive at the fence, use the passkey to get in. Combination. The lock drops. Every wing flap matters. A leaf lands on the lake. Up top, a small ripple; you think it fades, but underneath, you change something forever. Fish flinch. They come to the disturbance. Small ones could be eaten. That leaf had an unseen impact.
Everything needs to happen; it is what we hold•on•to(o) that truly is interesting. But there are commodities many hunt for. Money. Across the board, people hunt for things to sell. What is worth that yummy tummy green? Snickers. That sweet candy. Too funny. Statements in quicksand. Light breeze. Mångata. In their eyes of mercury.
The door rolls up into the ceiling. Immediately, an awful feeling creeps in. The unit is empty but for three chests placed in a triangle pointing to the rear. I squint for a moment to let my vision adjust. A smile edges across my face like a cut from a knife gutting a deer carcass. What is this? I walk quickly to the first box. When I opened it, an animatronic shot out of the crate, knocking me down and sending me into a panic as it tried to climb towards my face. Then it stopped. Anger swells in my body.
Fucking bitch. Laughing at me already, isn't she? First my sleep, now you scare the shit out of me while I'm awake? I sling the Michelangelo machina aside. Tech would be proud of that puzzled cog. She built this thing from pulverized robots just to fuck with me? Laughter erupts from me. This has to be the most unique storage unit I have ever had the luxury of investigating. The type of story someone responds to with, "Bullshit."
My phone beeps with a text: 'Anything worth anything?' As I open the remaining two chests, which weren't rigged, I see one has collectibles_a very rare collection of expensive items in mint•like new condition. A paper on top is marked '4 Greed'. The other had a note that said 'My Life', not in black chicken scratch like the other, but in crimson cursive.
Everything holds meaning to a poet; like a samurai pouring tea, the movements are fluid and with purpose. She has managed to pique my interest. The phone went back in my pocket. It deserved no response.