presence, the strangers to whom he spoke over the phone lines always seemed to hear him just fine.
• • •
“Seriously, man, don’t you ever get bored?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’d say all the time, from the sound of it. Do you always call customers sounding like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you six ways to Sunday. Seriously, you sound like you’re completely drained. How long have you been doing this?”
“Nine years.”
“Wow. I dunno, dude. That’s a long time to be making calls to strangers. Did you go to college?”
“I did. Haven’t thought about that in a long time, though.”
“Didn’t you have any goals? Any dreams?”
“Yeah. I wanted to be a writer.”
“I can dig that, man. Well hey, I gotta go, but look, dude, don’t waste your life there, okay? Go write something. Realize your dream.”
“Yeah,” Donovan sighed, “I’ll get right on that.”
“Cool, cool. Oh, and thanks for the introductory offer, but I don’t think I need to protect my identity right now. Peace.”
Click. Beep.
The script for saving a sale lingered on his tongue.
No one ever wants to protect their identity until it’s taken from them.
Donovan cancelled the automated dialer before it could place another call. He ran his hands through his hair. Dozens of calls, and not a single sale. At this point he did not care.
What could he do about the gray visions and his own untimely disappearance? To whom could he turn?
Michael crossed his mind. He imagined working with his brother to track down the cause of the phenomenon. Twin detectives. The notion stirred a dying ember of creativity in his mind.
Yeah, right.
Michael may have been his inspiration for Joe Hopper, but he was hardly empathetic. Michael Candle was more likely to laugh at his plight than help him. That was, of course, presuming his brother could even see or hear him.
Donovan put away the thought of calling Michael. He was desperate, but not
that
desperate. This was something he had to figure out on his own.
His body shimmered. The color drained from his vision. He caught a glimpse of the lanky, white figure standing between two cubicles along the far wall. It saw him, took a series of steps down the aisle, and was gone in a blink. The office bustled around him with full, vibrant life. He checked his watch, gathered his things, and made his way out of the building.
By the time he got to his car he’d forgotten all about his brother. Whatever was happening to him, he understood he would have to handle it on his own—and that, above everything else, frightened him most.
• 4 •
THE OMITTED
The days grew worse. He saw more of the tall, white things and their Lilliputian counterparts. On Wednesday night he happened to look outside and spot a lanky one on the sidewalk. He turned away from the bedroom window and looked at Donna, but in the midst of the gray sight she was nothing more than a dark specter shrouded in the blankets.
When he turned back he saw the creature beckon to him with a long, scrawny finger. Its mouth shivered open as it uttered a low moan.
It vanished as color returned. Donna was already fast asleep. He tried to snuggle next to her—after all, it was their night to make love and attempt to conceive a child. She rolled away from him. Defeated, Donovan turned on his side and fell into a troubling sleep in which he was haunted by nightmares of the white creatures. In his dream, they chased him down a long, gray staircase. It wasn’t until the albino things were upon him that he realized his efforts were futile. The staircase was really an escalator, delivering him straight into their pale, skinny hands.
Donovan woke Thursday morning drenched in sweat and twenty minutes late. Donna was already downstairs, and like the day before, she did not acknowledge his presence. When the gray sight overcame his vision, he saw the little white bastard sitting atop Donna’s
• • •
“Seriously, man, don’t you ever get bored?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’d say all the time, from the sound of it. Do you always call customers sounding like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you six ways to Sunday. Seriously, you sound like you’re completely drained. How long have you been doing this?”
“Nine years.”
“Wow. I dunno, dude. That’s a long time to be making calls to strangers. Did you go to college?”
“I did. Haven’t thought about that in a long time, though.”
“Didn’t you have any goals? Any dreams?”
“Yeah. I wanted to be a writer.”
“I can dig that, man. Well hey, I gotta go, but look, dude, don’t waste your life there, okay? Go write something. Realize your dream.”
“Yeah,” Donovan sighed, “I’ll get right on that.”
“Cool, cool. Oh, and thanks for the introductory offer, but I don’t think I need to protect my identity right now. Peace.”
Click. Beep.
The script for saving a sale lingered on his tongue.
No one ever wants to protect their identity until it’s taken from them.
Donovan cancelled the automated dialer before it could place another call. He ran his hands through his hair. Dozens of calls, and not a single sale. At this point he did not care.
What could he do about the gray visions and his own untimely disappearance? To whom could he turn?
Michael crossed his mind. He imagined working with his brother to track down the cause of the phenomenon. Twin detectives. The notion stirred a dying ember of creativity in his mind.
Yeah, right.
Michael may have been his inspiration for Joe Hopper, but he was hardly empathetic. Michael Candle was more likely to laugh at his plight than help him. That was, of course, presuming his brother could even see or hear him.
Donovan put away the thought of calling Michael. He was desperate, but not
that
desperate. This was something he had to figure out on his own.
His body shimmered. The color drained from his vision. He caught a glimpse of the lanky, white figure standing between two cubicles along the far wall. It saw him, took a series of steps down the aisle, and was gone in a blink. The office bustled around him with full, vibrant life. He checked his watch, gathered his things, and made his way out of the building.
By the time he got to his car he’d forgotten all about his brother. Whatever was happening to him, he understood he would have to handle it on his own—and that, above everything else, frightened him most.
• 4 •
THE OMITTED
The days grew worse. He saw more of the tall, white things and their Lilliputian counterparts. On Wednesday night he happened to look outside and spot a lanky one on the sidewalk. He turned away from the bedroom window and looked at Donna, but in the midst of the gray sight she was nothing more than a dark specter shrouded in the blankets.
When he turned back he saw the creature beckon to him with a long, scrawny finger. Its mouth shivered open as it uttered a low moan.
It vanished as color returned. Donna was already fast asleep. He tried to snuggle next to her—after all, it was their night to make love and attempt to conceive a child. She rolled away from him. Defeated, Donovan turned on his side and fell into a troubling sleep in which he was haunted by nightmares of the white creatures. In his dream, they chased him down a long, gray staircase. It wasn’t until the albino things were upon him that he realized his efforts were futile. The staircase was really an escalator, delivering him straight into their pale, skinny hands.
Donovan woke Thursday morning drenched in sweat and twenty minutes late. Donna was already downstairs, and like the day before, she did not acknowledge his presence. When the gray sight overcame his vision, he saw the little white bastard sitting atop Donna’s
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