will be careful. I always am, whether you think so or not.”
“Don’t break his heart,” I tease. “I want to borrow his Mercedes someday.” I laugh and, exiting the elevator, push her toward her office.
I stop in the kitchen, make my tea, and then pop a stale doughnut hole into my mouth. And then one more f or good measure—two’s good luck. Wait…that’s three’s a charm. One more won’t hurt.
I head toward my own office, still chewing, and say a few hellos, and finally settle in. I’m already tired, feeling this is sure to be a long day, but I attack my e-mails with fervor anyway. Let’s see what forwarded messages from my friends were “quarantined” today by our IT staff .
By the time I get to the very last two, I feel a wave of sleepiness come over me. I decide that, if I turn my computer just right, nobody walking by will see me with my eyes closed for a few minutes. It ’s office policy to leave our doors open, otherwise I’d slam it shut and sprawl out on the floor.
As my eyes shut, it suddenly hits me what the smell was in Russell’s car—lilacs, a favorite of my mom’s.
After a long while, I feel like someone is standing at my office door, so I open my eyes and peek around my computer. Nobody there. Thank goodness , I think. All I need is for Evan to catch me sleeping. I’m sure that would go over really well at my next review: “Yes sir, I concentrate much better with my eyes closed.”
I turn to my screen to check those last two e-mails, and suddenly, my sight is blurry. I focus on the screen, and it seems to be getting worse, so I check my long-distance vision by looking out my door to the hallway.
Something is very wrong. The air is gray and thick, and my immediate thought is fire. I grab my purse and get up and walk to my door, yelling to a coworker whose office is next to mine, but I get no answer, and sniffing, smell nothing out of the ordinary.
“Hello?” I say questioningly to the haze before me. No response. “What the hell is going on?” I can ’t see where I’m walking, so I grab onto what I think should be filing cabinets outside my office, but feel tree bark instead. In feeling my way toward the reception area, my hand slides over something slimy—some kind of greenish-yellow ooze. It’s sticky. I bring it closer my nose and gag. It reeks like rancid eggs and vomit.
Then, a faint, indistinguishable noise rises in the distance—something that sounds, and feels, big. I don’t dare open my mouth. I only wait to see if I hear it again.
I do. This time it’s a little clearer—closer. Still I wait, and don’t move an inch. Again comes the sound, even closer. It’s someone speaking very softly, in a kind of rhythmic tone.
I slowly start to back up toward my office, but the speed of its approach accelerates as I move backwards. So I crouch down, hoping this thing won’t see me. I don’t recognize the voice, and I’m scared that nobody else is around. Maybe they ’re dead. Maybe I’m dead—he killed me.
At this level, I can see that the fog is about a foot off the ground, so I get on my hands and knees to see if I can see anything. And I do see something—something that could possibly be very big feet, yards in front of me, but I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept. When I squint, I see three feet—not two, but three brown, dirty, hairy feet, with toenails the size of bear claws.
Now I can hear it clearly.
“Kailey, Kailey, come and play with me. Kailey, Kailey, come and slay with me.”
Bile rises to my throat as I start crawling, crawling to my apartment door, my blood leaving its crimson trail behind me. I scratch at the door with my nails, and break one off as he drags me backwards, back through my own blood, making my attempt at grasping the hardwood floors impossible.
T he air is so thick I can hardly move through it, my lungs barely grasping enough oxygen. I realize I’m nearly to my office when I hear a thud. I stop and,
“Don’t break his heart,” I tease. “I want to borrow his Mercedes someday.” I laugh and, exiting the elevator, push her toward her office.
I stop in the kitchen, make my tea, and then pop a stale doughnut hole into my mouth. And then one more f or good measure—two’s good luck. Wait…that’s three’s a charm. One more won’t hurt.
I head toward my own office, still chewing, and say a few hellos, and finally settle in. I’m already tired, feeling this is sure to be a long day, but I attack my e-mails with fervor anyway. Let’s see what forwarded messages from my friends were “quarantined” today by our IT staff .
By the time I get to the very last two, I feel a wave of sleepiness come over me. I decide that, if I turn my computer just right, nobody walking by will see me with my eyes closed for a few minutes. It ’s office policy to leave our doors open, otherwise I’d slam it shut and sprawl out on the floor.
As my eyes shut, it suddenly hits me what the smell was in Russell’s car—lilacs, a favorite of my mom’s.
After a long while, I feel like someone is standing at my office door, so I open my eyes and peek around my computer. Nobody there. Thank goodness , I think. All I need is for Evan to catch me sleeping. I’m sure that would go over really well at my next review: “Yes sir, I concentrate much better with my eyes closed.”
I turn to my screen to check those last two e-mails, and suddenly, my sight is blurry. I focus on the screen, and it seems to be getting worse, so I check my long-distance vision by looking out my door to the hallway.
Something is very wrong. The air is gray and thick, and my immediate thought is fire. I grab my purse and get up and walk to my door, yelling to a coworker whose office is next to mine, but I get no answer, and sniffing, smell nothing out of the ordinary.
“Hello?” I say questioningly to the haze before me. No response. “What the hell is going on?” I can ’t see where I’m walking, so I grab onto what I think should be filing cabinets outside my office, but feel tree bark instead. In feeling my way toward the reception area, my hand slides over something slimy—some kind of greenish-yellow ooze. It’s sticky. I bring it closer my nose and gag. It reeks like rancid eggs and vomit.
Then, a faint, indistinguishable noise rises in the distance—something that sounds, and feels, big. I don’t dare open my mouth. I only wait to see if I hear it again.
I do. This time it’s a little clearer—closer. Still I wait, and don’t move an inch. Again comes the sound, even closer. It’s someone speaking very softly, in a kind of rhythmic tone.
I slowly start to back up toward my office, but the speed of its approach accelerates as I move backwards. So I crouch down, hoping this thing won’t see me. I don’t recognize the voice, and I’m scared that nobody else is around. Maybe they ’re dead. Maybe I’m dead—he killed me.
At this level, I can see that the fog is about a foot off the ground, so I get on my hands and knees to see if I can see anything. And I do see something—something that could possibly be very big feet, yards in front of me, but I have trouble wrapping my mind around the concept. When I squint, I see three feet—not two, but three brown, dirty, hairy feet, with toenails the size of bear claws.
Now I can hear it clearly.
“Kailey, Kailey, come and play with me. Kailey, Kailey, come and slay with me.”
Bile rises to my throat as I start crawling, crawling to my apartment door, my blood leaving its crimson trail behind me. I scratch at the door with my nails, and break one off as he drags me backwards, back through my own blood, making my attempt at grasping the hardwood floors impossible.
T he air is so thick I can hardly move through it, my lungs barely grasping enough oxygen. I realize I’m nearly to my office when I hear a thud. I stop and,
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