Suspense

Death Wish

Posted on by jamiegregory

[15 minute read]

Content warnings: violence, global pandemic, and death.

***

Out of habit, I reached for my nightstand to tap the snooze button, but my arm, feeling slack and heavy like a hunk of meat, remained anchored by my side. The alarm wailed, each blast growing louder, until I was certain that my eardrums would surely explode. My forehead broke out in a cold sweat as I squirmed, unable to move.

Open your eyes, I thought, begging my heavy eyelids to open. When they did, a stranger’s face was hovering above mine, staring at me. The blaring alarm abruptly stopped. 

The man was wearing a white lab coat. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes. “Dr. Kuran, Specimen F216 has recovered.” 

My eyes darted back and forth taking in my surroundings. I was enclosed in a pod with a clear glass lid. Ligatures bound my wrists, ankles, and forehead — I strained against them like a guard dog at the end of his chain. 

A woman, presumably Dr. Kuran, approached and glanced into my pod.

“So he has, and much faster than the others.” She scribbled something onto the clipboard she was holding. “Let’s begin the rehabilitation process. But go slow this time. We can’t afford any more casualties.”

Casualties? 

“Where am I?” I cried. “What’s going on? Let me out of here!” They stared at me with indifference.

It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, willing the pod to disappear and be replaced with…. Replaced with what? What was before the pod?

A tidal wave of panic washed over me as I thrashed against my bindings. 

“Looks like we’ve got a feisty one on our hands.” Dr. Kuran smirked. “You better sedate and ease him into rehab,” she said dismissively, walking away. 

The lid of the pod opened. 

“Get me out of h—” I shouted, my screams cut off by her assistant shoving an oxygen mask onto my face.

He raised a syringe, tapped it a few times to release the air bubbles, and inserted the needle into the crook of my arm. My veins turned ice cold as everything faded to black.

***

“Welcome back, F216. Let’s try this again, shall we?” Dr. Kuran said, peering into my pod. 

She slowly lifted the mask from my face. 

“Welcome back? I still don’t know where I am. Is this a hospital?” I croaked. “And why are you calling me F216?”

My name….What’s my name? Why can’t I remember my name?

“This is not the time to ask questions. There’s a protocol to follow. Right now we need to focus on rehabilitating you.”

“Rehabilitating me from what? What happened to me?”

I searched the dark abyss of my mind looking for clues but finding none. Was it a car crash? Was I in a coma? Abducted by aliens? What the hell happened to me?

She sighed, a half-smile spreading across her clenched lips, then diverted her gaze to her clipboard and recited, “So far we’ve had a 60% success rate with long-term memory recovery across all specimens but it takes time.” 

“Specimens? What are you talking about?” I pleaded. 

“Your brain is too fragile to comprehend the truth right now but you’ll get there soon enough,” She said, laying the clipboard aside. “In the meantime, let’s focus on physical therapy. Studies have shown that intensive physical therapy improves the memory recovery process.” She began slapping electrodes on my arms, legs, and abdomen. “You’ve spent a significant amount of time in this pod and your muscles have atrophied. You’ll be walking around in no time and then we can move on to cognitive therapy.” Without warning, she shoved an NG tube into my nostril, causing me to gag as it slid down the back of my throat and into my stomach. “We learned the hard way, when the first few specimens recovered, that this therapy is quite painful so you’ll be sedated for a few months until your muscles recover. You can thank me later for that.” 

“A few months? Please, tell me—” She lowered the oxygen mask onto my face, stifling my plea. 

My entire body seized in agony as the electrodes shocked my weak muscles. A muffled scream fogged up the inside of my oxygen mask.

She quietly shushed me, sliding a needle into my arm. “Sweet dreams, F216.”

My body surged a few more times before my jaw went slack, my fists unclenched, and I began to wander the endless labyrinth of my mind. 

***

“Hello again, F216. How do you like the new digs?” Dr. Kuran asked, removing my oxygen mask as I came to.

My chin rested heavily against my chest as my sluggish eyes peered around through my eyebrows. I had graduated from the pod to a small white room containing nothing but a bed, a toilet, a windowless door, and the chair I was strapped to. 

“Your physical therapy is coming along nicely so I thought we’d give your brain a little workout today.” She said as she finished checking my vitals. “All you need to do is sit back, relax, and let the computer program do its magic.”

She raised a headset over my head and said, “Now, you may feel a little discomfort as the probe penetrates your—”

A searing pain shot upwards through the base of my neck like someone had pierced my skull with a power drill. Visors lowered over my eyes. Dr. Kuran and the white room disappeared and everything went black. Instinctually, I tried to raise my arms to rip the headset off, but my limbs wouldn’t budge and it wasn’t just because they were strapped to the chair. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I tried to wriggle free, to scream, to do anything but I remained paralyzed as if the headset had disconnected my brain from my body leaving me locked in a trance.

A photo of a man appeared in the black sea of my mind. He was young and vibrant. He had thick, tousled brown locks, amber eyes, and a beaming smile. 

Initiate session one, said a feminine robotic voice inside my head. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one concluded.

I was bursting at the seams with questions but I remained in a daze until Dr. Kuran removed the headset with a sickening metallic scraping noise as the probe was extracted. 

“What the hell?” I shouted, straining to break free from my restraints, desperate to assess the back of my neck. 

The muscles in my forearms pulsated, the veins stood at attention, and the velcro straps around my wrists made an audible ripping sound as I tried with all of my strength to dislodge them, but it wasn’t enough. With a throbbing head and pounding heart, I tired quickly. 

“Cognitive therapy is very taxing, especially the first few sessions.” Dr. Kuran said, setting the headset aside and turning back to me with a loaded syringe. “Your brain needs time to recover, like a sore muscle. A little nap should help.”

***

The white room swam into view. A blurry figure approached cradling something in their hands as the room began spinning. A rumble of nausea bubbled up from my hollow gut as my head pounded out a drumbeat. I gagged, then swallowed the acidic bile. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Dr. Kuran came into focus as she lifted the headset. 

“No, wait—” I screamed, thrashing against the restraints.

“Don’t worry, the nausea is normal and temporary.” The headset hovered above me like a halo. “Your brain is experiencing a major hangover right now. The sooner you complete your cognitive therapy the better so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Please, don’t—” 

Probe, agony, visors, darkness.

The photo of the young brawny brunette floated into view once again. 

Initiate session one review. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one review concluded. Do you have any questions before we proceed?

I don’t understand…what do you mean my physical age has been reset to— A new voice interrupted my thought.

DON’T LISTEN TO THEM. LISTEN TO ME. I’LL TELL YOU THE TRUTH. 

What? Who are you? What do you mean?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…buffering…buffer—

WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME SO LISTEN CLOSELY. YOU NEED TO FIND A WAY TO ESCAPE — 

Escape? How can I possibly escape? When I’m not strapped down to this chair, I’m sedated. I don’t even know where the hell I am. Who are you? How are we even having this conversation?

JUST FIND AN OPPORTUNITY TO ESCAPE BEFORE THEY HAVE A CHANCE TO SEDATE YOU. YOU’RE SMART, YOU’LL THINK OF SOMETHING. COME FIND ME AND I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING — 

Where are you?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…

Hello? Are you still there? What the hell is going on?

Initiate session two. Upon completion of your rehabilitation you will return to your residence in…New York City. We’re sorry to inform you that you have no next of kin. A case worker will be appointed to coordinate aftercare as needed. In the event that—

LIES. THOSE ARE ALL LIES. YOUR FAMILY IS OUT THERE WAITING FOR YOU. DON’T LET THEM OVERWRITE YOUR LIFE. COME FIND ME. 

Where? How do I find you?

LOOK FOR THE SIGN THAT SAYS, ‘CLONE BLOCK’. 

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Session two aborted.

“Hmmm the program must have malfunctioned,” Dr. Kuran said, turning her back to me as she rested the headset on her computer cart. “I’ll have the IT department analyze the session transcript and—” She was interrupted by an alarm. 

“Paging all personnel to the recovery pods.” A voice announced through the intercom. “A new specimen has been recovered. All personnel please report to the recovery pods immediately.” 

“This is Dr. Kuran…can anyone hear me?” She shouted into the communication device clipped to her lab coat. 

This is my chance. It’s now or never.

I contorted myself in the chair until I could slowly remove the velcro strap from my right wrist with my teeth — the alarm overpowered the sounds of my escape. In a matter of seconds, I freed my other wrist and both ankles. I grabbed the loaded syringe from the tray next to the chair.

“I’m in the middle of a cognitive therapy session. Let me just get the specimen sedated and then I’ll be right there.”

Just before she turned around, I jammed the syringe into Dr. Kuran’s neck. Within seconds she crumpled to the floor. I stumbled to the door, pried it open, and peeked into the hallway. Empty.  

After a few twists and turns through stark white corridors bathed in harsh fluorescent lighting, I spotted a plaque next to a door that read, Clone Block. My heart pounded along with the blaring alarm and I wondered how long it would take them to find Dr. Kuran. Grasping the door handle, I glanced up and down the hallway. Seeing no one, I slipped inside. 

A long concrete aisle, lined with jail cells on either side, stretched away from me. Dozens of outstretched hands reached for me through metal bars as the prisoners shouted, competing for my attention. About halfway down the aisle, I spotted a limp body on the floor. I walked toward it — a guard, unconscious, with blood slowly pooling beneath his body. The crimson liquid inched its way toward a toothbrush that had been crafted into a shiv.

“Frank!” Someone yelled nearby.

I stared, mesmerized by the slowly expanding puddle. The alarm halted. 

“Frank, c’mon man. We don’t have much time.” The voice was coming from the cell next to the guard’s body. 

“Is he—?” 

“Dead? Probably. But in case he isn’t, we need to hurry if we’re going to have any chance of getting out of this place.”

I stole my eyes away from the guard and stepped closer to the cell where the prisoner had a white-knuckled grip on the bars. His desperate amber eyes looked back at me from beneath disheveled brown hair. The photograph from the cognitive therapy sessions flashed in my mind’s eye, a replica of the man standing before me.

“The photograph….Who are you?” I said, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the guard’s body. “They said it was me—but you look—”

“I can explain everything later, but there’s no time for that right now. It’s just a matter of time before they realize what we’ve done. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you? I feel like I’m losing my freaking mind here. Is this even real? How do I know I’m not still wearing that headset or laying in some pod right now?”

“Just listen to me.” He slammed his fists on the bars. “This isn’t a hospital or a rehab facility, it’s something much worse than that.” He pointed at the guard sprawled on the ground. “Now, grab those keys from his belt and open this cell so we can get the hell out of here, and then I’ll explain everything. I’m the only person here you can trust.”

Reaching down with trembling fingers I fumbled with the key ring on the guard’s belt.

“Hurry up,” The prisoner shouted, startling me. 

I dropped the keys in the pool of blood. “I’m trying!” I scooped up the keys which were now dripping with blood. After several attempts, I found the right key, and the cell door creaked open. 

“Now what? How do we get out of here?” I panted.

“That’s for me to find out. I’m sorry, but there’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.” He said, shoving me into the cell. 

“Hey, what the—”

He sucker-punched me in the nose, snapping my head back. I toppled onto the cot as he slammed the cell door and locked it. His footsteps running down the aisle to the cheers and pleas of the other prisoners grew distant as everything faded to black.

***

A nurse hovered over me. I blinked repeatedly trying to clear my vision. My eyes darted around taking in my new surroundings. It appeared to be a hospital room. A contestant was spinning the wheel on The Price is Right on the small TV mounted on the wall. I glanced out the window — sunlight was filtering through the clouds as cars maneuvered through the parking lot below.

“Welcome back, Mr. Winfred.” The nurse said with a kind smile.

“What? That’s not my name….Where am I? I thought I was….How did I get here?” I said, groggily. 

“You’re in Union General Hospital. You’ve been here for a few weeks.” She patted my arm.

“Where’s Frank?” I asked, panicked. 

“Like I told you before, there’s no one here named Frank.” She averted her gaze and fiddled with my IV port. “Hallucinations are a common symptom in the late stages of the virus.” 

“Virus?”

“Mr. Winfred, you’re running out of time to make a decision. I’ll fetch Dr. Harbaugh to review your options again,” She said, gesturing to the paperwork scattered across the tray in front of me. 

She started to leave the room, then doubled back and grabbed something off a side table. 

“I almost forgot,” She said, passing me a newspaper. “I know how much you like your daily paper.”

As she left the room I unfolded the newspaper and read the front page headline.

Controversial Experimental Technology Underway to Upload Brain Data into Clones of the Immune as Virus Deaths Climb.

I shifted my attention to the two stacks of papers on the tray: A Do-Not-Resuscitate Order and an agreement to participate in the Brain Data Transfer Clinical Trial.

“Good afternoon, Charles.” Dr. Harbaugh said as he crossed the room to sit in the chair beside my bed. 

“Charles? First, a voice in my head tells me my name is Frank and now you’re calling me Charles. What the hell is going on?”

Dr. Harbaugh removed the medical chart from the foot of my bed and handed it to me. “Let’s review the facts again, Charles.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose while I flipped open the manila folder.

Name: Charles John Winfred

DOB: February 23, 1962

Age: 62

Date of admission: April 24, 2024

Diagnosis: Neocryptic Virus

I glanced at the date in the newspaper, May 15, 2024. There was a headshot photo paperclipped to the chart — a man with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow.

“Give me a mirror.”

Dr. Harbaugh replaced his glasses and squinted at me. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see myself.”

He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and held it up to my face with the camera in selfie mode.

Piercing blue eyes stared back at me. My face, looking much more gaunt than in the photograph, was covered with silver stubble. I traced the scar on my eyebrow with my index finger and handed the phone back to him.

“What happens if I don’t do the clinical trial?”

He returned the phone to his pocket and the chart to the foot of the bed. “You will succumb to the virus in three to six weeks.”

The silence between us was interrupted by someone being paged over the intercom system.

“Charles, let me remind you that the clinical trial offers you the opportunity to preserve your mind. This virus has ravaged your body but you can have a new lease on life once your brain data is uploaded into a suitable host.”

 There’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.

He glanced at the newspaper. “Despite what you’ve heard from the media, this technology has undergone rigorous testing and the results are very promising.”

“Thank you for the information, but I’ve made my decision.” 

I signed my name, Charles Winfred, at the bottom of the Do-Not-Resuscitate Order.

***

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Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2024

A Prophecy Divided

Posted on by jamiegregory

[20 minute read]

Content warnings: violence, kidnapping, and death.

—

January 13, 2023 

11:52 pm

Jess and Alex stood beside each other squinting into the inky blackness of the alley that stretched before them like a gauntlet, waiting for their eyes to adjust. Halfway down the alley, a single flickering light was mounted on the dilapidated brick building’s exterior. Alex glanced up at the clear night sky. At least there’s a full moon tonight. Thank God for that, he thought. The moonlight shone down, illuminating various obstacles throughout the alley: frozen puddles, dumpsters, and fire escapes.

Choppy bursts of steam plumed from their mouths as their nervous breaths collided with the brisk night air. The crisp smell of impending snow made a valiant, yet unsuccessful, effort to overcome the pungent aroma of dumpster rubbish.

Besides the occasional car horn beeping in the distance and the hissing and gurgling sounds escaping from the sewer drains, the alley was quiet in a way that made the little hairs on the back of their necks stand at attention. Overcome with nerves, Jess unholstered her cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans, holding it at her side ready to dial 911 with the speed of a gunslinger.

A critter scrambled out of one of the dumpsters causing the lid to open briefly and then slam shut. Jess jolted backward, dropping her cell phone which clattered to the pavement. She groped for the lifeline frantically in the dark. “That’s it,” she said once she located it. “I’m calling the police.”  

“Stop.” Alex hissed, jerking the phone out of her trembling hands. “You read the ransom note. Let’s just stick with the plan and give them the money.”

“But how do we know if we can trust them?” She said, searching her husband’s eyes desperately for reassurance. 

He held her gaze momentarily, his face brimming with tension. With a sigh, he crumpled slightly and said, “We don’t. But we already tried involving the police once and that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

January 9, 2023 

6:17 pm

Jess was standing at the stove cooking Alex’s favorite meal, Beef Stroganoff, when Chloe, who had been doing homework at the kitchen table, slid off her chair and started convulsing on the floor. Sauce splattered across the hardwood floor as Jess dropped the mixing spoon and sprang into action.

“Alex!” Jess shouted. “She’s having another seizure.” She started her stopwatch. More than five minutes and we call 911, she reminded herself.

Alex came running from his home office carrying a throw pillow.

“Turn her onto her side and put this pillow under her head,” Alex said as he shoved the dining chairs away and placed a large mixing bowl on the floor next to Chloe. “Don’t forget to take her glasses off.”

Jess and Alex kneeled alongside their daughter’s jerking body, weeping and holding hands, for the next three minutes and twenty-two seconds yet it felt like a lifetime.

Chloe regained consciousness and promptly vomited into the mixing bowl. Her frantic eyes scanned the room until they landed on her parents.

“Chloe, you’re safe honey. You just had another—” Jess started before Chloe interrupted her. 

“We have to warn them,” Chloe said grabbing Jess’ arm. Her fingernails dug into her mother’s skin.

Jess winced and exchanged glances with Alex who said, “Warn who?”

“The people with the cameras. They’re all going to die,” Chloe shrieked. “We have to do something.”

“Honey, did you have another vision?” Jess asked tentatively.

“Oh for God’s sake, Jess. Stop calling them visions,” Alex snapped. “The neurologist said this is just a side effect of the seizures.”

“And how do you explain our dog being run over by a car the day after Chloe saw it happen in her vision? Or the fire that consumed your office building just like she predicted it would? Were those just coincidences?” 

Alex tossed his hands in the air, shook his head, and then rested his forehead in his palms.

“Tell us what you saw,” Jess said to Chloe.

“An old brick building…lots of people…they all had cameras and…backpacks, some of them had backpacks. They were wandering around taking photos of the building and then…it exploded. They were dead, Mom,” Chloe sobbed. “All of them.”

A chill crept down Alex’s spine as he listened in disbelief.

“What else do you remember about the building?” Jess asked, rubbing Chloe’s back.

“There were signs on it that said ‘No Trespassing’. And there was a bell tower at the top of the building.” 

“That sounds like the old city hall building. It’s supposed to be demolished next week.” Alex said, remembering the news story he’d watched about the demolition. “That’s probably what you were seeing, the building being demolished. But don’t worry, they won’t let anyone near that thing when—”

“Wait, the calendar. I saw it at the end of my vision.” Chloe said, pointing at the family calendar hanging in the kitchen. “And the date was…tomorrow.”

“What are you doing?” Alex asked as Jess snatched her cell phone off the kitchen counter. 

“I’m calling the police.”

“They’re going to think we’re crazy.”

“I’m not going to lose sleep over someone thinking we’re crazy. But I would never forgive myself if those people die and we could have prevented it.” Jess said as she dialed the number for the city’s police department to report a bomb threat.

January 10, 2023 

The next night, Jess and Chloe were back in the kitchen, cooking dinner and doing homework like clockwork. Alex was watching the evening news in the adjacent living room.

“Jess, you might want to see this,” Alex said, increasing the volume on the TV.

“…coming to you live for a breaking news report. We’re standing in front of the old city hall building where the bomb squad has just disarmed a detonation device that was hidden inside the building. I’m joined by Police Chief Henderson and Professor Jackson, a photography professor from Central State Community College. Professor Jackson, can you tell us why your class is here today and what you experienced upon arriving at the scene?” The news reporter, dressed in a bubblegum pink trench coat, thrust the microphone at the anxious professor.

“Well, I heard that the building was scheduled to be demolished next week. My photography course this semester is focused on architecture and this building is a historical gem. I thought it would be a shame if we missed the opportunity to photograph it so I brought my class here for an impromptu field trip. But when we arrived, there was caution tape everywhere. Police were guarding the building. They wouldn’t let us enter and started questioning us…I think they thought we were involved with the bomb. I’m just so grateful for that girl—”

“Thank you, Professor Jackson.” The reporter said, cutting him off. “Speaking of ‘that girl’, Chief Henderson, can you tell us about the tip you received alerting you to the bomb threat?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s quite a story. A young lady in our community reported, or rather predicted, this bomb threat as a result of a seizure. A potentially deadly crime was prevented and we have this young lady to thank for that, she’s a hero.”

Turning back to the camera, the reporter held up a printed copy of a yearbook portrait and said, “And here she is, the hero herself. Chloe Maddigan is a freshman at Maple Hills High School this year where she—”

Chief Henderson lunged at the reporter grasping for the photo and shouted, “This is an ongoing investigation and we did not give you clearance to release her name or photograph. Turn that camera off, now.” 

The news camera was jostled causing the scene to go topsy-turvy and then end abruptly. 

Alex jumped off the couch, pointing at the white static TV screen. “What the hell? They promised us Chloe would remain anonymous.”

“That’s the media for you, digging up stories no matter the cost,” Jess said. “Someone must have leaked the info.”

“So you’re just going to shrug this off?”

“You know what, Alex? I’m glad that Chloe’s name is out there. When has she ever been recognized for anything? She’s finally getting her fifteen minutes of fame and you’re upset about it.”

“Have you forgotten what it’s like to be in high school? This is not going to attract positive attention. The last thing Chloe needs is another reason to be picked on.”

The argument was halted by a squeaking floorboard nearby. Chloe, who had been eavesdropping, ran sobbing up to her bedroom.

January 11, 2023 

When Chloe arrived at school the next day she was greeted by the word ‘Schizo’ written in permanent marker on her locker. She stared at the word, stunned by the cruelty of it. The familiar heat of humiliation rose within her, scorching her face a vibrant tint of red, as students gathered behind her, pointing and cackling. 

As she navigated the crowded hallways between classes, students gave her a wide berth — everywhere she went they gawked and gossiped. 

When she exited the lunch line in the cafeteria, a varsity football player who didn’t even know her name the day before, threw himself on the floor in front of her causing her to spill her lunch tray down the front of herself. After a few seconds of mock convulsions, he jumped up, pointed at Chloe, and shouted, “Oh my God. I just had a vision. As a senior you’re going to win the award for most likely to end up in a mental institution”. The cafeteria whooped with laughter. 

She made many desperate yet failed attempts to lay low the rest of the school day. When the school bus dropped her off that afternoon she ran through the front door and buried her weeping face into Jess’ chest.

After listening to what Chloe had endured, Jess tenderly stroked her hair the way she always did when she was upset and said, “Honey, I know this might be hard to believe but those kids are just jealous of you. I mean, you’re like a freaking superhero. Just remember that you saved people’s lives. The novelty of this will wear off soon and those kids at school will move on.”

January 12, 2023 

The following afternoon, Jess sat in her car waiting to pick Chloe up from band practice, her mind moving like molasses as she stared off into space. A notification on her phone snapped her out of the trance. A glance at the clock on her dash told her that band practice ended nearly thirty minutes ago, but there was no sign of Chloe. 

Jess ventured inside the high school where she found Mr. Halstad, the band director, alone in the music room. He was sitting at his desk, so engrossed in tinkering with a flute that he didn’t notice her presence.

“Excuse me.” She said, causing him to flinch. 

“Oh, you startled me.” He chuckled.

“Sorry about that. I’m just looking for my daughter, Chloe Maddigan,” She said, glancing around the room as if Chloe might appear out of thin air. “I’ve been waiting outside to pick her up.” 

His face shifted from confusion to concern. “She stopped by after last period. She seemed pretty upset. She said it had been a bad day and she was going to ride the bus home. I’m sorry, I assumed that you knew about her change of plans.”

Jess wilted like a deflated balloon. “She’s going through a tough time in school right now…bullying….I better head home to check on her. Thank you.” She called over her shoulder as she rushed out the door.

Jess pulled into her driveway, tires and brakes screeching, and jogged to the front door. A large manila envelope was laying on their welcome mat with nothing but the following scrawled on the front of it: To the parents of Chloe Maddigan. She picked up the envelope and entered the house.

“Chloe?” Jess said from the foyer. The house seemed still, quiet. Jess scrambled up the stairs to see if Chloe was in her bedroom, but it was empty. She ran back downstairs, shouting frantically, “Chloe! Where are you?”

Alex came bursting out of his home office. “What’s going on? I’m in the middle of a Zoom meeting.”

“Have you seen Chloe?” Jess panted.

“What do you mean? I thought you were picking her up from band practice.”

“She wasn’t there. Supposedly she rode the bus home…but she’s not here either. And I found this on our front porch.” Jess said, holding up the envelope. 

“To the parents of Chloe Maddigan…what is this?” Alex said before ripping the envelope open.

The contents of the envelope fell on the floor between Jess and Alex — a typewritten letter and a polaroid photograph. 

“Oh, my God. It’s Chloe.” Jess said, falling to her knees and grabbing the photograph. 

Chloe, their little girl, was sitting on a stool in a dingy basement. Her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape and another piece covered her mouth. Her hazel eyes were full of anguish.

Alex was staring at the letter in his trembling hands. In a state of shock, unaware of Jess’ sobs, he began reading the letter aloud.

—

Mr. and Mrs. Maddigan,

You really should keep closer tabs on your daughter. It’s a dangerous world that we live in, bombings, and all. Speaking of bombings, we’d be rich by now if it weren’t for your daughter. She ruined our meticulously planned bank robbery. You see, bombs are meant to explode. And that bomb we planted in the old city hall building was supposed to cause a diversion so the police wouldn’t notice that we were robbing a bank. You owe us for this missed opportunity. If you want to see your daughter again, bring $1,000,000 in cash to the back door of Valentino’s Pizzeria tomorrow at midnight. 

NO COPS.

—

Jess, now in the fetal position clutching the polaroid photo screamed, “No! Not my baby. Oh God, no. What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to the bank,” Alex said matter-of-factly.

“We don’t have a million dollars, Alex.”

“We will give them every penny we have and do whatever it takes to get Chloe back. Whatever it takes.”

January 14, 2023 

As the clock on Jess’ cell phone ticked over to midnight, the back entrance door for Valentino’s Pizzeria opened on the left side of the alley, extending a ray of light into the gloom. A looming figure cloaked in black stepped into the light and stood there waiting for them.

Jess and Alex exchanged silent fearful glances that spoke volumes before they walked in unison toward the man in black, carrying their life’s savings in a duffle bag and the hope of saving their daughter’s life in their hearts.

“Follow me.” The man in black said in a gruff voice as they crossed the threshold. 

They trailed behind him as he descended into the restaurant’s dim basement. Sitting on a stool in the center of the room, like a spitting image of the polaroid photograph, was Chloe. She was slouched forward slightly, her chin resting on her chest, her face curtained by her dirty blonde hair.

“Chloe!” Jess gasped, rushing toward her daughter only to be blocked by the two armed goons that were guarding her. “It’s ok, honey. We’re going to get you out of here.”

Chloe lifted her head, revealing a fresh black eye. Her shoulders shuddered as tears trickled down her face and over the duct tape covering her mouth. 

Alex rounded on the man in black, seething over Chloe’s condition, “Why in the hell does our daughter have a black eye? How dare you people lay a hand on her. She’s just a kid.”

“Kids these days…they have no respect for their elders.” Said a female voice from the shadows on the far side of the basement behind Chloe. 

A bare lightbulb hanging from the rafters clicked on, illuminating the mystery woman who was seated at a table.

“Maybe if you taught her some manners she wouldn’t have that shiner. Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. You got the money?” The woman asked, gesturing for Alex to approach with the duffle bag.

Alex flicked a glance at Jess and Chloe. Time stood still for a moment and besides the incessant dripping of a water pipe, the only sound he could hear was his own heart, pumping anger and adrenaline through his veins. He tightened his grip on the duffle bag’s nylon straps and clenched his jaw muscles, an old habit he developed when bracing for impact on the gridiron. Mustering every ounce of courage possible, he proceeded to the rear of the basement where he dropped the duffle bag onto the table. One of the guards followed him while the other held Jess at gunpoint.

“Here’s your money. Now let her go.” Alex spat.

“That’s not how this works.” The woman said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, revealing hands adorned with brass knuckles and raven-colored fingernails that could be weapons in their own right. Her head, shaved on the sides with a jet-black braided mohawk, lowered slightly as she stared up at Alex with smoldering eyes. “If you think I’m going to take your word for it that this sweaty gym bag of yours has a million dollars in it, you’ve got another thing coming. This might be your first rodeo but it sure as hell ain’t mine.”

After resting her brass knuckles on the table, she unzipped the duffle bag and extracted the bundles of cash one at a time. She held each batch up to the light and slowly fanned through the bills like a flipbook looking for the security thread to ensure it wasn’t counterfeit money. Alex watched her inspection, paralyzed with trepidation. Once the bag was empty and the table was covered with neatly stacked piles of cash, she silently returned the brass knuckles to her hands and shot a piercing glare at Alex.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” She said through gritted teeth. “Or were you just hoping I’d take pity on you? I asked for one million dollars. You’re about 750K short. There’s no financing plan here. Game over. Anton?” She said without taking her eyes off Alex.

Alex heard the metallic click of a gun being cocked but it wasn’t the one pointed at his face. He turned and saw that the man standing between Jess and Chloe had switched targets and was now shoving his gun into Chloe’s temple. 

Jess screamed and threw herself at Anton. Before Alex had a chance to react, a muffled gunshot permeated the damp air. Jess lurched and collapsed onto the concrete. The unflinching Anton still had his gun trained on the side of Chloe’s head. Realizing it was Jess who was shot, Alex whirled around and spotted the culprit across the room, the man in black who had escorted them into the basement. 

“Jess!” Alex wailed, lunging forward to rush to her lifeless body. He was stopped short by the other guard’s gun jabbing him in the chest. 

“Oh, that’s a pity.” The urban Amazon warrior said from behind the table. “But maybe now you realize that we aren’t messing around.”

“What do you want? I don’t have any more money, I swear,” Alex said frantically. “But I’ll do whatever it takes…please don’t kill us.” 

“One million dollars. That’s what I wanted. And if you were truly willing to do whatever it takes you would’ve found a way to pay me in full. Now it’s time for you to face the consequences.”

Two gunshots, in quick succession, reverberated off the concrete walls.

January 9, 2023 

6:31 pm

“What are you doing?” Alex asked as Jess snatched her cell phone off the kitchen counter. 

“I’m calling the police.”

“They’re going to think we’re crazy.”

“I’m not going to lose sleep over someone thinking we’re crazy. But I would never forgive myself if those people die and we could have prevented it.” Jess said as she dialed the number for the city’s police department to report a bomb threat.

Alex stormed out of the room. Just as a dispatcher answered the call Chloe began thrashing, caught in the throes of yet another seizure. Jess dropped her phone as she rushed to Chloe’s side, yelling for Alex.

“What happened?” Alex said as he returned to the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” Jess cried. “I was on the phone and she started seizing again.” 

They heard a faint voice coming from the cell phone nearby, the dispatcher was still on the line. Jess grabbed it and hit the speakerphone button. 

“Hello? Is anyone there?” The dispatcher asked. “Is everything ok?” 

“Hello? Can you hear us?” Jess shouted into the phone. “Our daughter is having recurring seizures. Please send an ambulance.”

Jess had just given the dispatcher their home address and was about to hang up the phone when Chloe stopped convulsing and sat up, gasping for breath, eyes wide with terror. 

“Hang up the phone, Mom!” Chloe said hysterically. “Don’t call the police. Please, tell me you didn’t call the police.”

“Honey, you need to go to the hospital,” Jess said after tapping the end-call button on her phone. “An ambulance is on the way.” 

“But what about the bomb?” Chloe asked with panic-stricken eyes darting between her parents. “Did you tell them about the bomb?” 

“Well, I was going to but you started seizing again. Don’t worry, I’m going to report it as soon as we get you settled at the hospital.”

“No! You can’t tell the cops or they’re going to kill us,” Chloe sobbed. “Please, Mom, don’t tell them.”. 

“What are you talking about? What about your vision? We have to report a bomb threat to prevent—”

“No.” Chloe pleaded, interrupting her. “I had another vision. Some bad people are going to plant that bomb as a distraction so they can rob a bank. If we report it, the bomb will be disarmed but their plan to rob the bank will be ruined and they’ll kidnap me for revenge. They’ll force you to pay them a ransom that we can’t afford.” She paused. As the color drained from her face she said, “At the end of my vision they killed all three of us.”

January 10, 2023 

The next night, Chloe was napping in her hospital bed after a long twenty-four hours of various medical tests. Alex was sitting on the small couch near Chloe’s bed watching the evening news.

“Jess, you might want to see this,” Alex said, increasing the volume on the TV and nudging Jess who had fallen asleep with her head resting in his lap.

“…coming to you live for a breaking news report. We’re standing in front of what’s left of the old city hall building after a bomb exploded here this afternoon. I’m joined by Police Chief Henderson. Chief, what can you tell us about this incident?” The news reporter, dressed in a bubblegum pink trench coat, thrust the microphone at the police chief.

“This is an ongoing investigation. We received an anonymous tip early this morning from a citizen that witnessed the building being vandalized multiple times recently. Since this building was condemned and scheduled for demolition it was not safe for occupancy so we assigned an officer to patrol the building. Around 1:00 pm Officer Stamos reported that a photography class from Central State Community College arrived at the location to photograph the building. He prohibited them from entering the facility and promptly ordered them to leave the premises. The professor and students from that class are being held for questioning. According to surveillance footage, the old city hall building exploded at approximately 1:17 pm, shortly before the robbery at All Citizens Bank just three blocks away. At this time, we’re not sure if these two incidents were related. Officer Ben Stamos, who was killed in the explosion, leaves behind a wife and three children — Our thoughts and prayers are with them tonight.”

One brave soul was taken, yet dozens of innocent lives were saved. Jess and Alex watched Chloe sleeping peacefully as they had done so many times since she was a baby. Their minds wandered, pondering what the future held for their daughter’s prophetic brain.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2023

Robots Are Companions Too

Posted on by jamiegregory

[7 minute read]

A loud crash jolted me awake. I was having a bad dream in which our five-year-old twin boys ran downstairs on Christmas morning only to have their excitement deflated like a punctured balloon when they discovered there wasn’t a single gift under the Christmas tree. 

“Jordan, wake up,” I said, nudging my husband beside me who continued snoring. I tried again, shoving him this time, “Jordan, I heard a loud noise downstairs.”

“What? What time is it?” He said groggily, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand to check the time. 

“I don’t care what time it is, we need to go see—”

“It’s 2:00 am. I’m sure it was just one of the cats knocking something off a counter again.” He grumbled as he rolled over, trying to go back to sleep.

“I heard a really loud crash. I can’t believe it didn’t wake you up. I think we should go down there.”

He reluctantly flung our buffalo plaid comforter off his chest and stomped across the room with me scrambling after him.

He carelessly descended the stairs like he was going to fetch a cup of joe on a lazy Saturday morning. On the other hand, I crept cautiously behind him, avoiding the creaky steps so as not to alert the burglar or murderer that was inevitably lurking on the first floor. Just as I was tip-toeing off the last step and contemplating what would be a more effective weapon, a golf umbrella from the coat rack in the foyer or a stapler from our home office, I heard Jordan yelling from the living room.

“Dammit! Get out of here, Oscar.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that we weren’t in imminent danger after all, and sauntered to the living room only to stop abruptly when I laid eyes on the chaotic scene before me. Our nine-foot-tall Christmas tree had completely toppled over as if we had been visited by a lumberjack instead of Santa Claus. Broken ornaments and pine needles were scattered all over the floor. Great, another reason for Jordan to complain about the fact that we bought a real tree this year, I thought. All of the wrapped presents that I’d painstakingly arranged under the tree were strewn throughout the room. Hmmm, that’s strange. Why are the gifts so spread out? The falling tree wouldn’t have caused that. 

“C’mon now. I said get out of here. Bad dog, bad dog.” Jordan said, distracting me from my thoughts. 

Our fourteen-year-old Basset Hound, Oscar, was drinking whatever water was left in the base that formerly held the tree in place. Jordan finally succeeded in shooing him and he hobbled away with his tail tucked between his arthritic legs.

“Honey, you don’t honestly think that Oscar did all of this, right?” I said. 

“How else do you explain it?” He barked.

“I’m just saying, he’s old, he’s not very big, and he doesn’t get around that well anymore. So I don’t see how he possibly could have—”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t one of the cats. You saw him drinking the water out of the base. He probably nudged it over with his head. See? This is why I didn’t want to buy a real tree. Fake trees don’t need water or shed pine needles everywhere.”

“The boys are going to wake up in a few hours and run down here to open presents and see what Santa brought for them. So, for now, I think we need to stop arguing and get this messed cleaned up.”

Once the Christmas magic had been restored I drug myself back upstairs and collapsed into bed feeling like an overworked elf on Christmas Eve. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand to check the time before falling asleep. Ugh. 3:30 am. I noticed that I had received a few push notifications from our Roomba, also known as Jeeves, which was the endearing butler-like nickname we had given him. 

2:01 am

Jeeves

Jeeves’ cleaning job was canceled.

That’s weird. I don’t remember canceling the Roomba.

2:05 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Clean Jeeves’ main brushes.

Whatever, I’ll fix it tomorrow. I was so tired my vision was blurring and I could barely keep my eyes open. I drifted off to sleep and dreamed of a lumberjack dressed like Santa Claus placing presents under our tree, then chopping the tree off of the base, slinging it onto his shoulder, and disappearing through our front door with it.

The next morning was accompanied by that special soundtrack that you only hear once per year — the pitter-patter of little feet running downstairs, squeals of delight as wrapping paper is ripped to shreds, and classic carols playing in the background. I cleaned up the mountain of crumpled wrapping paper while the boys played tug-of-war over their new toys. Jordan was eager to dispose of the Christmas tree despite my wishes to leave it up through New Year’s. I lost the debate so he carried it to the backyard and, much to my surprise, lit it on fire. Sheesh, that’s a little dramatic. We could’ve at least paid our respects by singing O Tannenbaum first.

Once I had cleared all of the clutter from the living room, I could see that the floor was blanketed with thousands of pine needles. This looks like a job for Jeeves, I thought with my hands on my hips. I retrieved Jeeves from his charging base and suddenly remembered his error message from the wee hours of the morning. His main brushes were clogged with strands of tinsel from the Christmas tree. When I removed his dust bin to empty it I discovered that it contained pine needles and ornament shards.

“Jeeves, what were you doing in the living room? You’re not supposed to be in there.” I said.

The virtual wall barrier devices we had used to keep Jeeves out of the living room, and away from the Christmas tree, during the holiday season were still in place. So, I plopped Jeeves down in the middle of the living room and powered him on. This time I used the virtual wall barriers to force him to stay in the living room until all of the pine needles were gone.

12:16 pm

Jeeves

Jeeves successfully completed a job!

After inspecting his work and finding it to be satisfactory, I emptied Jeeves’ bin once again and returned him to the base so he could recharge in time for his regularly scheduled cleaning job that started at 11:00 pm every night.

Our dinner conversation that night was ripe with newfound motivation and resolutions for the new year. So, once the kids were in bed, I pulled my yoga mat out of a spare closet and unfurled it in the living room to hold my morning self accountable for restoring my yoga habit.

1:33 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Jeeves ended the job stuck.

I woke up early the next morning, slipped into my yoga outfit, and went downstairs ready to get my namaste on before the rest of the family woke up. Once again, I was greeted by a sight in the living room that stopped me in my tracks. Jeeves had gotten stuck on the corner of my yoga mat after he had smeared something all over it. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was cat feces. Our oldest, and most temperamental cat, Steve, had a bad habit of dropping a deuce on the floor outside of the litter box in the laundry room, another room that Jeeves was supposed to be blocked from entering.

“Ok, that’s it Jeeves. First the Christmas tree and now this? You’re supposed to clean up messes, not make more messes.” I said while I disabled his programmed daily schedule for the 11:00 pm cleaning job in the app on my phone. “There, you’ve been laid off until further notice.” 

In the process of scrubbing Steve’s excrement off my mat, I lost my motivation to do the workout and opted for some Eggo waffles and coffee instead. When Jordan came downstairs I told him what had happened.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d swear that Jeeves was framing the pets. First, he made it look like Oscar knocked over the Christmas tree and then he smeared Steve’s poop all over my yoga mat. He almost got away with it too but he got stuck on the corner of the mat…”I trailed off when I realized that Jordan was standing in the kitchen frozen, holding a box of cereal in midair with an incredulous look on his face.

“You’re kidding me, right?” He said.

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right. That’s crazy, right?” I said.

That night I was awakened by a distant noise that I couldn’t quite make out so I crept out of the bedroom and paused at the top of the stairs. After a few minutes, I heard the noise again, still faint but I could make it out this time and it was coming from downstairs somewhere. 

“Do do do doooo…please love Roomba.”

Love Roomba? Did I hear that right? No, it couldn’t be. He’s supposed to say, ‘please charge Roomba’ and besides, I thought I disabled his schedule, I thought with goosebumps spreading up my arms. I ran downstairs as quickly and silently as I could like you do when you have to lock a door after watching a scary movie. I grabbed Jeeves, thrust him onto the charging base, ran back upstairs, and jumped into bed with my heart racing. Ok, I’m not telling Jordan this time, or else he’ll really think I’m crazy.

Jeeves continued to emerge from the charging base every night at exactly 11:00 pm despite the disabled schedule in the app. Each night I would receive a push notification on my phone saying that Jeeves required my attention which I continued to ignore. His vendetta against the family pets went on to include spilling cat food, knocking over the kitchen trashcan which was clearly another setup for Oscar, and worst of all, bumping into a side table hard enough to send Bluey the beta fish crashing to the floor resulting in an untimely death.

The night after Bluey’s demise, I was woken once again by a loud ruckus in the middle of the night. I checked the time on my phone.

12:47 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Jeeves is stuck near a cliff.

Enough is enough, I thought. I stormed downstairs, with my phone still in hand, on a mission to put an end to Jeeves’ reign of terror. When I reached the foyer hallway I braced myself for whatever catastrophe I was going to stumble upon this time. After searching for quite some time and finding nothing I was about to give up and go back to bed. Wait, a cliff. Jeeves was stuck near a cliff. I flicked on the light at the top of the stairs that descend into the basement and spotted Jeeves, broken into pieces, at the bottom of the stairs. Just then, my phone beeped. It was one last push notification from Jeeves.

1:12 am

Jeeves requires your attention

Robots are companions too.

*No animals or robotic vacuums were harmed as a result of writing this fictional short story.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write about a character, human or robot, who no longer wishes to obey instructions.

Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2022

The Mountains Are Calling

Posted on by jamiegregory

[12 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

Content warning: death.

S1 E1: The Mountains are Calling (A Suspenseful Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

Harold Brooks runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until he encounters a twist of fate. I hope you enjoy this suspenseful short story.  Genre categories: Fiction, mystery, suspense. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory

Harold trudged down the winding path that led to the inn from his cabin tucked in the woods. Rays from the late-winter sunrise filtered through the trees arousing the birds who had returned from the south recently and they greeted him with a serenade.  

Harold was a middle-aged man with a grizzly beard and the build of a lumberjack. He’d been running the Climber’s Haven Inn on the outskirts of Denali National Park for ten years after inheriting it from his father, making him the third generation of innkeepers in the family. 

Harold had a love-hate relationship with the inn. During peak climbing season, late spring through early fall, the inn was alive with camaraderie and tales of adventure. But during the annual winter shutdown, when Harold was the sole occupant and caretaker, it felt like the loneliest place on earth. He decided long ago that he could never subject a family to that lifestyle, so he never married or had children. During those solitary winter months, he would often yearn for a different life, one in which he didn’t feel obligated to maintain his family’s legacy.

He paused taking a sip of steaming coffee from his thermos and soaking in the view of the inn’s main entrance. If only he could revive the sense of majesty he felt standing in this exact spot as a child. Now, instead of a glorious mountain retreat, he simply saw a burden that was solely his to carry. The inn, built from local rough-sawn timber, touted thirty rooms, a full-service bar with a limited menu of hearty food, and a sauna where mountaineers could recover from their expeditions. 

Just a couple more weeks and the place will be humming again, Harold thought as he entered the front door. 

Around mid-morning, he was sitting in his office reviewing his inventory of supplies when he heard a faint ringing sound. Ding. Just when he thought he must have been imagining things he heard the sound again. Ding, ding. 

That sounds like the bell at the front desk…but why in the world would anyone be here now? Harold thought as he got up from his desk chair.

He opened his office door which was located directly behind the inn’s front desk in the lobby. Sure enough, there was a young man standing there waiting. He had an athletic build, an adventurous look in his eyes, and appeared to be in his twenties. He was loaded down like a pack mule with mountain climbing equipment and a suitcase was parked beside him. 

“Good morning. I’m not expecting any guests for a couple more weeks…” Harold said, sizing up the stranger. “What brings you in?”

“Ethan, Ethan Wilson.” The young man said, extending his brawny arm for a firm handshake. 

“Nice to meet you, Ethan. I’m Harold Brooks, the innkeeper here. So, how can I help you?”

“Well, I have a proposition that I’m hoping would be beneficial for both of us.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I just graduated from college, Colorado State University. You’d think after spending four years earning a business degree that I’d know what to do with my life…but I don’t. There are only two things I know for sure: I have thousands of dollars in student loan debt and I love mountain climbing. So, I thought I’d lose myself in a mountain range for a while in order to find myself. Maybe the high-altitude air will give me a sense of clarity.”

“I could’ve sworn you said your name was Ethan Wilson, but you sure do sound like John Muir. ‘The mountains are calling, and I must go.’ So, what does this quest of yours have to do with me?”

“I’ve climbed all over the Rockies, including the fourteener, Longs Peak. I’m looking for a bigger challenge and I have my heart set on Denali. But I’ll need to do a lot of training climbs in the area first. I’m guessing I can learn a lot from the climbers you’ll be hosting here during peak season. Maybe I can even find an expedition team to join. I’d be willing to work here at the inn for you in exchange for room and board. Whatever needs to be done around here, I’m your man. So, what do you think? Do we have a deal?”

There’s no shortage of work to be done here, that’s for sure, Harold thought. And let’s face it, I’m not getting any younger so it would be helpful to delegate some of the manual labor to this whippersnapper. It would be nice to have some company too but…I don’t even know this kid. 

“I’ll tell you what. How about if we do a trial run? You’ll work here for me in exchange for room and board for one month. During that time you can squeeze in two climbs per week as long as you’re getting your work done here. At the end of the month, we’ll see how it’s going and decide if we want to continue the arrangement or say sayonara.” Harold said.

“It’s a deal,” Ethan said, going for another handshake. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You won’t regret this, Mr. Brooks.”

“Please, call me Harold. You can stay in room number fifteen. It’s next up on the list for annual repairs. It needs new carpet, a new showerhead, and there’s something wrong with the commode. So, it’ll be a good test to see how handy and motivated you are.”

“Bring it on,” Ethan said, throwing his hands and a chuckle up in the air.

The repairs in room fifteen were completed in record time and passed Harold’s inspection with flying colors. During Ethan’s first month at the inn, he proved to be as valuable as a climber’s rope. From cleaning gutters to chopping firewood, there were countless tasks that he tackled with efficiency and precision. He also conquered seven training climbs throughout the month. 

During his first week at the inn, Ethan had visited the Denali National Park ranger station to snag a map of the mountaineering routes. 

“Make sure there’s someone who knows which route you’re taking, the date of your climb, and how long you expect to be gone. If you go missing, that will be critical information to pass along to the search and rescue team.” Ranger Sheridan had advised Ethan.

So, the night before each climbing day, Ethan and Harold would gather in the inn’s lobby and hunker over the large map. They would highlight the route Ethan was planning to take, write the date of the climb next to it, and he would tell Harold when to expect his return. Harold, who had served as the route keeper for many climbers over the years, took this role very seriously. 

On climbing days, Ethan would hit the slopes before sunrise and spend the next ten hours navigating North America’s most gnarly terrain with his 70-lb backpack in tow. Upon his return, Harold would join him in the inn’s sauna where he would recount his adventures and thaw his muscles. He was getting the full experience of the temperamental weather Ranger Sheridan warned him about. Harold was on the verge of reporting him missing when he returned several hours late from the second climb after being engulfed in a disorienting whiteout. 

“I was suddenly transported to a different planet, completely devoid of color and dimension. Just white…as far as the eye could see. I lost all sense of direction…north, south, east, west…sky, ground…it all looked exactly the same. Time stood still…but also seemed to fly by like the snow that was relentlessly pelting me in the face. I was trapped there for an eternity wrestling with the fear that I might not escape and literally be trapped there…for eternity.” Ethan said with his eyes wide and unfocused and a white-knuckled grasp on the edge of the sauna bench like crampons digging into ice. “What am I doing here? I’m not cut out for this.” He said, shifting a panic-stricken face to Harold.

Harold placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said, “It doesn’t matter if you’re an amateur or a veteran climber, Denali does not discriminate. Even the most elite mountaineering guides would’ve struggled in that whiteout. All that matters is you survived to tell the tale and climb another day. Don’t give up on your dream quite yet.” 

By the end of that first month, with several more training climbs under his belt, Ethan had regained his confidence, and his desire to conquer Denali was stronger than ever. 

He and Harold were taking a break from inspecting the inn’s industrial kitchen equipment one afternoon. If an outsider stumbled upon them at that moment, chatting over pints of beer at the inn’s bar, they would assume that they were long-time friends.

“Well, Mr. Brooks, can you believe I’ve been here for a month already? Are you ready to send me packing or do I get to hang around for a while?” Ethan said, lowering his pint of walnut-colored beer onto the wood bar top.

“Ethan, the truth is…I can’t imagine not having you here. So, as far as I’m concerned, you can stay as long as you’d like.” While he spoke, Harold’s mind embraced a vision of himself, long in the tooth, sitting on this very bar stool while an older Ethan served him a beer from behind the bar. He’d make a fine innkeeper someday, Harold thought.

Days turned into weeks and before they knew it, the inn was at full capacity and peak climbing season was well underway. Harold was manning the front desk one morning in mid-May when Ranger Sheridan and the local sheriff walked into the lobby. 

“Ranger Sheridan, Sheriff Brown. To what do I owe the honor?” Harold asked.

Sheriff Brown pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and laid it on the front desk.

“Morning, Harold. Do you know this young man?” Sheriff Brown asked, pointing to the man in the photograph who was wearing a graduation cap and gown.

“Yeah, of course. That’s my right-hand man here at the inn, Ethan Wilson.” Harold said, glancing at both of them trying to read their expressions. 

“When did you see him last?” Sheriff Brown asked.

“Well, as a matter of fact, you just missed him. He left here a few hours ago to go on a training climb.” Harold said.

The sheriff and the ranger exchanged perplexed glances. Harold’s internal organs started doing acrobatics, alerting him that something seemed wrong.

“Well, that’s strange. His mother reported him missing weeks ago. It took us a while to retrace his steps but Ranger Sheridan recalled that he was staying at the inn.” Sheriff Brown said.

“His mother? He never mentioned her…” Harold said.

“Apparently he called to let her know that he arrived safely in Alaska and promised to keep in touch but she never heard from him again. She said he was often forgetful about calling so she wasn’t too concerned at first. But after a few weeks, she tried calling his cell repeatedly and got worried when he didn’t answer or return her calls.” Sheriff Brown said.

“Well, I don’t condone him avoiding his mother, but fortunately I think this is just a big misunderstanding. Ethan is here on a mission to ‘find himself’ and perhaps he just needed a little space to do that.” Harold said.

The sheriff gave Harold a scrutinizing stare and said, “I hope you’re right. When do you expect Ethan to return?”

“Sometime this evening,” Harold said.

“Do me a favor, call me to confirm that he made it back safe and sound. And tell him to call his mother for God’s sake.” Sheriff Brown said.

A mountaineering guide named Sam Edwards, who was staying at the inn for his twelfth consecutive climbing season, was sitting in an armchair in the lobby reading the newspaper during the conversation between the three men. He followed the sheriff and the ranger outside. 

“Sheriff Brown, can I have a word?” Sam said. “I overheard your conversation with Harold and…well, to be honest, I’m very suspicious about the situation. I’ve known Harold for a long time and I think he’s gone delusional.”

“Can you elaborate?” Sheriff Brown said.

“Harold has been going on and on about this Ethan character since I arrived a month ago. But the strange thing is, I’ve never seen Ethan, not once. I’ve asked around and none of the other guests have seen him either. Whenever the topic comes up, Harold says that Ethan is out for a training climb or running an errand. But one thing a lot of us have observed is Harold talking as if he’s having a conversation with someone…but nobody’s there. So now I’m starting to wonder if Ethan is missing, dead, or doesn’t even exist.”

“Well, we know that Ethan exists because his mother reported him missing and sent us this photograph. And we know that Harold has interacted with him because he identified him from the photo. So, that leaves us with two possibilities: missing or dead.” Sheriff Brown said.

“Ethan visited the ranger station when he arrived in mid-March and I gave him a route map. What are the chances that it’s still here at the inn somewhere?” Ranger Sheridan said.

They went back into the lobby to share Sam’s observations and concerns with Harold who became defensive. 

“I already told you that Ethan is out for a training climb. If you don’t believe me I can show you his route map.” Harold snarled.

He jerked the large route map out from behind the front desk and unrolled it for them to see. There were numerous routes highlighted, too many to count at a glance, and they had written a date beside each one spanning from March 21st until the present day.

Despite Harold’s outrage and outright denial of being delusional, Sheriff Brown said, “Listen, Harold, right now it’s your word against the dozens of guests that are staying here. If Ethan’s life is at risk we can’t waste any more time. So I’m going to take this route map and start organizing a search. I’ll contact the search and rescue teams. Ranger Sheridan, close all of the park routes to the public. Sam, see if you can round up any volunteers here at the inn. I want to kick this off bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Later that night when it was well beyond the time Ethan should’ve returned from his climb, Harold frantically searched the inn for him. There was no sign of him in the lobby, office, bar, or sauna. As a last resort, Harold raised a trembling fist to knock on the door of room fifteen hoping to find Ethan there. To his shock, the room was now occupied by a female climber who insisted she’d been there for weeks. After finding no signs of Ethan anywhere Harold secluded himself in his cabin, terrified to face reality.

Before sunrise the next morning, a team the size of a small army began the search for Ethan along his first training route highlighted on the map, dated March 21st. After several days of searching that route extensively and finding nothing, they moved on to Ethan’s second training route, dated March 25th.

Late one night, nearly two weeks after the search began, Harold had fallen asleep on the couch in his cabin when he was startled awake by a persistent knock at the door. He stumbled across the room to answer the door where Sheriff Brown was waiting, looking rather worse for wear.

“I’m sorry to wake you Harold, but I have an update on the search. Would you mind if I come in?” Sheriff Brown said.

They sat next to each other on Harold’s tweed couch and the tension in the atmosphere was as thick as a blizzard. 

“Harold…there’s no easy way for me to say this. We found Ethan’s body at the bottom of a crevasse along his second route, the one he attempted on March 25th during his second week here.”

Harold jerked involuntarily as if he’d been jolted by an electric shock. “No, that’s impossible.” He shouted. “I sat in the sauna with Ethan that night after he returned from that climb. I remember our conversation vividly…he told me about the whiteout that he narrowly escaped on that route.” He said, his voice now taking on a tone of desperation. 

The sheriff silently pulled a photograph from his inner jacket pocket and tenderly showed it to Harold — Ethan’s lifeless body was sprawled at the bottom of the crevasse, frozen and pale, almost blending in with the icy tomb.

Harold shuddered and his face froze in a horrified stare, his expression paralyzed even after the sheriff slipped the photograph back into his pocket. Life seemed to have vanished from his wide staring eyes despite the silent tears that began rolling down his beard. His subconscious mind was vaguely aware of the sheriff saying something about a memorial service and promising to come back and check on him soon. Then, just as suddenly as he’d arrived, the sheriff left and Harold spiraled down into the dark crevasses of his tortured mind.

Ethan was the closest thing Harold ever had to a son and he never recovered from his loss. He became a recluse and the inn went into foreclosure, ending the family’s legacy. Sheriff Brown kept his promise, visiting Harold often and bringing him supplies. Many times the sheriff would glance inside the window as he approached the front door and see Harold sitting on the couch having a conversation but no one was there, or sitting at the kitchen table playing a game of chess and teasing a non-existent opponent. Sometimes survival relies on fabricating a false reality when one’s true reality is too painful to bear.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Your character runs an inn for resting mountaineers. It’s a calm life, until they encounter a twist of fate.

Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2022

Debut Under the Big Top

Posted on by jamiegregory

[8 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E5: Debut Under the Big Top (A Historical Fiction Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

John Turner has always dreamed of running away with the circus but he never expected that dream to become a reality. I hope you enjoy this historical fiction short story. Genre categories: Fiction, historical fiction, suspense, coming-of-age. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory The following sound effects were downloaded via https://freesound.org/. Fading and loudness normalization effects were applied to these sound effects which are licensed under various Creative Commons Attribution licenses. Mechanical street organ by RTB45 Crowd cheer by day-garwood Zoo animal sounds by freesound Baby crying by mariiao2 Elephant trumpeting by vataaa Small crowd gasping by dreamstobecome Crowd in panic by IENBA Horse whinny by foxen10 Cheering clapping crowd by AlaskaRobotics

I stood with my feet firmly planted on the small wooden platform twenty feet above the ring and the surrounding crowd. My sweaty, shaking hands gripped the railings beside me in an attempt to steady my trembling body. I looked down, but only with my eyes since I was too afraid to move my head. The ringmaster pranced to the center of the ring to introduce the next act, my act. 

This time yesterday I was trudging home from the coal mine, covered head to toe in soot, and praying that my days working there were numbered. For the past year, that prayer had gone unanswered. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The ringmaster said. “At this time I’ll introduce you to our next death-defying act…with trepidation. Sadly, our tightrope walker sustained an injury during his last performance which put us in quite a bind. But as luck would have it, we were introduced to a young lad from right here in Connellsville this morning who is a self-taught tightrope walker and aspiring circus performer. You are about to witness his debut performance of this spectacular stunt.” There was an audible gasp and subsequent murmur from the crowd. “Following what I’m sure will be a thunderous round of applause, please remain silent to allow him the utmost level of concentration. Now, put your hands together for John Turner.” As predicted, there was an uproar of applause from the crowd which came to a sudden halt when the ringmaster shushed them. 

I could feel the weight of thousands of eyes on me, waiting with anticipation. Besides the occasional ruckus from the menagerie tent, the atmosphere was so thick with silence that you could slice through it with a horsewhip. I was vaguely aware of the ringmaster announcing my name and the fact that I should be doing something. My body was frozen, paralyzed by fear. My mind, on the other hand, was racing. 

Circuses stopped in Connellsville, Pennsylvania regularly to draw in the local coal mining population. It was practically the only form of entertainment in these parts. I would never forget the first time my parents took me to the circus. I was eight years old and I was completely enamored by how extraordinary it was. It felt as though I had been transported to another planet full of exotic animals and magnificent performers. 

Ever since that night, I’d been dreaming of running away with the circus. This isn’t what I had in mind though…I’m not cut out for this, I thought. Of course, I fantasized about becoming a famous performer. Yet in reality, I was simply hoping to obtain a manual labor position with a circus like my enviable cousin William. But one year ago the trajectory of my life changed like a weather vane shifting with the wind. My father left to fight in the Spanish-American War and never came home again, leaving behind my mother and seven children, of which I’m the oldest. My mother decided that, at thirteen years old, I had received an adequate education and it was time for me to replace my father as the man of the family. When tragedy strikes, Father Time doesn’t put the universe on hold to give us a chance to cope with our trials. When the fog of my father’s death lifted I found myself deep in a coal mine battering my grief, with one deliberate swing of the pickaxe at a time. 

A baby wailing in the crowd snapped my mind from the coal mine back to the big top and the task before me. If I close my eyes I can just imagine that I’m back home balancing on the railroad tracks or walking along my makeshift tightrope in the barn. I had only attempted my homemade tightrope twice. It stretched the width of the barn from one hayloft to the other. On the first attempt, I fell and landed squarely on the straw bales stacked on the ground below. I wasn’t quite as lucky on the second attempt and ended up with a broken leg to show for it. Ok, maybe I shouldn’t close my eyes.

The ringmaster suddenly cleared his throat and announced my name again while trying to conceal his frustration. I glanced down one last time before I took the first tentative step onto the tight rope. The last thing I saw was my cousin William standing near a large wooden wagon along the side of the ring. He gave me a knowing head nod and it was just enough to make me think perhaps I could pull this off. 

I considered the long balancing pole leaning against the railing next to me. I never used a balancing pole at home but…maybe I should have. I grabbed the pole with my sweaty palms and shifted my gaze to the wire stretching away from me. Like sunlight kissing a rain puddle, the wire glistened in the radiance of the state-of-the-art electric spotlights positioned around the big top. I took a deep breath like I do when Mama has a loaf of homemade bread baking in the oven. I slid my right foot out onto the wire and rotated the balancing pole into a horizontal position, holding it close to my abdomen. My left foot stretched and landed in front of my right foot in a swift yet calculated movement. Wobbling slightly, I paused to get my bearings. If Papa was here he would say, “Johnny, it’s so quiet in here you could hear a mouse fart.” I chuckled aloud and almost lost my concentration. Another deep breath. Right foot, stretch, and settle. Inhale, exhale. Left foot, extend, and touch down. I eased into a rhythm and suddenly I was a quarter of the way across the tightrope. I’m doing this. I’m actually doing—

The trumpeting of an elephant blasted abruptly from the menagerie tent. I nearly lost my footing. I bent forward at the waist trying to achieve a lower center of gravity. My body jerked from side to side, wrestling with the balancing pole and doing everything in my power to remain upright. The crowd below erupted with more gasps and a few shrieks. That’s not helping, I thought with gritted teeth. By nothing short of a miracle I recovered my balance. 

By the time I reached the halfway point along the tightrope, my confidence was growing. But apparently, at that moment I should’ve remembered one of Papa’s other catchphrases, “Don’t celebrate too early. Just because your horse is in first place doesn’t mean he’s going to finish that way.” Because that was the moment when I felt a tingling sensation inside my nose. Damned if I didn’t have to sneeze. It must be all the sawdust in here. It always gets to me in the barn—

The gust of air flew out of my nose like a runaway freight train, there was no stopping it. I lost my grip on the balancing pole and it fell by the wayside. My knees buckled and I collapsed clumsily onto the wire, then tipped sideways and went overboard like a drunken sailor. One minute I was standing tall and proud living out a daydream I had no business dabbling in. Now, in the blink of an eye, or the sneeze of a nose rather, I was tumbling twenty feet to the ground and my presumable death. 

I was surrounded by a cacophony of sounds — people screaming and animals protesting the sudden chaos. My body was trapped in an uncontrollable tumbling tailspin. Various sights zipped through my topsy-turvy field of vision: frantic crowd, defiant elephant, glaring spotlight, canvas ceiling, sawdust-covered ground. 

Fleeting, panic-stricken thoughts competed for attention in my mind. Am I going to die? Oh my God…I’m going to die. What will Mama do without me? How could I be so stupid? Will I see Papa again?

I was rapidly approaching the ground, unable to brace for impact when I was briefly enveloped in something soft before colliding with something solid. I entered a void where all light and sound dissipated. 

After an indiscernible amount of time, I was roused by the soft material shifting around me. As it tickled my skin I gradually regained my sense of hearing, albeit muffled at first. Someone was shouting frantically, “Johnny! Johnny, can you hear me?” Suddenly a pair of hands made contact with my body and jerked me out of the abyss by my armpits. My head lolled from side to side as I wheezed and coughed, spewing sawdust from my mouth. I attempted to rub the sawdust out of my desiccated eyes to identify the savior standing before me. 

“William? Is…is that you, William?” I said, just barely making out my cousin’s face through my blurred vision. 

The ringmaster suddenly stepped between us and said, “Give the crowd a bow, you idiot. And I want to talk to both of you after the show.” He stepped aside and William steadied me for a second to make sure I could stand on my own. 

Standing inside the large wooden wagon full of sawdust I gave a defeated bow. William had resourcefully pushed the wagon across the ring to catch me just in the nick of time. The crowd went wild, exploding from their seats into a boisterous standing ovation. I collapsed into the wagon once again with a plume of sawdust rising around me. William wheeled me out of the big top waving at the cheering crowd with a grin on his face, relishing in his own moment of fame. 

When the ringmaster found us after the show had ended we were waiting to be scolded like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I’m so sorry sir. I never should have tried to—” I said. 

William interrupted me by saying, “Sir, I apologize for leading you to believe that Johnny had more experience. I’ll accept whatever punishment—”

“Shut up, both of you. That act was brilliant. First, you had the crowd on the edge of their seats, then they thought they witnessed your death…they loved it. Suspense, danger, bravery. And William…an animal caretaker…a nobody…rushing in to save him with a wagon…just brilliant. It stole the show.” The ringmaster said vehemently. William and I, now speechless, exchanged glances. “So, you two knuckleheads are going to repeat that act, in the exact same way, at every show from now on. Johnny, we’ll pretend that you’re a local resident from whatever town we’re in on the given day. Understood?” William and I nodded earnestly in unison. 

Show after show, town after town, I lived this lie and survived the same near-death fall countless times. Ironically, after walking half the length of the tightrope so many times I had actually become a very skilled performer yet I was forced to stay incognito. I got my wish to run away with the circus and it was simultaneously everything I had hoped it would be and nothing I had hoped it would be. My name will never adorn a circus poster as a star performer but I’ve learned that my impact on the audience is beyond measure: I exemplify the ability of an average human to climb out of the darkest chasms of life and rise, victorious over adversity.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Start your story looking down from a stage.

Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2022

The Gift of a Fresh Start

Posted on by jamiegregory

[12 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

Content warnings: kidnapping and domestic violence.

S1 E6: The Gift of a Fresh Start (A Suspenseful Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

Becca Anderson, a middle school teacher, is faced with an ethical dilemma when a mysterious package arrives on her doorstep. Genre categories: Fiction, suspense, mystery. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory

It wasn’t the first time I had received someone else’s mail. Our mail carrier, Mr. Jacobs, was a friendly old soul but the neighborhood consensus was that it was time for him to ride his mail truck off into the sunset of retirement. 

It was a rainy Friday evening in mid-November. My students were getting antsy for Thanksgiving break and, let’s face it, so was I. By the time I left the building, my car was the only one sitting in the school parking lot. I tugged down on the hood of my raincoat, wind whipping around me, and made a mental note to switch to my winter coat next week. 

The entire drive home was a battle against the rain. As I pulled into my driveway I slowly released my white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Before pulling into the garage I glanced sideways at my front porch. I had been doing some early Christmas shopping and was eagerly awaiting some packages. Sure enough, there was a substantial pile of cardboard boxes waiting for me, now damp from the rain most likely. 

I scurried through my condo to the front door, flicking on lights as I went. My cat, Samuelson, followed after me, voicing his dismay that I had neglected to greet him. I scrambled to bring the soggy packages inside and placed them on the coffee table in the living room. I kicked off my shoes, hung up my dripping raincoat, and poured myself a glass of wine. On the way back to the living room I grabbed my notebook that contained my Christmas shopping lists. 

I’m one of those start-celebrating-holidays-way-too-early kinds of people. Combine my elf-like holiday spirit with my obsession with organization and, well, let’s just say that I take my Christmas shopping very seriously. I started opening the packages one at a time to inspect the contents and mark the gift items as “delivered” in my notebook.

The silky voice of Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts and Jack Frost when I pulled a small package from the pile. It appeared to be a standard cardboard Amazon box but there was something strange about the shipping label. It was addressed to me as expected but there was no return address or any information to indicate who the sender was. As I began to open the box I realized that this was a previously used box, something the mystery sender had tried to conceal. Unlike all of the other packages, this box did not contain any of the products I had purchased from the lists in my notebook. 

The package merely contained two boxes of dark brown hair dye and three white envelopes, each labeled with hasty handwriting. One envelope said, “To Ms. Anderson – Open immediately”. Ms. Anderson…that’s me. A second envelope said, “To Jessica – Open immediately”. Jessica? Who’s Jessica? The third envelope said, “Travel documents”. Well, this is weird….Feeling a little rattled by this mysterious package, I decided I might need to fetch another glass of wine before I further inspected its contents. 

When I returned from the kitchen I picked up the envelope with my name on it and gave it a scrutinizing stare for a few seconds. Oh, what the heck. My life could use a little more excitement. I opened it and pulled out a handwritten letter. 

—

Dear Ms. Anderson,

I’m sorry if this package caught you off guard. You don’t know me but I desperately need your help. You are the only person who can help me save my sister and nephew. Their names are Jessica and Christopher Bates and they live in your neighborhood. Christopher attends the middle school where you teach. 

This might come as a surprise to you but Jessica’s husband Tom is very abusive. Jessica has been too scared to call the police and I’m the only person she has confided in. She’s genuinely afraid that their lives are in danger and I believe her. 

Six months ago I relocated to Ontario for a new job which is something we’ve kept a secret from Tom. I’ve made arrangements for Jessica and Christopher to travel to Ontario and start a new life with new identities. Everything that they need is in this package but I need your help to pull this off. 

Tom leaves on the morning of Monday, November 15th for his last trip distributing turkeys throughout the state (he’s a truck driver). He should be gone for a few days, at least. Please hand-deliver the other items in this box to Jessica as soon as possible on Monday once Tom has left. He drives a black Ford Ranger and usually parks in the driveway so it should be easy to tell if he’s gone. Their address is 521 Blanchair Lane. 

I know I’m asking a lot of you. I promise that nobody will ever know that you were involved in this. Just think of it this way, you’re just doing me a favor by delivering a “gift” to Jessica. 

Sincerely,

A concerned sister

—

I stared at the letter for a moment and contemplated pinching myself to see if I had fallen asleep on the couch and all of this was a dream. Right on cue, Samuelson woke up from his own dream, poking my leg with his outstretched paws confirming that I was indeed awake.

Christopher Bates…that name definitely sounds familiar…but I can’t picture him, I thought as the faces of dozens of students flashed through my mind. I walked over to my bookcase, found last year’s school yearbook, and started flipping through the pages searching for his photograph. There he is!

He had unkempt dirty blond hair and hazel eyes. Unlike his classmates, with their cheesy grins, the camera captured a rather melancholy expression on his face. Oh, yeah…now I remember him. 

He was in my first-period class last year. The poor kid was painfully shy and almost skittish. He never interacted with the other kids in class and he always sat by himself in the cafeteria. The thing I remembered most about Christopher was that he was excessively absent from school. This fact stood out in my memory because we report attendance during our first-period class. He would often return from an absence with some sort of bruise or injury and a handwritten note from his mom explaining what had happened ranging from sports injuries to falling off his mountain bike during vacation. Her notes always had a lighthearted “boys will be boys” tone to them so I never felt there was cause for concern. In my eyes, he was just a very accident-prone kid who kept to himself and managed to get decent grades despite his attendance record. How did I miss these red flags? I should’ve reported this to someone….

My gaze shifted back to the open box on the coffee table and the remaining envelopes inside. I was tempted to open them but I wasn’t sure if I should. I already opened the one that was for me. Those are for Jessica…wouldn’t that be, like an invasion of privacy? But isn’t this whole situation one big invasion of privacy? The cat is already out of the bag. And if I’m actually going to go through with this, shouldn’t I know all of the details? But wait…am I going to go through with this?

It might have been the two glasses of wine getting the best of me, but I suddenly felt incapable of making decisions. So, I decided to sleep on it and reevaluate the situation in the morning. After all, I had until Monday to make up my mind. 

Following a night of restless sleep, I started the next morning with a pot of extra strong coffee. I carried my steaming mug into the living room and turned on the gas fireplace hoping it would help me relax. Sitting on the couch, once again I stared into the box that had turned my life into a plot worthy of a Made-for-TV-Movie. My brain must have subconsciously made the tough decisions for me during the night because I suddenly grabbed the envelope labeled, “To Jessica – Open immediately” and ripped it open. It contained another handwritten letter. 

—

Dear Jessica,

If you’re reading this letter that means it’s Monday, November 15th, Tom is gone, and Ms. Anderson must have pulled through for us like you thought she would. I’ll keep this brief because I know you have a lot to do. Once Tom has been on the road for a little while, don’t forget to call the school and say that you need to pick Christopher up because you forgot that he has a dentist appointment or something. 

There should be another envelope from my package labeled, “Travel documents.” Inside it, you’ll find new passports for you and Christopher with your new identities and photoshopped portraits. Use the hair dye I sent to dye your hair and Christopher’s to match the passport photos. I have a friend who retired from a job in the Witness Protection Program and he created these passports for you. So don’t worry, they’re legit!

You’ll also find your flight itinerary and some cash which should hold you over until you arrive in Ontario. Don’t use your credit card in case Tom checks the statements.

I know this might be hard, but you’ll have to pack very lightly. Just remember, that most of your possessions can be replaced. I love you and I can’t wait to help you and Christopher start a new life here. You can do this!

Love, Sissy

—

Wow, I gotta hand it to ya, Sissy. You really thought this through. 

I opened the “Travel documents” envelope more out of curiosity than necessity. The passports for Sarah and Johnathan Andrews, as they were soon to be called, both brunettes, were definitely legit. The itinerary showed a one-way red-eye-flight to Ontario scheduled for Monday night. Smart. Don’t waste any time, just get there ASAP. And travel when there are fewer people in the airports. 

Well, there you have it. I had all the facts, now I just had to wait until Monday to do my part. I spent the rest of the weekend unsuccessfully trying to distract myself from this epic family drama that I had been cast in. 

My first-period class on Monday morning passed in a blur. Over the weekend I’d given a lot of thought to my game plan and the sequence of events for this day. I needed a way to discreetly leave school, at least temporarily, to go deliver the package to Jessica, and the earlier the better. The only option I could come up with was to leave during my lunch period under the pretense of going to grab a fast-food lunch. That was the only acceptable time for a teacher to leave the building. 

Second period is my planning period. I made a fresh cup of coffee in the Keurig in my classroom and tried to calm my nerves by partaking in my daily ritual of checking the attendance report on my laptop. After each teacher submits the attendance for their first-period class, a schoolwide report is emailed to everyone at the beginning of second period showing who’s absent for the day. Since our student enrollment is somewhat small it doesn’t take long to skim the report. Near the top of the alphabetical list, I saw the name Christopher Bates and my heart dropped. 

Wait…why is he absent? He’s supposed to be here this morning. Jessica is supposed to come to pick him up. Something about this doesn’t feel right….

It only took me a few minutes to come up with a plan. I picked up my desk phone and called the secretary in the school office.

“Elmwood Middle School, this is Mrs. Francis, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Mrs. Francis. This is Becca Anderson. I have a terrible migraine and I don’t think I’m going to make it through the rest of the day.” I said in the most pitiful voice I could muster. 

“Oh honey, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I felt it coming on this morning on my drive in and I tried to take some medicine but it’s just not working. I’m starting to feel nauseous and —”

“Oh, you poor thing. Even Wonder Woman herself couldn’t handle middle schoolers in that condition. Let me see if I can get someone to cover your third-period class and find a sub for the rest of the day. I’ll call you right back.”

Well, I guess all those years in the school drama club must have paid off. 

I started packing up my belongings and laid my binder containing my emergency sub plans on my desk. I was chugging the rest of my coffee when the phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hi, it’s Mrs. Francis. Ok, so Mr. Scott has offered to cover your third-period class. It’s supposed to be his planning period so you’ll owe him one. And I have a sub lined up for the rest of your class schedule. Go home and get some rest.”

I thanked her and slipped out of the building. Since I already had the package in my trunk I drove straight to the Bates house as fast as I could. 

The first thing I took note of was that Tom’s black Ford Ranger was MIA. Ok, that should be a good sign. My hands were trembling as I carried the package up to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited for a few minutes. The family dog was barking up a storm inside but other than that there was no response. I rang the doorbell a second time. Again, just the dog answered from within. I glanced around to make sure there was no one nearby and tried turning the doorknob. To my surprise, the door opened. The dog came running at me with his tail wagging. Luckily, his bark was worse than his bite. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, instantly enveloped by the silence of the house.

“Hello?” I said tentatively. “Is anyone here?” My ears started to adjust to the silence like eyes in the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a clock ticking and the faint electrical humming of an appliance. 

From the entryway where I was standing, I could see into the living room and the attached kitchen. The house was in disarray and there were signs of a struggle everywhere I looked. Furniture was overturned and a lamp covered in bloodstains lay shattered on the floor. In the kitchen, it looked like someone had been interrupted during breakfast. A bowl had clattered to the floor leaving a puddle of cereal and milk on the kitchen island. 

I returned to my car, with the package in tow, and drove to the Sheriff’s Office where I insisted on talking to the Sheriff himself. After showing him the package and telling him the whole story he promised me that three things would happen: they would immediately file missing person reports for Jessica and Christopher, find them as quickly as possible, and protect my anonymity. 

During the evening news that night the Sheriff held a press conference regarding the situation with the Bates family and urged anyone who knew something to call the tipline. I’d watched enough crime shows in my lifetime to know how urgent this situation was and how important the next forty-eight hours would be.

I struggled through the next day at school but I tried my best to just act natural which was easier said than done with all of the rumors flying around. Later that evening I had just sat down to eat a Lean Cuisine meal for dinner when my cell phone rang. 

“Hello? This is Becca Anderson.” I said.

“Hello, Ms. Anderson. This is Sheriff Williams. Do you have a minute to talk?” He said.

“Uh, yeah, of course,” I said.

“I just wanted to let you know that we’ve located Jessica and Christopher Bates and they’re safe in our custody. As we expected, they were kidnapped by Tom Bates. His employer helped us track him down with the GPS they use to track their fleet of semi-trucks. Apparently, Tom took Jessica’s phone, read some text messages from her sister, and deduced that they were planning something. Jessica and Christopher both sustained some injuries from the domestic dispute that occurred in their home. Tom had bound them and was hauling them in the refrigerated cargo section of the truck with the frozen turkeys so they were nearly hypothermic when we found them. But we have medics attending to them as we speak. I wanted you to be among the first to know. I’m not sure what Tom had planned but if it wasn’t for you Jessica and Christopher might not have been found alive.” He said.

I was silent for a moment, tears streaming down my face, letting his words sink in. “What…” I cleared my throat and tried again. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“Well, it’s safe to say that Tom is going to prison for a long time. And I’ve already started making calls to connect Jessica and Christopher with the Witness Protection Program in Ontario so they can be near Jessica’s sister for support. They deserve a fresh start and thanks to you, we can give them that gift.” He said. 

As I hung up the phone my mind wandered to my notebook containing the frivolous Christmas shopping lists I’d been so concerned about just a few days earlier. Two things are certain: I now have a new standard for giving meaningful gifts and I’ll never look at an Amazon box the same way again.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

Copyright © Jamie Gregory 2022