Remember the first time you closed your eyes really tight, palms pressed against those tender little orbs, and after a few moments the colors and patterns started to appear? It was such a delight to you, I'm sure, as it was to me, and you couldn't wait to tell everyone at school about this amazing discovery you had made. In those first moments of discovery, you probably thought it was just another one of those bizarre things your body does like sneezing when you look at bright lights or getting a sunburn when you play outside all day with no sunscreen.
I thought so, too.
It all started with a headache. I mean, I've always had the occasional headache, as we all do; too little water, not enough sleep, there are so many excuses we make. But this was a real headache. It started out as just a little throbbing in my head and I dismissed it with three Tylenol and some water per my usual modus operandi with these minor inconveniences. I crumpled the paper cup from the break room water cooler in my fist and threw it in the trash as I returned back to the sales floor. I was working at a bookstore, a truly thankless job (as all retail jobs are) with some really great benefits: a hefty employee discount and the opportunity to meet every author that came in the door for signings and meet-and-greets. As an aspiring writer myself, that was all I could ask for: unlimited access to limitless inspiration, and a chance to shoot the shit with the pros, advice when they'd spare it, and the occasional after-hours beer with the really friendly (read alcoholic) writers. It just so happened that one of those friendly fellows was stopping by the store that night to promote his latest book. He was once a local author and actually worked at my store to make ends meet before he got picked up by a national publisher and made it huge. But he always came early to the store to hang out with us before and stayed after to help clean up when he did signings, and he always treated the closing staff to at least a round or two afterwards. He had really made a name for himself, but he was humble, and we all loved him for that. So anyway, it's about an hour before his signing and he's at the front desk with some of the book sellers and one of the managers and they're all talking, maybe reminiscing about the good old days. I had met him and hung out with him after his signings before, and I thought maybe I'd go join the group and see what he had to say. Now, like I mentioned, he was here supporting his latest book, but it was quite a departure from his usual novel or short story collection. He was primarily a fiction writer, but this new book was billed as non-fiction, and I for one was sort of surprised by this. But at the time, of course, I just wanted to hang out with the man living my dream, get a few free beers and maybe slip him a thumb drive with my manuscript on it. As I approached the group of coworkers talking with him, I noticed they had very apprehensive faces and weren't laughing along with him (he was a really witty guy), but instead looked pretty uncomfortable. I made eye contact with Sherry, an older lady who worked with him before he made it big, and as soon as she saw me her eyes got wide and she sort of shook her head side to side, which I took as a "No, don't come over here." So I stayed away and instead when to re-shelve the "strays" that had piled up during my lunch break. Fast forward a few hours and my headache is still lingering, so I grab a few more Tylenol and a paper cup and head to the stage area of the store to catch some of his talk. It was a little after 6:30, and he was scheduled for a 6pm reading followed by a signing/meet-n-greet. Like I said, this guy was a local legend, and people thronged to our store on nights when he came by. But something was odd tonight. There were only a few people, maybe 7 sitting in the folding chairs we had put out in front of the stage. No one was talking, or even looking at the author up on stage. Not even the author was speaking. Just staring out at the few people with a sort of glassy-eyed "3000 yard stare." I sat in a chair towards the back thinking maybe he had just paused for a dramatic reading or something, but a few more minutes went by and still not a word. I was about to get up and go back to work when I suddenly became very aware of how severe my headache had become. My head was throbbing, it felt like someone was pumping up a balloon in my skull and it was reaching critical mass. My vision started to get dark despite the ample lighting in the store. Then it was like someone was pressing on my eyes and those colors and patterns started swimming up in front of me – phosphenes, I Googled it. I thought it only lasted for a second, but the next thing I knew my store manager was shaking my shoulder telling me to get up. He was angry, and looking at my watch I understood why. It was 9:30, we were closing soon, and I had apparently dozed off back here. The author was long gone, as were the handful of audience members he had attracted. I apologized profusely to my boss and hurriedly started about my duties of putting away all the chairs and sweeping up after the reading. We closed up shop and the four of us on the closing shift that night all headed out together. Everyone seemed a little uneasy from the author visit, but nobody said anything. My headache was still dully throbbing away, and I tried to ignore it as I made my way to my car. I hadn't heard of any plans to meet the author for drinks that night, but was still really in a haze from my earlier episode and wouldn’t have been up for anything but going to bed as soon as I got home. Now, as I mentioned, there were only 4 of us closing that night, and having worked at this store for so long, I knew exactly who drove which car and where everyone usually parked. But there was another car in the lot parked bumper-to-bumper with my car that I didn’t recognize, and I could see the silhouette of the driver still sitting inside. It was idling, but it didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. Maybe he was on his phone, or adjusting the radio or something. So I got in my car and started it up and as I clicked on the headlights, the driver of the mysterious car was suddenly brought into focus. It was the author, giving me that same glassy-eyed gaze he was giving the “crowd” at his reading early tonight. At that moment everything started getting dark again, like my headlights were a lone spotlight on a stage with a single performer in its beam. My vision tunneled into complete darkness again and the phosphenes dancing around in front of me. I felt myself panicking at first. I felt myself slowly losing consciousness again, and I wanted to try to at least shut off my car in case I fell asleep (or whatever it was, exactly, that happened before). I managed to cut the motor but as soon as I did my vision started coming back. Everything slowly came into focus and the colors and patterns had subsided. I was still sitting in my car, but the author was gone. My body felt like it was on fire, and I could feel icy prickles of sweat all over my face and arms. I leaned over and puked into the passengers seat. Rolling down the windows I gasped for fresh air, trying to get the smell of bile out of my nose before I puked again. Once I got my composure back, I checked the clock on the radio of my car. It was only 10:07. We closed at 10, so I had only been here a few minutes instead of the hours that stole me last time. I was really shaking at this point, utterly freaked out to say the least. I turned the engine back on and drove down the road a little way to a gas station. I grabbed as many paper towels as I could and tried to clean up my sick as best I could, and then went inside to try and get some air freshener to mask the stench. I sat on the curb outside the Circle K and had a few cigarettes before I got back in the car. I drove pretty fast the whole way home and rushed from my parking spot up to my cluttered third floor walk-up. As soon as I got inside I locked the door, threw off my clothes, and turned on the shower. I just stood under the stream of water for about an hour, letting the water run frigid. After I had dried off I lay in bed, still naked, with the fan turned on high. I still felt hot and prickly and the headache was still going strong. I didn’t even bother with the Tylenol, I just tried my best to will the pain away. I managed to sleep that night, but there were no dreams, just colors and patterns and the occasional flash of the author’s glassy-eyed stare from the car. I woke up at about 4am shivering. My headache was gone, my body no longer boiling, and I was extremely hungry. I decided that I’d take advantage of the new-found vigor and get up and make myself some breakfast. It was still dark, so I flicked on the lights to the kitchen instead of feeling my way to the fridge. But something was wrong. There were dishes in the sink that I don’t remember using, dishes I don’t even remember owning. There was a small plastic plate that resembled a small cafeteria tray or the little plastic “plate” that TV dinners come on. It was pink and covered with soft animals, clearly belonging to a little girl. There was also a matching bowl, cup, and flatware set in the sink, all pink and covered in sheep. It was confusing at first, seeing the dishes in the sink, but then my heart began to race. I lived utterly and completely alone. So why were there children’s dishes in my sink? I shook my head and just tried to ignore it. “Leftover fever dreams,” I thought as I went to the fridge to get some eggs. Opening the fridge, I was overpowered by an incredible stink, as if someone had killed a small animal, placed it in a bucket with vomit and shit and left it to ferment. I puked again right on the kitchen floor at the stench, and once I had sort of become used to the smell, I looked back into the fridge to determine the cause. I saw the usual spread of vegetables, chicken breast, yogurts and milk that I always had on-hand, but it looked like they had been sitting in this fridge for years with the power disconnected. The vegetables were hardly recognizable, just a greenish-black pile of rotting mush. The chicken had turned a deep grey-blue color and maggots were writhing around on the Styrofoam tray. The milk had soured and curdled and the resulting acidity had eaten away at the bottom of the carton, leaving a mushy and stinking pile of curds on the bottom shelf of the fridge. I gagged again at the sight alone and slammed the refrigerator door shut. My body felt weak from the heaving, so I crawled out of the kitchen and into the living room. I pulled myself up at the wall where the light switches were and flipped them on. Much to my surprise, everything seemed normal in here compared to the scene in my fridge– still my furniture, still my TV, etc. – but everything was covered in plastic wrap and layers upon layers of dust. I went over the couch and brushed some of the dust off of the plastic. The cushions inside looked worn and rotted out, stuffing spilling out of holes made by god knows what. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. I was panicking and still naked, so I ran back into the bedroom to grab a pair of pants. Everything was still on the floor where I had cast it off the night before after work, so I pulled on my jeans and a tshirt and went back into the living room. I needed some air (the stale dusty air of the living room was suffocating), so I tried the front door. The handle turned but the deadbolt was engaged. I tried to undo it before I realized that I was on the wrong side of the door; rather than the steely knob of the deadbolt my fingers were greeted with a keyhole. I was in a complete state of panic at this point. Where was I? What was happening? As I pounded on the door for someone to let me out (or in?) I could feel my headache creeping back. My stomach was still weak from the contents of my fridge, so I figured my best bet would be to go lay down in bed so I didn’t fall and hit my head in case the darkness and color and patterns came back. I pulled the blankets up and over me, covering my face like a corpse at the morgue, and the headache grew stronger. The darkness came, but my eyes were already closed so I didn’t notice. Those phosphenes were back and as bright as ever, dancing in front of me like the neon signs of some demented nightclub. There was a sharp sound accompanying the colors this time, high pitched and shrill. The colors started to fade and the sound became sharper and clearer until I realized it was my phone ringing on the bedside table. I opened my eyes and let the darkness subside a little more before I grabbed the phone. I missed the call, but it was a blocked number so I wouldn’t have answered anyway. I checked the time on the screen and it said 4:16am. I was naked again, the jeans and tshirt I had just put on minutes before somehow off of my body. It was dark in my apartment, the lights I had turned on before had been shut off again somehow. I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The headache was dull but still there, and I was absolutely parched.
I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and held it under the tap. Then I realized – the pink plastic dishes were gone. I turned off the tap and set the glass down on the counter. The sink was completely empty. I hesitated before opening the fridge, expecting the same odor to assault my nose again, but everything inside was normal. Just veggies, chicken, milk, the usual, all completely fine and unspoiled. I went back into the living room and the plastic was gone. Just upholstery and carpet where there was dust and plastic wrap just a minute ago. I even checked the front door, and sure enough the deadbolt was on the inside the way it was supposed to be. I sat down on the couch and tried to collect myself. What the actual fuck had just happened in the last 15 minutes? I tried to just shake the feeling of doom and sick that lingered around me. I eventually dozed off on the couch and woke up around 10am. Everything was still normal, exactly as it had been before I fell asleep. My headache was still dully pinging my brain, constantly reminding me of its presence. It took another few hours of just sitting on the couch to acclimate myself back to reality, but I was eventually okay with going on with life as normal. I was still naked, so I got dressed for my day before heading out. I was supposed to meet a friend that morning for coffee, but I had missed the appointment by about 3 hours, so I decided to text her my apologies, explaining that I had been really sick last night and ended up sleeping through the meeting. She said it was no problem and asked if I still wanted to meet. I said sure, when and where? She said 15 minutes at the coffee shop next to my store. I was planning on going to the store today anyway, so we agreed and I set off to meet her. I had managed to completely forget about the previous nights events until we got up, went outside, hugged our goodbyes, and parted ways. As soon as I stepped into the bookstore, I was flooded with memories about what had happened. I felt a little queasy, but not so bad that I was going to be sick again. I pushed through the doors and went to the desk to say hey to whoever was working this afternoon. The signs from last night’s signing event were still up, which I thought was odd because usually Jim was really good about putting up and taking down signs on time. I saw Sherry at the desk and thought maybe she had at least had an uneasy night too – though I guessed probably not as uneasy as mine. I started out by asking her how the rest of her night was. She seemed to be a little caught off-guard by my question, but she was old and reacted that way to most questions so I thought little of it. We exchanged pleasantries with no mention of the out-of-the-ordinary author visit we had had the night before. There were still copies of his latest book on the counter of the desk, and I decided to ask her if Jim was in today. She said yes, he usually is on weekdays. It was a Saturday, but like I said, Sherry was old and I didn’t think much of it. Plus, Jim usually worked Tuesday-Saturday with a Sunday-Monday “weekend”, so he would have still been in either way. I asked her why he hadn’t taken down the signs from last night and she just gave me a weird look. She hesitated a little before asking what I was talking about. I pointed at the books and said, “Last night’s signing. Why hasn’t he taken down the signs? He is usually so timely about those.” She still had a concerned look on her face, but the phone rang so she couldn’t answer my question. Instead of waiting around for her, I grabbed a copy of the author’s book and headed back towards the stage area. I absent-mindedly began flipping through it, and found myself glancing over pictures – illustrations and photographs – of brains and eyes, many of them dissected and splayed open on steel trays. I was shocked at first, but then I remembered that this was a non-fiction piece, his first ever. I closed the book as I came across Jim setting up folding chairs in front of the stage in the back of the store. “Whatcha doing there, Jimmy?” I asked him. Without stopping what he was doing, he told me very matter-of-factly that he was setting up for tonight’s signing. I was really confused by this. We never had signings back-to-back like this. “Huh,” I said. “Someone scheduled a last-minute stop on their trip or something?” He stopped unfolding chairs and looked at me over the top of his glasses. He pointed at the book in my hand and said that the author was coming in tonight to do a reading followed by a signing and meet-and-greet. “Again?” I asked him incredulously. “But he was just here!” Jimmy chuckled and said that yeah, it sure felt that way. He was putting out new books every few months now. I started to argue, but then held back. Was I losing it? That glassy stare was still burned into my brain, probably the source of the pain radiating through my skull. There’s no way it wasn’t real, I thought. I turned and went back to the front counter to buy the book I had been holding onto. Apparently forgetting our conversation from a few minutes ago, she lobbed a few pleasantries my way but my mind was racing. I just wanted to buy this book and go home. I only managed to catch the end of her off-hand comment saying my shift started in about 5 minutes and they needed all hands on deck to prepare for this author signing tonight. My stomach turned and knotted like a snake around a mouse. I handed her a $20 bill and really looked at the cover for the first time. It was a small paperback book and much like the inside, the front cover had eyes and brains on it, though only illustrations, nothing too graphic for the cover. The title of this book was called “Phosphenes and Other Oculo-cranial Phenomena,” an appropriate title for a book literally covered with oculos and cranias. I flipped it open and began reading the first few lines:
“Remember the first time you closed your eyes really tight, palms pressed against those tender little orbs, and after a few moments the colors and patterns started to appear?”
Submitted April 17, 2015 at 08:12AM by capndudeman http://ift.tt/1yzBsm7 nosleep
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