By: Christian Bauer
Not to throw some Brontë at you, but ‘little things recall us to earth’ (that’s Jane Eyre). Do you ever fall into yourself when you’re trying to get to sleep? What’s that called? It’s kind of like being called
back to reality. So, I’ll call it that. Recall. It’s an odd sensation—like goosebumps on the breeze of absolute zero.
It’ll stop you in your tracks.
So, I’m back, unpaused, into the slipstream of time. The wind recalls in tow, catching the chime dulcet of midsummer, like a soundtrack on repeat. When I look up, nothing’s there.
“Hello?” I muster, looking up again. Nothing’s there. So, I stray
from the living room
into the foyer with my newfound gumption, yelling loudly at the base of
the stairs, “Scott!”
What’s going on?
Okay, hear me out on this one. Every time I look up— nothing’s there. But these stairs do, and always have, led somewhere. And I don’t recall Scott down here. So, he must be— attached to nothing? That
can’t be right.
Naturally, I haul ass— right up those ordinary stairs just as I have
a million other times.
We started building in, what, 2020? Yeah, that sounds right. And much
to my surprise, there it
was. Not nothing.
“Scott?” “Sexy man!” he shouts from the guest bedroom.
“What year did we move in?”
“If I recall correctly, 2019-2020? Sometime ‘round there,” Scott
haggled with his
Fingers. “Yeah, no, 2020.”
Shortly after getting married, we bought our plot and built our
dream house. We’d been
dating, flirting with the concept, but hadn’t made it to it. Then, of
course, you know, the whole
pandemic thing. And honestly, I just couldn’t take living in that
cramped apartment another
second. So, we invested in our dream house—no— home.
Two stories. Four bedrooms, no basement. Three and a half
baths. A guest room. Our future spawn room doubles as a second office— the works. Moreover, the house has everything we could ever
want. But every time I look up—still, nothing.
“Ugh, groble!” Scott’s eyebrow cocked, “did you need something?”
“Nothing,” I declare and look up. “What do you see?”
“Not this ‘what’s up, dog’ thing again.”
“C’mon, I’m serious. What do you see?”
“A ceiling. A roof. A mortgage. The life we’re trying to build,”
Scott said, not looking up.
“It’s not like the money tree’s up and running.”
“Har, Har – seriously, look up. I insist. And, like, what’re you
doing up here? Did you
hear me calling?”
“I’m making up the pull-down bed. Grace—YOUR SISTER— is
coming to stay for a bit.
Remember! She told you all about it,” Scott said, taking a nervous
breath. “Remember, her and
Jake— I never really liked that guy to begin with.”
“That’s right,” I reply.
“You doing ok?” “Yeah, I mean, I think so. Will you please look up and tell me
what you see?”
“Nothing.”
“See, see! I love ya, but what did I tell ya?” I mutter, vindicated.
“Did you hear me calling you from downstairs?”
“Nope,” Scott said, sprawled diagonally across the bed, pulling
the last of the fitted sheet around the far-right corner, “but could you
please just help me a sec?”
Yet, before I could even respond—goosebumps. The heat vanished from the room. The
metal springs of the Murphy bed began to wail like metallic whales
beneath the ice sheets.
Before I could respond, the guest bed jarringly contracted upright, slamming Scott against the
wall. I scream, running in circles like I have spontaneously combusted.
From what I recall, it was only a second. With a snap, the bed
collapsed almost as quickly as it had vised shut. Yet, not without consequence. Scott’s blood begins to pool around the debris. I run to him.
That’s not nothing, I insist to myself— the Grim Reaper pushing
past me. Oddly, despite
the grim veil, I think they shot me a look? Those eyes, those damn eyes,
kill us every time. “You’re not welcome here!” I yell.
*
Recall. Only this time, I keep falling and falling back to my
reality through the endless-twisting-corridors-of-void like I’d never left.
Load game? I lip the file save options back to myself. It’s been hours.
“Nah, I’m not ready for that kind of commitment just yet.”
The chime-like interlude— I’m visibly shook—of The Sims whispers lullabies at 4 AM.
Maybe tomorrow.