5.

5.

The white polyhedron, suspended in old, milky fluid, jiggled as it revealed: Future is Hazy.

“Story of my life,” I whispered. “Story of . . . ”

A chill hand gripped my heart.

My throat tightened. I had to swallow hard to open it again. A rush of something filled me. Dread, and fear. I felt lightheaded. I dropped the Magic Eight Ball and it bounced off the counter to the floor. It rolled away into the dark. I sagged forward and barely caught the edge of the counter with both hands, leaning on it for support as my stomach clenched and my knees buckled.

I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. “What the hell was that?”

An answer wasn’t forthcoming, but honestly, I didn’t want one. What I wanted was to get out and back to my cabin at The Motor Lodge. I didn’t care what I might do with my .38. I wanted out.

Bracing myself against the counter, I twisted at the waist and glanced over my shoulder at the door. I blinked several times, trying to clear my vision, but the aisle leading past the shelves stretched out forever. The floor shivered under my feet and the door seemed miles away, and tilted sideways.

The skewed perspective played hell with my senses. My head pounded harder as I tried to focus on the front door; my guts clenching, threatening to send my dinner everywhere.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “It’s not real. Not real not real not real not real . . . ”

The clenching in my guts eased. I took one more deep breath, pushed off the counter, and lurched down the aisle toward the front door.

The floor tilted with every step. I lumbered ahead, however, with the grace of a drunken mill worker (no disrespect to mill workers who drink, mind you). I narrowed my eyes so all I saw was a bit of the front door and not how crooked it was, how it tilted back and forth, back and forth . . .

I slammed into it, hand scrambling for the knob. My vision of the skewed aisle and door had obviously been an optical illusion or something. But I didn’t care, I wanted out.

I grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

Nothing.

No click.

Not a sound.

I used both hands and yanked with everything I had. It didn’t budge. I pulled harder, but my hands just slipped off the knob. I flew backwards and slammed into the nearest shelf of junk.

I’m not gonna lie. I yelped like a kid when the shelf’s metal edge jammed into the small of my back. I rolled to the floor in a shower of toys, ceramic mugs (a few which shattered), keyboards and an upended box of old floppy disks.

Something dinged. An electronic device had switched on in the fall. But my brains were too frazzled to worry about it. I closed my eyes and grabbed my head, took several deep breaths and sat still.

Silence.

Which meant I had to be alone, for sure. No way the shopkeeper was out back and didn’t hear the tape player, and then everything crashing down. I was alone, the door was locked, and I felt my grip on reality slipping.

Something happened. When I picked the Magic Eight Ball up and shook it. Something happened.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and rubbed. My head no longer pounded, and my stomach felt more stable, too. I rubbed my face and tried to piece my wits back together.

Something.

I heard something.

A voice. Whispering from far away. Actually, whispering wasn’t it, exactly. It was quiet, low and hissing, but the tone sounded excited about something.

my life, going to change my life

“Hello? Anyone back there? Mister? Listen, I’m not trashing your place, honest. I could use some help, though.”

I hated the way my voice sounded. So weak. Afraid. Hell, old. But I’ve got to admit, I was shook up. All my snark blown away. I was tired, scared, and I wanted out.

“Hey! Anyone there?”

ssssss

this is it

going to change

my life

Static. I was hearing something through static. I remembered the ding when things hit the floor, so I scanned the items I’d knocked off the shelf. Next to my foot I saw something which stood out from the junk: a brand new digital camera. A Nikon. That’s what dinged. Apparently it had switched on.

The viewfinder was glowing, the camera playing back a recorded video. Dark flickers passed over the screen. Something moved, or the camera panned. It was running on a loop and between snatches of dead air I heard a whispering voice.

going to change my life

I sat and stared. Then, on impulse, I reached out—my hand amazingly steady—and picked the camera up, to the hissing tune of: “This is it, going to change my life . . . ”