Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (28 page)

“
Why
don’t you push the button and give me my life back?”

Although she had said it out loud to the empty car, she
guessed the words might be fitting coming out of the lipless face of
dream Bob, the one who wouldn’t stop invading her mind and
accusing her, blaming her, pointing his blackened stub of a finger at
her. She was overcome by how alone she felt, and despite the fact
that she still hated him, she decided to call mark. Frowning, she
picked up her phone and pressed the speed dial for his number,
balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could keep
both hands on the wheel. She waited, and was about to hang up when
the line connected.

“
Hello?”

He sounded distracted, preoccupied.

“
Hey,
it’s me. I needed someone to talk to. I’m just on my way
home from Jane’s funeral. How did the meeting go?”

“
It
went pretty well, actually. I think I’m close to closing the
deal. How are you holding up?”

“
Not
great... I’m afraid to be alone.”

With
the box,
she almost
added.

She got the impression that her call wasn’t
exactly welcome, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might be
with another woman.

“
Well,
I’ll be home tomorrow. We can talk about it then,” he
replied irritably.

“
Tomorrow?”
I thought you said it wouldn’t take long?”

“
I’m
sorry, baby, but I have to look after these clients.”

“
What
about me? I need you to look after me right now.”

She hated how weak she sounded, but was now convinced he
was up to no good. She could almost see the frown on his face as he
tried to cover his tracks.

“
This
could be a big case for me. It’ll be worth it in the end if Mr.
Mashima hires me.”

“
I’m
really struggling here, Mark. I need you. I think I’m losing my
mind. When will you be home?”

She was crying now.

“
I
don’t know when I’ll be home. I may stay in a hotel
tonight and head back tomorrow morning.”

She hated him for this, but hated herself more for
needing him so much.

“
Well,
I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said, not hiding
the fact that she was upset. Mark either ignored it, or didn’t
notice.

“
Ok,
baby. Ok, love you. Bye.”

Before she could respond the line disconnected, and she
tossed her phone onto the passenger seat in disgust. She saw a man on
the side of the road just ahead—he had the classic unwashed and
weathered appearance of the homeless. He was holding a crudely drawn
sign, black marker on cardboard. She suspected his chances of
hitching a ride were slim, and she certainly didn’t intend to
pick him up. She could imagine how he would smell, like body odour
and cheap wine. He flashed her a gummy grin as he held one hand out
to the road, his filthy thumb poking out of a tattered glove. His
sign indicated where he wanted to be. It simply read:

End of the road.

As she passed him, she felt icy fingers dance up her
spine. The place the old hobo wanted to be was exactly where she felt
she was heading.

Maybe you should stop for him. You can go together.

She wondered if the decrepit old man would push the
reset button if he had the chance. She was considering doing so
herself.

12.

Against her better judgement, she picked up another
bottle of vodka on her way home, and tried to ignore the shame of
being so weak. The rain had rolled in, pounding the windows with its
maddening patter. For the last two hours she had been sitting in the
near darkness of the apartment staring at the box. It would be so
easy to just reach out, flip open the lid and press the button. But
something in her restrained the desire, and it remained a standoff.

She knew she should at least try to do some work, but
every time she thought about powering up the computer she remembered
the message she had found, and wondered what might be waiting for her
this time. Nonetheless, she had work to do. And since the weather
outside matched her mood, she supposed this was as good a time as any
to get the book finished.

She looked at the two evils on her coffee table, the
bottle of vodka and the box, and with a surge of determination
reminiscent of the old Terri, she stood quickly, crossing the room
and plugging the computer back in at the wall socket.

What if there is another message?

She considered this, and then decided that the obvious
answer was the best. If there was something there, she would simply
delete it and then get on with her work, because that was all she
knew how to do. No adulterous partner or mysterious wooden box was
going to stop her. She pressed the circular power button on the
computer’s silver tower, expecting the familiar sound of the
system growling to life, but instead was met with a strained,
ill-sounding internal chug. Her heart leapt into her mouth as she
looked at the monitor, dismayed at the words on the display.

She
thought it had said
push
the button, push the button, push the button.
She
was about to scream when she blinked, and saw that it read something
else. Her trusty computer, the one she’d had for the last six
years, was obviously sick. Now it displayed a blue screen with the
words:

SATA HARD DISK DRIVE FALIURE. PRESS F1 TO CONTINUE OR F2
TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.

She
felt sick to her stomach. Her work, her book, her
life—
everything
was on that computer. Like a slap in the face, it hit her.
You
have no backup. No hard copy. Are you fucking stupid? What the hell
are you going to do now?

She wasn’t particularly
computer savvy. She knew how to use Microsoft Word, access her
emails, and use the internet, but that was the extent of her
knowledge. She poised her fingers over the keyboard, licking her
suddenly dry lips as she considered how to proceed. She pressed the
F1 key, hoping it would allow her to boot into the desktop and
retrieve her files. She waited as the computer struggled to process
her request. Next she was met by a new line of text, as straight to
the point as the first.

NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP
UTILITY.

She hated this one-sided binary communication with the
computer, and wondered if it was finally getting back at her for the
recent neglect. She could imagine it speaking to her, chastising her.

You really fucked up now, didn’t you girl? Who
doesn’t back up their work, especially in your field? I bet
Sykes is laughing his wrinkly old ass off right now and already
calling the lawyers. They are gonna take you for everything you have
and then some. They’ll own you until the day you die. Why not
just push the fucking button and get it over with?

“
Shut
up!” she croaked to the empty room. Her voice felt too high,
like an over-tuned guitar string. She pressed the F1 key again,
praying it would work. Again the computer thought about her request,
and spat back the same message.

NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP
UTILITY.

You don’t listen, do you Terri? That’s
always been your problem. You and I are similar: fucked up on the
inside, not functioning properly. Go ahead, keep pressing retry.
Round and round we go. This is all your fault anyway, pulling the
plug on me instead of shutting down the proper way. EVERYONE knows
that’s a no-no. There is only one-way out of this, but you know
what that is, don’t you?

She was shaking now, her eyes hot with tears. She didn’t
care. All she cared about was retrieving her work. She pressed F2,
trying to ignore the imagined computer voice in her head. The rain on
the windows was suddenly very loud, she could almost hear it singing
to her—

Push the button, push the button, push the button….

“
Shut
up, all of you just shut up!” she shouted at the empty
apartment. She knew how crazy she sounded, how crazy the situation
was, but sometimes crazy felt right. Sometimes crazy fit like a
fucking glove. She waited, hunched over in the darkness as she
listened to the familiar rhythm of the computer’s internal
clunking and whirring. The sound was not filling her with hope. The
next message didn’t even provide helpful options, nor did it
suggest any course of action. It simply read:

CRITICAL ERROR HARD DISK FALIURE.

She pressed the enter key, then the escape key but the
message remained unchanged on the screen. Screaming with rage and
blinded by tears, she grabbed the computer tower with both hands and
picked it up, ignoring the sounds of the keyboard and mouse
clattering to the floor, the sound of the monitor falling and landing
screen first on the hardwood. Sobbing, she carried the tower
awkwardly across the room, its wires and accessories snaking out
behind it. She staggered to the balcony door, pulling against the
resistance of the power outlet, which the machine was still plugged
into.

It’s no coincidence that everyone around you
dies, is it Terri? First Jane, then Bob, now me. What did I ever do
to you? I was always there, always stood by you. And this is the
thanks I get.

“
SHUT
UP! JUST SHUT UP!” she screamed hoarsely as the plug finally
pulled free. She fumbled at the door handle, managing to open it.
Wind and rain pounded her face as she staggered out, dragging the
computer behind her.

What,
you’re going to throw me off the seventh floor into the street?
That won’t help the case for your sanity, and we both know
there are more than a few question marks over that as it is. They’re
going to lock you up and throw away the key
,
Terri.

“
Shut,
up! They won’t,” she sobbed, blinking rainwater out of
her eyes.

And don’t think you can rely on Mark. He knows
he can get away with whatever he wants to. Hell, I bet he’s
balls deep in some older woman right now, because we both know that’s
what he likes, don’t we?

“
Stop
it, just stop it!” she pleaded, as she heaved the tower over
the edge of the balcony. She watched as it fell, its tail of wires
fanning out as it smashed into the street below. Several passers-by
looked up and pointed, but she didn’t care; she was just happy
to be rid of it, rid of its maddening voice. She laughed loudly,
pounding the air with her fists. It was liberating

Shivering
from the cold, she walked back into the apartment and sat on the edge
of the sofa. She opened the bottle of vodka, tossing the lid away and
taking a large gulping drink, which burned her throat and caused her
to cough. She could hear them knocking at the door now. Muffled
voices asking if she was ok, if she needed help. She even heard Mrs.
Molde, telling someone how something hadn’t been right for a
while. She ignored them—she knew that their words would soon
change. Soon the calls wouldn’t be out of concern. Instead,
they would be to
push
the button, push the button, push the button
.
They were all in on it. How could she not have noticed before?

She thought of Mark, and knew in her heart that he was
dead. Something inside her just knew it to be true. He would be just
like the rest of them—like Jane, like Bob, like her mother and
father, like her career. Like her life.

She heard snatches of voices at her door, probing,
quizzing.

“
Threw
her computer out the window...”

“
Are
you alright, Miss Browning?”

“
Her
agent just died...”

“
Always
talking to herself…”

“
I’m
going to break down the door and come in...”

“
Someone
should call the police...”

She ignored them. She no longer cared. Taking another
long drink of the warming alcohol, the burn not as bad on her throat
now, she smiled to herself.

“
You
win,” she said softly as she flipped open the lid of the wooden
box.

ERASE ALL

She liked the simplicity of those words. She liked the
way they rolled off her tongue. Taking a final drink, she set the
bottle down on the table. The pounding on her door was louder now,
more intense.

“
Don’t bother, I know
what you’re going to say,” she whispered to herself.
Reaching forward she picked up the box and set it across her knees.
No longer afraid, she ran her fingers lightly across the cool
plastic. She closed her eyes, then smiled as she pressed the button
and waited to see what would happen.