Tangled Intersections

Tangled
Intersections

Eva Lefoy

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 Eva Lefoy

Cover Design by James,
GoOnWrite.com

This is a work of fiction. The characters,
incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination
and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is entire coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Blurb

Copyright

Author Bio and Links

One Last
Thing

Dedication:

This story written on the
occasion of the 65
^th
birthday of Greg Van Stralen, who, in his
life-long quest for a good horror story, threw down the gauntlet to
a few of us writers. The rules were simple: create a horror story
in the same vein as The Haunting of Hill House (1959), by Shirley
Jackson. When he pointed at this particular author, he said, “You
can set yours in space.”

Being that this writer’s brain thrives
on irreverence, it’s no surprise the first thing that popped to
mind was Marvin the Martian. Whether or not Greg can forgive me
remains to be seen…

After watching the movie and reading
Jackson’s book – never having read it in school, strangely – the
story left a vague, confused impression. Who was who and what was
really going on? Was there truly an antagonist or was there only
imagined evil? Worse, yet, did the home’s malevolence come from the
characters themselves? The work came off as almost purely
psychological / emotional drama, which of course lends itself well
to the claustrophobia of a space station….

A former Los Angeles native, Greg is
known for his habanero hot sauce and gun addictions, and his
abiding knowledge of biology. The author wishes him many more
birthdays and shooting trips to come!

Blurb:

In deep space, there’s always some
terrifyingly easy way to die…..

For Nidi Station residents, sighting a
certain alien cartoon creature indicates their approaching demise.
But is the little green man a true harbinger of death or is he
simply an ale-inspired hallucination? For new resident Dr. Maynard
Grison, who’s suffering from a severe identity complex, one more
push is all that’s needed to send him over the edge. The question
is, which stimulus will set him off, the wastewater re-cyc green
ale, being shadowed by Marvin the Martian, or the talking
floorboards? Find out in this psychological space drama inspired by
The Haunting of Hill House.

Tangled
Intersections

Arrival

Nidi Station

Docking Bay

The clang of the docking clamps rang
in Dr. Grison’s ears sounding a hell of a lot like freedom. Palms
sweaty with anticipation, he kept them firmly wrapped around the
shuttle seat armrest and resisted the urge to look behind him and
grin at the Vanaslovi guards’ captive. How he must hate being in
captivity. But the truth was he’d grown sloppy. They’d found him
passed out right above the recently deceased body wearing the
victim’s blood on his hands. As the prisoner’s psychiatric doctor,
Grison was charged to see to his treatment. Right now though, what
he wanted more than anything was out of the stupid shuttle. He grit
his teeth and forced himself to hold still a little
longer.

Air hissed as the craft’s door opened,
allowing them into the small, pressurized primary bay. Barely
bigger than a storage closet, it allowed Nidi Station guards to
scan them for weapons and medical before authorizing admittance to
the main shuttle area. Their unit would be auto-parked by robot
attendants, filed according to size and anticipated need for
accessibility. Dr. Grison hoped they locked it away in the bowels
of the station and lost it. He didn’t ever want to see it
again.

Once the scan completed, the
auto-messenger welcomed them in several languages at once:
Universal, Parsi Tongue and Earth Standard. He half-listened,
smiling at appropriate times into the one-way monitor, and nodding.
Yes, yes, he would be sure to pay attention to the red and blue
traffic lines in the major pedestrian hallways. Yes, he would
recognize and obey the floating security bots. No, he would not
seek access to restricted areas. He’d follow abort-ship protocols
to the letter.

The guards behind him must have nodded
their assents as well, for the double doors suddenly whooshed open.
Dr. Grison stepped onto the main deck and took his first lungful of
musty station air with gratitude. Being locked on that shuttle with
those two goons and their maniacal captive Rister had almost killed
him. Almost, but not quite. He had far too much to live
for.

“
Welcome to Nidi Station,”
two hoverbots droned. “Coordinates?”

“
Security,” one of the
guards droned.

“
Lodging,” he said into
the forest green refractive eye panel of the closest
bot.

“
Extended stay?” it
warbled. The brightness of its visual matrix dimmed amidst a whir
of activity coming from its central processor. Apparently,
searching openings took up a lot of its battery power.

“
Yes, I think so.” Rubbing
his hands together, he at last glanced at Rister. His last contact
with the man before they would drag him away out of his sight,
hopefully forever.

Digging his feet into the station’s
no-slip matted surface, Rister sprang up repeatedly like a jack in
the box while the guards attempted to hold him in place. The crazed
look in his tearing eyes worried him, but it was the ongoing scream
echoing from under the face mask that made his skin shiver. Thank
stars the mask made verbal communication impossible. He recoiled
from the man, determined to get as far away from the psycho bastard
as he could manage in the last few minutes he’d ever spend in his
presence.

At last the whirring stopped and the
unit dinged. “Payment method?”

He flipped his attention
away from Rister and held out the gold platinum card with
Dr. Maynard Grison
holo-graphed across the front.

A stubby mechanoid arm
snatched it and slid it into a tiny slot on the front of the unit’s
casing where it disappeared from view. “Thank you. Processing.”
Another ding, and his card ejected, airborne, flying toward him. He
managed to snatch it before it took off a slice of his nose.
“Payment allocation verified. We are happy to welcome you to Nidi
Station, Dr. Grison. Please follow me to your new
luxury accommodations
.
We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Inside the mask, Rister’s shrill
throaty screech threw spittle out the front. It landed on the
slip-free matting at Dr. Grison’s feet. Two seconds later, a
cleaning bot scooped it up. Erasing all traces that Rister had been
there. Grison hoped, prayed that sooner rather than later, all
traces Rister had ever existed would be erased entirely.

Taking his leave at last,
he smiled at the captive man and then nodded to the guards. Nothing
left to say, but
thank you for not letting
that lunatic kill me
, he turned his
attention back to the hoverbot.

It shot off down the hallway at a good
clip, not looking back to see if he followed.

Sighing, he hurried down the
passageway dodging pedestrians, all the while following the
blinking blue lines, and stopping at the solid red ones to look
both ways. Always a good citizen, he tipped the bot when they
arrived at his rooms, and got its reference number: C35374. The
exchange was as good as a handshake, best one could hope for with a
mechanoid anyway. C35374 informed him his personal items would be
delivered to his room upon arrival of the mail cruiser.

All he had to do now was settle in and
wait.

Nidi Station

Habitation Zone E5

Grison awoke to the intercom blaring
right above his head.

Attention all Nidi Station
habitants. There has been a transporter accident at Corridor C
Section 511, Intersection 12.

A video opened, showing the grisly
scene. It was quite clear what had happened, and Grison shuddered
despite his heart rate hovering near overload.

This area is closed until
further notice. You will be notified when access is restored. As a
reminder, please obey the station’s safety protocols. Watch for and
avoid flashing red lines on the pedestrian walkways. Failure to do
may result in personal injury, or even death.

The closing slogan for the station’s
newscast sounded, then the whole thing repeated in language choice
two. Grison reached up, clicked off the monitor, and flopped back
on the bed. Sweat dotted his brow and pooled under his clothes.
Enough adrenaline pounded through his veins he felt like he’d just
been for a three hour jog. The image of the man partially beamed
into the surrounding architecture with just his feet and shins
sticking out stayed with him like a bad smell, reminding him of the
dangers inherent in such an old model station. It wasn’t yet his
normal rise time, but, too jittery to sit still, he got out of bed
and strode to the mirror.

In the reflection, his
eyes were wild, his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled. He looked
like a crazy person. “I need to calm down, that’s all.” He took in
a deep breath and closed his eyes. The hum of the station’s power
cells and the environmental system sounded rhythmic and
even.
Craaawk. Vroooom. Craaawk.
Vroooom.
Almost like a man’s voice. If he
listened hard enough, he might be able to hear what it was saying.
See if it was talking to him.

Startled by the thought, he opened his
eyes and jerked, letting out a small fearful wail. Immediately he
scowled, disgusted by his antics. “Get a hold of yourself Grison.
Remember, you’re not the crazy one!”

Walking calmly away from the mirror,
he studied his quarters. Apparently on Nidi Station, luxury
accommodations meant your own miniscule bathroom, a tiny kitchen
unit with an in-wall fusion cooker and a port window. All done up
in a tedious light gray, the rooms hardly screamed fashionable, but
they’d do for his needs. He wasn’t expecting company. Still, a
change of clothes would be nice. Stopping by the console, he sent a
message to C35374. Then, he got in the shower.

Emerging half-damp, he was
surprised to see a parcel sitting where one hadn’t been before. A
long, brownish colored duffle, it sat lumpily on the coffee table.
He studied it suspiciously, not entirely convinced it was his and
unsure how to approach it if it wasn’t. Looking around, he searched
the area for any sign of an intruder and then, slowly let his guard
down. He approached the bag and read the name tag.
Dr. Maynard Grison.

So it was his after all.
At least it
claimed
to be. “How silly of me.” His fingers trembled ever so
slightly as they unzipped the top. But of course one never knew
what they’d find inside such a contraption after it had been out of
one’s own hands for any length of time. “Wild dogs,” he muttered.
“Man-eating Prana Snakes.” When the bag was fully open, its
contents exposed and bleeding like an open cadaver, he felt both
relieved and disappointed at the sight. He gingerly reached in and
picked up one of the items using only the tips of his fingers,
drawing it out for inspection. A white, safari-style
hat.