Date: 2023-05-19 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: HOW FAR WOULD YOU GO TO LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE? Heather Mills has had a run of bad luck. After an obsessed stalker forces her to move East, her new apartment catches fire and she loses everything. She accepts a charitable offer that allows her to live in the basement of an old house awaiting renovation while she gets back on her feet. But what she finds in the dark cellar challenges the fabric of reality. A lost invention with the potential to elevate her from the slums—to re-decide her many poor life choices in the blink of an eye. Because her life couldn’t possibly get worse, could it? This vol

THE ILLUSION OF CHOICE

MORBID CURIOSITIES

Book 2

Aron Beauregard

Contents

Quote

THE ILLUSION OF CHOICE

A NEW BEGINNING

DEEP SECRETS

THE TEN PIN

IMPOSSIBLE DAYDREAMS

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

UNFALTERING AGONY

A FRESH PATH

LAYERS OF SUFFERING

WEIRD WORLD

GOING FOR BROKE

JUNKHEAD

SICK LOVE

RED CLOUDS

ALL EYES ON ME

PAIN

SECLUSION

SIGNING OFF

BACK TO THE BASEMENT

Epilogue

Morbid Curiosities Book 3

Morbid Curiosities Book 1

AB Horror Exclusives

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2023 Aron Beauregard

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Luke Spooner

Interior Art by Anton Rosovsky

Edited by Kristopher Triana

Printed in the USA

WARNING:

This book contains scenes and subject matter that are disgusting and disturbing; easily offended people are not the intended audience.

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For Rod Serling.

You instilled many lessons in the populace.

You helped me realize that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

“Every writer is a frustrated actor who recites his lines in the hidden auditorium of his skull.”

- Rod Serling

THE ILLUSION OF CHOICE

The unfrequented route was blanketed by darkness. As the thudding of heavy raindrops crashed into the earth below the murky clouds remained constant. The powerful rumble of thunder booming blared out through the vacant stretch of land, but as the lightning violently flickered seconds afterward, the storefront and lone vehicle parked in front of it were momentarily visible. When the unnerving natural lighting flared up outside, it offered a brief glimpse at the decaying wooden signage mounted above the isolated property that read: ‘Morbid Curiosities.’

Within the offbeat oddities shop a scene unfolded that was true to the eerie establishment’s name. The purpose of the place was to hold the attention of customers… or was it something more?

Mia looked at the shopkeeper, Venus, with fear and uncertainty stirring in her gut. She stared at the abstract imprint of the many stars and moons imprinted on the crimson shawl draped over her. The glowing oil lantern at her side made the imprint jump out. There wasn’t anything inordinately insidious about the woman, but something about the way she gestured to her, drawing back the curtain that led through the dark doorway, gave her the creeps.

“The power in this place has always been a bit unpredictable,” Venus said. “It’s to be expected in such an old building, but it should only take me a moment to have it sorted. It’s nothing to worry about. Just come downstairs, and once I take care of the lights, I can show you my collection.”

Mia kept her eyes on the woman. Venus remained grinning and patiently awaiting her response.

I gotta say something to her, Mia thought. Do you really wanna head down into the dark basement of an occult oddities store in the middle of nowhere? It’s probably better than staying up here alone.

Thunder exploded again and Mia’s body trembled. She looked back to the madness outside—the violent winds, flashing light, and heavy downpours were relentless.

I also don’t wanna offend her though. Driving through that insane storm isn’t an option.

“Okay…” Mia conceded, somewhat reluctantly.

“Right this way then, follow me,” Venus replied.

Once they were both behind the curtain, Venus took the lead. The glow of the oil lantern did little to shed light upon their surroundings. The hallway was old but seemed ordinary enough. They passed several other doors before coming to the final one at the end of the narrow corridor.

Venus reached around to the back of her neck and unhooked the leather strap that was tied around her. The corroded skeleton key that had dangled hidden under her clothing fit snugly into the antique door.

As the lock popped, so did Mia’s eardrums. The twist of the key coincided with another massive bang of thunder. The noise was so loud it easily penetrated the walls and slightly vibrated the building.

“Damnit!” Mia cried.

Venus slowly turned around, still not having flinched a muscle, as still as the dead. “This is quite a storm.” The smile between her purple lips remained.

“I don’t like storms,” Mia said. “They always seem to come at the worst times.”

“It’s hard to control your emotions. I like to think of these storms as an outlet.”

Mia crinkled her face. “An outlet for who?”

“For Mother Nature.”

Venus put the key back around her neck and the old, creaky board below her cried as the weight of her body found it. The stairs to the basement were not only built long before Mia was born, but they were filthy.

“Just like you scream in fright or anger, it’s no different for Mother Nature,” Venus continued. “Imagine if you had such madness festering on nearly every inch of your body. You’d be screaming non-stop.”

“I guess, that’s one way to think of it,” Mia surmised.

“It’s the only way to think of it…” Venus replied.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Mia felt a strange sensation; a lurking dread that she couldn’t internally articulate. I’m already down here, there’s no going back now…

“This should only take a minute,” Venus said.

Mia watched as the lantern floated toward the steel box affixed to the cobweb-caked concrete wall in the far corner of the basement. Venus opened the door to the breaker and angled the light inside.

“Ah-ha,” she mumbled, fiddling with a few of the switches.

After she was satisfied with the amendments she’d made, Venus turned away from the wall and rejoined Mia near the bottom of the staircase.

“Should be set,” she said, reaching out toward the wall and activating a light switch.

The basement lighting wasn’t exactly a far cry from the oil lantern. It was dim and orangey, but spread a bit further, offering a glimpse at the gamut of random items that cluttered the basement.

Looks like a lot of organized junk, Mia thought. She walked past shelves that contained everything from outdated weaponry to children’s games before approaching an item that she wasn’t familiar with.

The rocking bench was like no other woodwork she’d ever seen. It looked like a shortened church pew and was partially rotten. The cushioning attached was so ragged it made the piece seem like it had slipped out of a time warp. There were seats and armrests on either end of the odd piece of furniture, while a cage-like crib was fixed in the center, separating each of the seats.

“Never seen anything like this before,” Mia said. “It looks super old.”

“It is,” Venus replied.

“So, it’s just an antique?”

Venus laughed. “Nothing down here is just an antique.”

“So, what’s different about it?”

“In 1871, these particular sofa beds began to surface. It was convenient for parents; a rocker, bassinet, and couch, all in one. It even folds out into a bed. This particular brand, W. McArthur sofa bed, wasn’t something that was readily affordable to common folk back then. If you got your hands on one, it was like winning the lottery. So, if you were fortunate enough to be gifted an item like this, you were taking it, no questions asked.”

Venus placed her hand on the arm of the sofa bed and began to rock it gently.

The look on Mia’s face suddenly shifted when she realized what the item was. A solemn expression dominated her—children were the last thing she wanted to think about.

“There is something different about this furnishing though.” Venus turned back with a wide grin across her face, making eye contact with Mia. “A disturbing trait that doesn’t seem to follow any logic or reason.”

Deep down, Mia didn’t want to ask. But if she didn’t, her curiosity could never be quashed. She needed to know. “What’s that?”

She looked back to the crib area at the center of the piece. “Every baby that’s ever laid its head to rest on this sofa bed never got the chance to grow up. In one way or another, they all—”

“That’s heavy,” Mia interrupted hand over her mouth in shock and taking a step away from the insidious furniture. “But, do you mind if we talk about something that’s not child-related?”

Venus squinted her eyes. “Of course, dear. All we have is time right now.”

“Thanks,” Mia whispered, moving on past a dusty, retro kitchen table and toward a shelf that held a variety of items. There was an old battered notebook beside what looked like some kind of helmet. The purple goggles affixed to the front of the device called to her. “What the heck is this?”

“That’s an interesting one,” Venus said, reaching for the journal and carefully cracking it open. “But do you know what the best part of it is?”

“What?”

She looked down at the scribbled penmanship on the yellowed pages. “When I acquired this device, the story came along with it.”

A NEW BEGINNING

My name is Heather Mills. I have recorded the following events, to the best that I remember them, to the best of my ability. I have included as much detail as possible in the hopes that should someone else take this journey, they can do so knowing what’s at risk.

I understand that what I’m about to write, to the average person, might be the most fantastical thing they’ve ever read. But sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. The reality is we’re all living with a massive veil over our eyes. And I assure you, what you’re about to read—unfortunately for me—is the truth.

When I first trudged down the steps and saw the dank, semi-remodeled, single space, it only served to enhance my depression. I felt alone enough in the frigid, difficult world, so besides making me sadder, how much of a difference could living in a basement make?

Still, considering my situation, I was just grateful to have a roof over my head. I’d never thought about being homeless before—never imagined with my work ethic that it could happen to me. But had it not been for a random act of kindness, I might’ve just been another face on the street corner. That’s probably the most ironic part of this entire sickening series of events—they were built on a solid foundation of good intentions.

As I walked onward, toward the far end of the moldy cellar, I noticed the warped floorboards suddenly ended. I looked back at the gruff landlord, Nicolas Franks, with an eyebrow raised.

“Is the floor just dirt back here?” I asked.

“Unfortunately,” Nicolas replied. “Once you’ve been here a few months, I should be able to get someone to add some flooring. I honestly wasn’t even planning on renting the basement, but Mr. Pell explained that your situation was…dire.”

I smiled and nodded as he reminded me that he was doing me the favor. “Of course, it’s not a dealbreaker by any means. I was just curious. It’s perfect. For what I need it for, it’s absolutely perfect.”

I wasn’t lying. I was more than excited to have a space to be alone in. Even if it didn’t come with the ideal creature comforts, it was something. I had a lot of thinking to do if I was going to find a way to ascend back to normalcy. If I didn’t want dark places—like the one I was standing inside—to be a permanent fixture in my life, then I needed a plan.

“Good,” Nicolas said, “considering the price that your silver-tongued supervisor was able to get you, I didn’t imagine it would be. I’m afraid the last gentleman that owned the property wasn’t well enough to focus on the maintenance. Getting the upstairs livable is going to be a miracle in itself, but estate pricing makes up for it.”

He was a bit of a smartass but I wouldn’t be seeing much of him anyhow. The property was simply an investment for Mr. Franks. He’d already explained to me that he was renting out the above two floors in the upcoming months. “Thank you for agreeing to this,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

“Too kind sometimes,” he replied, squinting his eyes. “But Mr. Pell explained what happened with the fire. I can’t imagine losing everything. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you,” I squeaked. The emotion welled up in my nasal cavity whenever I thought about my displacement. Whenever I thought about losing all of my belongings, and now, every shred of dignity. The ebony ashes that the few sentimental items in my possession had been reduced to. It was hard to continue re-digesting it. It was like I’d been erased. In that drab basement I felt so fucking blank.

“Well, what you see down here is yours. The couch, the bed, and the television are all compliments of Mr. Pell.”

My eyes widened, the gloss on them continuing to grow. “Are—are you kidding?” I asked in disbelief.

I could no longer control it; my eyes started to run. Since moving out east, I hadn’t made many friends aside from my employer. But without him, I’m not sure I would’ve ever been able to rebound.

“Nope,” Nicolas said with a smile. “Tom’s one hell of a guy. I think he dropped off a few dishes over by the sink for you too.”

“That’s just…incredible,” I managed to say holding my hand over my mouth in shock. It was hard for me to speak. After learning what it felt like to have nothing, the joy of charity was overpowering.

Nicolas pointed into the darkness at the wall. “There’s a couple of shelves over there with some random tools and supplies for whenever I can get the renovations restarted. I was planning on leaving them here until then if it’s all the same to you.”

I nodded. “That’s fine by me.”

“And lastly, because of your situation, I’ll allow you to begin staying here now. I hope you don’t get lonely though, the above apartments won’t hit the market for another six weeks. Until then, it’ll just be you here…”

Even back then, the idea of being by myself wasn’t anything new to me. After having to move away from home so suddenly, I was used to being alone. I’d even grown to find it peaceful.

“It won’t be a problem, Mr. Franks,” I said.

“Wonderful.”

“I do have one other question if you don’t mind me asking,” I said sheepishly.

“Of course.”

“From time to time, I write to my parents back home. Would it be okay if I receive mail at this address?”

Nicolas pondered the question. “I supposed so, but for now, it’ll all have to go to the same box. I’ll get you and the other tenants separate ones when the time comes.”

“That’s perfect, I—I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Tom,” Nicolas replied turning away.

It was almost too easy. Seeing as luck hadn’t been on my side for some time now, I couldn’t believe what was happening. I had a place to say again. I watched Mr. Franks head back toward the door.

“I certainly will,” I said. “I—I don’t need to sign anything, I guess?”

Mr. Franks returned his gaze back to me and smiled. “There’s nothing to sign, officially; this isn’t official. But promise you’ll do one thing for me.”

“Of course.”

“Just don’t burn the place down.”

DEEP SECRETS

By the time Mr. Franks left, night had fallen already. I had work in the morning and it would be a big day. Tom had been so damn nice to me. I had to find a way to show my gratitude. I would’ve truly been lost without his help.

I’d gotten a bit restless laying on the couch and wondering what might be the best way to show my appreciation. The chatter of the news from the glowing tube gave me a little more hope than I’d had previously. The youthful, brown-haired anchorman explained the historical event in a monotone delivery.

“The space shuttle Challenger’s five astronauts are sleeping now after a virtually flawless launch and first day. This is the seventh shuttle mission, and with no hitches, it might’ve been considered routine. But as the Challenger climbed today, it carried the first American woman astronaut, Sally Ride, into space, and into history.”

If a woman can get to space, surely I can have a normal life, right? I wondered, ascending from the couch to pace around the gloomy basement. Sometimes it all feels like a bad dream. I slowly nudged closer into the mildew-drenched darkness—the area where the floorboards ended was a reminder of my failures. This is just temporary.

Looking back on it, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. I don’t know why I felt the urge to step off the wooden surface and onto the dirt. Maybe it was because I related to it.

I was one with it.

I was as soft as it.

I felt as worthless as it.

Eventually, as all of my personal possessions had back inside that blazing apartment building, I would become it—everyone did at some point. But there were some evenings that I yearned for that day to come quicker more than others.

As the countless conforming specks of earth cooled the bottom of my shoes, something drew me toward the wall in the back of the room. But when my foot sunk into the dirt in that area, there was a distinctly different texture under my soles.

I couldn’t tell what it was initially, but it was solid. I squatted down to investigate and used my fingers to brush the soft sand from around the area. There was a decent amount of dirt, but my curiosity forced me to dig down far enough to reveal the mysterious findings.

There was a length of chain that ran under two steel brackets attached to an old hunk of wood. I felt like an archeologist as I uncovered more of what I hoped to be buried treasure until I realized it definitely wasn’t treasure; it was a door.

The chain was a handle to open the hatch to the small entryway. My curiosity was now raging—I’d never seen anything like it.

“What the hell,” I whispered. “A basement inside a basement?”

I gave the chain a few stiff tugs before I could muscle the wooden square backward. In the darkness, I could see what looked like the top step of a wooden ladder. But that was as far as my eyes would be allowed to uncover without assistance.

I looked back by the dim illumination of the lamp near my bedside. A few yards away were the shelves that Mr. Franks explained held his tools. My gawk returned back to the mysterious hole in the floor. I considered closing it up altogether, but inside, I struggled to decide. Should I really be thinking about this?

The adventurer inside me would never let me live it down if I didn’t pursue it. There was no way I’d be able to sleep in a bed just a few yards away not knowing what lay beneath.

I jogged to the shelving unit. A hammer, some wrenches, and a pair of tape measures wouldn’t help. Then, there it was! A flashlight! The batteries couldn’t possibly work still—ha! They did!

The black hole was calling me. It was like I’d been sucked toward it.

But why?

It’s a question I still have as of this writing. Despite the answer being impossible to attain, I knew I needed to go down there. I needed to know.

When I initially shined the light, it revealed little. Just a dusty wooden ladder and another dirt floor below the foundation. I set my feet on the rungs and slowly worked my way down.

As I descended, the scent that filled my nostrils was even mustier than before. My heart thrashed madly with a fear of the unknown, but at the same time, it made me feel alive. It was clear I’d stumbled upon something strange. I was most likely about to encounter something that hadn’t been seen in some time.

Does Mr. Franks know about this place? Probably not. I don’t imagine he would’ve rented the basement to me without explaining such an anomaly. But at the same time, if he didn’t want me down here, he would’ve at least locked it up.

As I turned the light in the opposite direction of the one I was facing, I revealed a massive, black chalkboard. The dusty surface stretched the entire length of the wall and was dominated by scribbles. The etchings included various numbers, formulas, words, and the fleshing out of thoughts. Thoughts, calculations, and theories that were clearly far beyond my comprehension.

The ideological vomit cascaded down from the top where the words ‘The Randomizer’ were written. Below that wording was a diagram of what appeared to be a headset of some sort. The wide, squared frames that hovered over the eyes and the dome top that would appear to curve over one’s head.

The flashlight flickered beginning to randomly cut in and out. “Damn it,” I mumbled, slamming my hand against the rear of it.

Thankfully, it soon reactivated, and when it did, I unintentionally altered the beam’s trajectory. It was no longer aimed at the chalkboard; instead, it was angled at a workbench that held the physical representation of the sketched headset on the wall.

Surrounding the strange device were various tools and parts. A light switch was embedded in the wall beside an electrical socket with a single cord that ran to the rear of the headset.

I looked at the switch and wondered what I should do next. But I already knew it. I couldn’t help myself. I cautiously flipped it, part of me expecting an explosion to occur; the very thing I’d just promised Mr. Franks wouldn’t happen.

The action activated a hum above me accompanied by a flood of light that allowed me to see everything. But maybe even more interesting than the visual lighting that appeared, was the small red light just above the purple eye shield on the headset. It remained illuminated as the device sat abandoned on the table. Apparently, the wire inserted into the socket was a charger of some sort.

What the hell is it? I wondered.

There wasn’t much down there aside from a dozen or so spiral notebooks stacked next to the headset. I opened the first one I saw, and on the inside page, it read: ‘The Randomizer: A Chance for A Better Future by Charles H. Baxter.’

I knew the smart thing to do was forget about the hole in the floor and just crawl into bed. I had a long day ahead of me tomorrow. But how could I? Sleep wasn’t an option until I took a further look inside those notebooks.

THE TEN PIN

When the bus stopped downtown, just a few buildings away from The Ten Pin, I wished that I didn’t have to go to work. I couldn’t stop the thoughts from racing around my skull.

My eyes were bloodshot.

My heart was pounding.

My brain was so restless it bordered on being inoperable.

Yet still, despite my lack of energy, I incessantly rattled on thought after thought. I wanted nothing more than sleep, but even if I would’ve had the day off, I wouldn’t be able to rest. Not after what I’d spent the entire evening reading in wide-eyed amazement.

Many of the notebooks looked like they were written in Chinese to me. Filled with experimental theories, scientifical jargon, and things someone with a baseline education (such as myself) would need years of university to decipher. Thank God, Baxter had seen fit to construct a high-level thesis nearly any idiot could understand. But in reading it, I couldn’t be sure if he was a revolutionary thinker or just a madman in a bunker…

As I approached the exterior of the bowling alley, I looked at my watch. I still had a few minutes before my shift started.

I reached into my purse and stepped around the back of the building near the dumpster and I fished out a menthol smoke from my purse.

Twenty-six minutes, I thought, checking my watch again. It was one of the few things to survive the fire. Flickers of the flames swallowing up the apartment building flashed in my brain. I could never forget it. Or could I?

What if it never happened?!

My mind continued to jolt back to Baxter’s claims. To the notebooks. I needed to look them over again.

I reached into my purse and removed Baxter’s thesis notebook and flipped it open to where I’d left off.

It may sound silly, the notebook read, but it all started with the concept of decisions. We make them religiously and without end. From the moment we awaken each sunrise until darkness falls. I began to obsess over it; how many choices do we make? There weren’t many studies available on the subject, but the most respected one I was able to locate was by John Higgin’s—Study of Choice published in 1968—during which he estimated the number to be 773,618.

Ever since then, I viewed my individual life as a giant ball of clay—a soft exterior ready to absorb hundreds of thousands of impressions. Each choice I made moving it in a different direction ever so slightly, the totality of these minor indentations, over time, created a specific outline. But had I made a few of the opposite life choices, with the sheer number of decisions involved in this equation, then the outline would look completely different. In fact, not only would it look different, but it would spawn a series of completely independent paths, thus unlocking new choices, which would continue to create more pathways and a cycle of reciprocation that could potentially be infinite!

Was there a way to access these other outlines?

Did these alternate worlds exist elsewhere?

The short answer is, yes. (See notebook #8 for a full explanation regarding this topic.) Upon reaching this conclusion, finding a way to physically swap into them became my life’s work.

The way I calculated the equation goes back to my prior hypothesis—the amount of these dimensions that are available were most likely incalculable if not infinite. All it would take is changing one single decision in our lives, to be presented with any number of alternative choices. From that single self-rendered verdict, that could be as simple as deciding what to eat for dinner, we gain countless fresh timelines—countless possibilities.

With my creation, The Randomizer, I’ve allowed people an alternate path, a choice. Well, not just a choice, but several hundred thousand choices, all made completely at random, and all made at once.

But to what end you ask? I’m not entirely sure. I named it The Randomizer because there’s no way to be certain. Since we don’t know what choices are made in advance, there’s no earthly way to project which outline we’ll find. But statistically speaking, it will be far different from the ones we’ve created for ourselves. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But either way, I plan to find out.

The cigarette was nearly down to the filter when I finally pulled my eyes away from the page. As the length of ash dropped down to the tar below me, I couldn’t help but hope it was real. I’d have given my thumb to have a chance at rerolling the heap of poor decisions I’d made. To escape my pathetic status. Just about anything would be better than where I was.

Thinking back to what brought me to the east coast, a shudder ran down my spine. It had been a difficult couple of years, but it would’ve undoubtedly been worse had I been stupid enough to stay back home.

I met Gary at a supermarket. He was kind enough to me whenever I went shopping. I could always tell there was an extra excitement that flickered in his eyes whenever I was there. Upon filling my grocery cart and approaching the registers, Gary always tapped his bright red helmet, yelping out, begging me to choose the lane he was bagging in. I did it out of kindness, not because I wanted to.

It was clear Gary wasn’t quite mentally sound, as he harbored some traits of retardation. If his actions didn’t make it clear, the bright red hard helmet that he wore for his own safety did. As aggressive as he could be at times, it always seemed that he meant well. It was my good deed to stay friendly with him when I visited the store.

One day, he asked if I would have his baby. Shocked by such an unexpected question, I quickly came up with a lie and explained to him that I already had a boyfriend. It was the least awkward and safest response I could think of on the spot. Or so I thought…

His transition was instantaneous. Redness engulfed his cheeks and he started to grind his teeth. Hatred in his eyes—a look I’d never seen on him before. It was clear the question had been on his mind for some time.

Gary suddenly lunged and, grabbing me by the shoulders, threw me headfirst into an older woman’s carriage. His was so strong. When I crashed into the cart, it toppled over, spilling the bagged items onto the floor. Gary eyed the gallon of milk, his wet tongue tracing over his lips. While I remained stunned, he picked up the jug and mounted me. He tore off the cap and dumped the cold dairy all over my face.

As the red leaking from the gash in my head swirled with the pooling milk around me, I gagged and screamed. Finally, several other employees were able to pull him off of me and put an end to the assault. But even long after the attack, the fear Gary had left inside me after such a chance brush was otherworldly.

Due to his mental hindrance, Gary didn’t go to jail or face any charges. I didn’t want him to either. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I was traumatized by the ordeal. I considered suing the supermarket, but every time I thought I was ready to, I thought of the others. There were several people who had been born with challenges—difficulties many of us could never dream of battling through—who worked at the grocery store. They were all beyond sweet and I’d never felt anything but joy when I interacted with them. So, no, I didn’t want some judge to throw the book at Gary, not at first anyway…

After the incident, Gary was evaluated for several weeks before the powers that be nonchalantly reinserted him back into society. I had already started going to a different supermarket after that, but I guess I hadn’t given Gary enough credit. Unbeknownst to me, he’d already begun a search. Apparently, I was still on his mind and he wasn’t going to rest until he’d found what he was looking for: me.

He began to show up in the strangest places. Everywhere I went, I thought about him, because he wouldn’t allow me to forget. In his mind, the relationship that had never begun also hadn’t ended, and never would.

I would leave work only to find misspelled words written in blood on the windshield of my car. Honestly, if they hadn’t been written in blood, they would’ve been more endearing than threatening. But regardless, after what I’d seen he was capable of, I was concerned. One of them said, ‘TinKing of Yuu,’ while another read, ‘MAKe A BB witH Me!’ I couldn’t prove it was Gary, but I knew it had to be. And it didn’t just stop with words.

Dead pigeons began to regularly appear on my parents’ doorstep. They would be mangled to all hell; broken bones, crushed heads, de-feathered, ripped open, missing wings, and the list went on. The pattern of sick ‘anonymous’ actions only served to confirm Gary’s madness would fuel him indefinitely. I woke up on more than one evening to a black-masked man peering in through my window, drool pouring through the mesh of fabric in front of his mouth.

The incident at the store was enough for me to take out a restraining order, but I wasn’t sure that was enough to scare him away. I couldn’t even be sure he truly understood what it meant. And Gary was always somehow controlled enough to avoid leaving any obvious traces behind, there wasn’t much I could do besides constantly watch my back.

There’s always a final straw. That day came when Gary broke into our bathroom. Displaying his scary strength, he smashed through the window, then defecated in the toilet. I could see it on both my parent’s faces—they were tired. They were getting older, and even though the situation wasn’t my fault, I felt like I was continuing to burden them with consistent drama.

What would’ve happened if he’d gotten his hands on them? What if he’d gotten his hands on me?

It was something I would always wonder. I didn’t believe Gary to be capable of locating me, but I hadn’t before either and he’d found a way to surprise me. Every time I got on the bus, every day I came to work, there was a part of me that feared I’d see his face again.

I had no doubt I’d made the right decision. The best thing I could’ve done was leave. If I hadn’t left, there was no telling what horror might have unfolded. But there was also no disputing that making that decision brought me to where I was now. I had found a way that allowed me to stray from the repugnant path Gary had ushered me down, but at what cost?

But what if I could get to a timeline where our paths had never crossed?

Did the man who had previously lived at my residence somehow figure out interdimensional travel? It couldn’t be real, could it? The idea that the headset sitting in the basement could recreate the fabric of my existence seemed dream-like. If his words were true—if Charles Baxter was the groundbreaking inventor his notes claimed him to be—then what the hell happened to him?

“Hey, Heather!” Tom Pell’s always enthusiastic voice said. “You’re here kinda early today, what are you reading?”

I quickly whipped around, slipping Baxter’s notebook back into my purse.

“Just my notes is all,” I lied.

“Notes? What do you mean, like your diary?” he joked, stopping a few paces from the dumpster.

He looked like the most average person one could imagine—the classic, hardworking type. The kind of guy that knew a little bit about everything. His thinning black hair only made him seem more approachable. I thanked God our paths crossed; the exact opposite of the sentiment I felt towards Gary.

“Something like that,” I giggled.

“I see.”

“Trust me, it’s not anything you’d want to read, Mr. Pell.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, call me Tom,” he replied, brandishing a smile.

“Okay, Tom. I can’t even begin to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. What you’ve done is just… it’s above and beyond.”

“I’m happy to do it. I’d like to think that if I had a daughter someday, that someone else would do the same for me.”

“You’d certainly deserve it. I’d definitely help out however I could.”

He grinned. “Heather, if you’re still hanging around here by the time I have a daughter your age, I’ll kick your butt myself. You’re meant for bigger and better things. You hear me?”

I blushed and nodded.

“Now I know that place isn’t perfect, but for the time being, hopefully, it helps.”

“It is perfect. And somehow, I’m gonna find a way to repay you. I promise.”

“You can repay me by living your best life. You only get one, right?”

When the words left his lips, they hit me hard. To the rest of the world that would’ve been an obvious statement. I used to think the same…

“Right,” I said, matching his smile.

Mr. Pell looked back to the parking lot. “What do you say we open this place up then?”

“I’d love to,” I replied, tossing my cigarette.

IMPOSSIBLE DAYDREAMS

The Ten Pin was mostly dead. I spent the majority of the day disinfecting shoes and living inside my own head.

Tom came by a few times to make small talk, but it didn’t last long. I might’ve seemed slightly distant but it wasn’t intentional. I couldn’t stop thinking about the endless possibilities that potentially awaited me. If Baxter’s ravings were true, what would I do? Tom continued to ramble on to me about the weather until I subtly shifted the conversation.

“Do you know anything about the guy that Mr. Franks bought the property off of?” I asked.

I was hoping he’d found a way to pull some kind of details out of Mr. Franks, considering he’d been over there.

Tom’s demeanor suddenly shifted. Something about the question appeared to make him uncomfortable.

“No, not really…” he moused.

I made a slightly annoyed face at him—we were friendly enough for me to do so. “Do you know how terrible of a liar you are?”

He bit his lip. Tom didn’t want to talk about something, and whatever that was, I needed to know.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I—I just don’t want to scare you,” Tom said.

“Scare me? C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

“I really think it’s better you don’t know.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” I said, setting the spray can beside the size twelves.

“It doesn’t even matter—”

“If it doesn’t matter, then just tell me.”

I could see him starting to crumble; the rare firmness in my tone was making him squirm. I didn’t like being pushy—especially to a guy that had helped me while I was down—but I wasn’t going to allow him to charm his way out of this one. I couldn’t.

“From what I understand,” Tom began, “the guy was some kind of failed inventor.”

“Go on.”

“Apparently the pressure of his work got to him…”

Getting him to spit out the details was like pulling teeth. “How so?” I persisted.

“A few months ago, he took his own life. Hence how Nick was able to acquire the property at such an affordable rate.”

Shockwaves flooded me. Baxter had sounded unstable in his writings. There was a strong possibility he was a quack. But as unbelievable as the ‘invention’ sounded, there was this strange trust that I felt when reading his words. I’d just never imagined I was reading the words of a dead man.

“How did he die?” I asked.

Tom paused again. “I don’t see why you’d want to know that—”

“Please, Tom. If I’m living there, I’ve gotta know.”

He looked down. “He hung himself.”

I was beginning to see why he didn’t want to tell me about the morbid particulars, but still, I pressed. I needed to gather as much information as Mr. Pell would allow me to squeeze from him. “Where’d he do it?”

In posing the question, I worried I already knew the answer.

“In the house,” Mr. Pell whispered.

I took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “I’m not gonna be mad at you—anything’s better than being homeless. But just be square with me. He did it in the basement, didn’t he?”

Mr. Pell reluctantly nodded.

“Does anyone know why?”

“I really don’t know. From what Nick heard, Baxter left a note, but not much of it made sense. Seems like he just lost it. Why does anyone kill themselves really? Money? Heartbreak? Depression? Your guess is as good as mine.”

He was right. The idea had entered my mind on a few different occasions. It seemed like the only way to lift the weight of life once and for all. The burden felt like it was crushing me a little more each day. But since I’d uncovered that hole in the basement, the concept of happiness had never seemed so real. It was very possible that my thoughts of suicide could be a thing of the past.

But if The Randomizer even does actually work, that would mean it drove Baxter to end his own life. What’s to say it wouldn’t do the same to me?

As dicey as the idea was, forgetting about this world and how it had done me wrong was something I was looking forward to. In weighing the uncertain outcome, one thing had become abundantly clear to me; for better or for worse, I’d already made my decision.

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

When I got back to the basement, I entered via the front door. There were a few letters sticking out of the mailbox. I decided to be a good tenant and bring them in for Mr. Franks.

The first two pieces were local ads for pizza and a political campaign. The last was of more interest to me. It was a handwritten envelope made out to Charles Baxter. The return name read: Victoria Abernathy.

Open a dead man’s mail? I wondered.

I wasn’t sure that I was ready to answer that question but decided to hold onto it. I stuffed the letter into the front of Baxter’s notebook and flipped ahead to where I’d left off. At the moment, getting to the end of Baxter’s writings was a far more pressing task.

I spent the rest of the evening examining every paper, scribble, and diagram that I could find in Baxter’s secret cellar. I came away with a muddled perspective. Frustration stewed inside me. I still didn’t understand a goddamn thing about The Randomizer or its methods.

Were they safe?

What was the process?

How did the tech even function?

So much of it sounded like the ravings of a mad scientist, which did not instill confidence. In layman’s terms, the major notes I’d taken about the actual process were as follows:

1. Electroshock of the synapses.

2. The pulling apart of matter and atoms.

3. The reassembling of living cells and the substances that connect them.

There was other talk of opening portals, the transfer of consciousness, and the refabrication of body and spirit. Still, I’d impressed myself—the fact that I was able to even pull out the high-level concepts from such complex notes was a victory in itself. But the greater details I just wasn’t capable of making heads or tails of.

Is this thing going to fucking electrocute me to death?

It was a valid question. In his notes, Baxter indicated he’d made it through more than one randomization, but there seemed to be several sections missing from the notebook—areas where multiple pages had been torn out.

What am I missing?

There was no way to be sure, but from what I was able to piece together, Baxter had been able to travel with his notes. He explicitly stated that whatever his flesh was holding onto or directly connected with at the time when he activated The Randomizer was transferred along with him to whatever alternate reality he ended up in.

I’d also learned about charging the headset. There was a light that transitioned from red to green once it contained enough of an electrical charge to be activated.

I sat on my bed and looked at the blinking green light on the left temple of The Randomizer. Missing pages or not, it was now or never. I prepared myself, taking in several deep breaths, and then unplugged the cord from the wall and packed it in the small suitcase I’d found in Baxter’s secret chamber.

I can do this. I can finally be the version of myself that I always wanted to be.

As I tried to prepare myself for whatever was about to transpire, it suddenly dawned on me. If I was actually going through with it, then I too would need to document my own experiences like Baxter did. In addition to his notebooks, I packed several others and some writing utensils—having lost most everything in the fire, I had little else to consider.

I didn’t know why Baxter had really gone as far as he had with his invention, but I was willing to bet it was for a less selfish reason than the one I had for taking the plunge. For my own safety, and as a courtesy to Baxter, I would meticulously record the entire process. I didn’t have any fancy equipment, but that didn’t matter—neither did Baxter. Or if he did, he preferred the old-school method.

I would only have my records.

After locating an empty notepad underneath Baxter’s workbench, I frantically recorded everything that transpired up until this moment to the best of my recollection.

With each pen stroke I placed upon this paper, my nerves trembled more violently. Each word drew me closer to my uncertain journey.

* * *

And now, I’ve finally caught up to the present. Here is sit, preparing for my uncertain journey. What will happen next, I have no way of knowing. My guts feel like an old blender full of rocks, running at full speed. I’m sure anyone that’s preparing for interdimensional travel would have a bad feeling. So many things could go sideways. I suppose that the horrific feeling swirling inside me will eventually subside, and hopefully, I’ll be alive to enjoy it.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about Baxter killing himself. What could the reason have been? In my heart, I don’t think he was a failure as Tom suggested, but why would he conceal his success from the public?

Maybe his notes are lies and the device never actually worked? Or maybe he just hadn’t perfected it and the frustration did him in? Or what if it worked but the world just wasn’t ready? There was no way for me to know.

As I complete the cataloging of my experiences, I can’t help but continue to peek up at The Randomizer. I’m trying to calm myself but it’s not working. For I know in just a few moments I’ll be sitting upright on the couch, clenching the briefcase in one arm and sliding those violet lenses over my pupils. I’m mere seconds away from total tragedy, or pure tranquility.

The scary part is, there’s no way to know which.

UNFALTERING AGONY

I instantly regretted activating The Randomizer. Firstly, I didn’t expect the process to be as painful as it was. The burning jolt of electricity stiffened my frame until it felt as rigid as a cadaver. The burning sensation that enveloped my entire being, made me feel like I was being lit on fire and pulled apart at the same time. The tingle escalated to unbearable agony. If I could’ve moved, I might’ve killed myself. But I couldn’t scream or struggle—it was simply happening to me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Visually, the thick, lavender lenses that shielded my eyes allowed me to see very little of what lay beyond them. I was in a dark basement, so there wasn’t much to see to begin with. The dull outline of the sink against the far wall and deactivated television in front of me became a swirling, digitized mess. There was no way I could be certain what was transpiring around me. Based on Baxter’s notes, I had my suspicions, but as the fragmented wads of matter pulled away from each other, I couldn’t help but feel like the framework around me was being eradicated from random areas of the whole picture. Was the environment as I knew it melting away?

It was difficult to decide because as the flaring pain became too much to handle, I had zero chance of furthering the thought. The internal debate was dead—my suffering was all I was left to focus on. I prayed for a quicker death and wished that my fears could drain from my body like the sweat that was pouring out of my head. As the tears dripped out of my eyeballs and quickly sizzled to the point of evaporation, thankfully, I finally lost consciousness.

A FRESH PATH

When I regained my awareness, I felt a gentle cushion on my backside. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I was resting on a king-sized bed. Unlike the scratchy sheets I was accustomed to, these were soft and of a high thread count. The bedroom was massive and decorated in a regal manner. The painting on the walls and various items that filled the room seemed far too expensive for a person in my class.

Fancy furnishings you might see in an antique store, in perfect condition. The top of the dresser was lined with expensive perfumes and extraordinary jewelry. A massive, big-screen television sat at the far end of the room, and an open closet door displayed a wardrobe filled with sparkling dresses and stunning suits. The totality of the visuals was overwhelming; I was stunned to the core.

Is all this… is all this mine? I wondered. Of course, it is! Who else’s would it be? I’ve struck gold!

I felt an absurd sense of excitement, but also felt weak. It was undoubtedly the result of the taxing nature of my travels, but I managed to get to my feet. The stunning array of jewelry that sat on the dresser caught my eye. I mustered whatever strength I could and wandered over to the collection.

When the silky violet robe pressed against my body, it felt like heaven. I’d never owned a garment so cozy. Was this going to be the new normal for me?

As my eyes found the charms, the caliber of stones and the overall beauty of the pieces made me feel special for the first time since I could remember. I wasn’t so thrilled because I was now clearly well off; I was excited because I wasn’t poor. I was excited to wake up each day with a feeling of security in place of the endless flow of dread that constantly kept me on edge.

But as I reached down to inspect the ruby amulet necklace on the bureau, the reverberations of my prior pain still lingered. I shook my head and tried to move on from it. Then I noticed a short stack of paperwork sitting on top of the furniture, it called to me. I didn’t typically just keep papers laying around in my room.

My eyes quickly scanned the document, triggering my jaw to drop. The details on the paper required deciphering, but after digesting the legal jargon and fancy phrasing I could comprehend that my life had most certainly changed in the manner I’d hoped. The documents outlined various information required for a lawsuit! Apparently, there was some degree of negligence by the owners of the property!

Incredible! In this dimension, I must’ve had the money for a lawyer after the apartment burned down!

I couldn’t believe my luck. I was so ravaged by my excitement that I was literally shaking. I reached out to flip to the next page of the document, but as my arm extended outward, I noticed my hand looked far different than I remembered. Just the mere sight of it caused my heart to drop full speed into the pit of my stomach.

The malformed skin that encompassed my hand looked horribly distorted—like melted, flesh-toned taffy that was bubbly and stretched. My normally well-manicured cuticles were now distorted, and my fingernails were misshapen. The chaffing, irritated skin around my fingers was also peppered with countless blackened holes and divots.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

My blood-curdling shriek tore my vocal cords. But my wail of agony wasn’t set to subside anytime soon. As I turned toward the standing mirror, I got a glimpse of my new hell.

My face had been burned so brutally that you could still see the river-like path that the liquified flesh had taken. It was like my cheek was oozing off my face. I was bald with a scalded scalp—nearly all of my hair had been destroyed, save for a small patch on the left side of my head. I looked like a balled-up wad of discarded butcher shop scraps that had been melted together! I looked nauseating!

I was confused at first, but a theory was soon thrust into my head. The apartment fire! I—I must’ve been home during it in this reality! Oh no! Oh God, no!

My screams were only stunted by my personal repulsion. The rumbling inside my gut. The sickness that had been set off within me erupted up through my esophagus, bringing me to my knees. A chunky wave of vomit launched forward all over the Persian rug.

The fucking Randomizer doesn’t just randomize environmental surroundings, it randomizes you! Why the fuck didn’t Baxter have a note about that!

The thought caused several images to flash inside my head. First, the missing pages in his notebooks, then the suitcase I’d put all the materials inside of, and finally, the demonic device itself. Things had been going too well for me to think about it, but now the question was more important than ever. The Randomizer! Where the fuck is it?! When I’d awakened, the device and briefcase were nowhere to be seen. Was Baxter wrong?! No, he couldn’t be. His record books detailed his various travels.

I needed to find The Randomizer immediately if I wanted to find the fastest way to escape this nightmarish timeline. As I continued to spew the contents of my stomach onto the floor, I was suddenly interrupted by a knocking on the door.

As the knob slowly twisted, I heard a concerned voice. “Ms. Mills? Are you—is everything alright in here?” a portly woman dressed in a nursing outfit asked as she peeked into the bedroom.

I was hidden behind the bed and able to cease my puking. As I wiped the remaining hot dribble from my lips, I did my best to act normal. I knew that normalcy was going to be my quickest guide to recovering The Randomizer.

“Yes, of course. I’m fine,” I lied, trying to control my violent tremble. “I just…I just had a bit of a trip is all.”

I worked my way back to my feet and did my best to control my heavy breathing. I didn’t want twenty questions from the woman. I had no idea who the hell she was, but she seemed like some sort of caretaker.

When I turned to meet her face-to-face, my heart felt like it might explode. As I looked into her eyes, I noticed that she didn’t seem off-put by my ghastly appearance—she was clearly accustomed to it.

“I was a bit worried about you last night,” she said. “You were dressed in rather odd clothing and wearing some kind of helmet. I left you to rest, but I must ask, what happened?”

“The—ah, the helmet is a therapeutic instrument,” I replied. “It’s supposed to soothe my headaches and relax me. Speaking of which, where did you put it? I suddenly feel I’m in deep need of some relaxation.”

I bundled the lie in with some truth in hopes that this wouldn’t be a difficult task.

“I stored it in the downstairs office. I didn’t know where else to—”

“And my briefcase?”

“It’s also there.”

A massive wave of relief washed over me. I was grateful this nightmare wouldn’t be permanent.

“Can you show me the way?” I asked.

A look of befuddlement crossed the woman’s face. “Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“No, but I think it will be if you take me to the device.”

The woman seemed weirded out, but not as weirded out as I was. We silently descended a shining wooden staircase outside of my bedroom door. When we reached the lower floor, I could see the house was far more grandiose than anything I would’ve ever required.

The woman extended her arm, pointing at the door a few paces away. The baffled look smeared over her face twitched with discomfort—it was obvious she understood she was explaining the location of a room that I damn well should’ve known already.

“I’ll just need a few minutes please,” I explained, slipping inside the office and closing the door.

As I locked the handle, I exhaled deeply, happy to be alone again. I’d only interacted with the caretaker a few moments, but it felt incredibly strange and daunting. I knew she was real, but there was something about her—and everything around me really—that felt synthetic.

The office was lavish, but I wasn’t concerned with those details. I was only concerned with never seeing the property again. I inspected The Randomizer and was grateful that it seemed to be in the same condition as when I’d taken my initial plunge into the unknown. I searched for a wall socket and plugged it in to charge. When the light activated, I scanned the area for the luggage. I needed to continue to capture the events as I witnessed them. The notes I took became the basis for this larger, all-encompassing transcript.

I began to cry as I extracted my journal but still managed to scribble wildly. I captured my feelings, theories, and fears. The process was painful but also cathartic. The paper was someone to talk to in a world of people that would never understand. At that moment, I realized, in attempting to seek freedom, I’d become trapped.

My prior timeline was dead.

If I were to tell a person about my past, they’d think I was mad. The only way to prove to someone what the effects of The Randomizer were was to leave them behind entirely. In proving the point, I could be propelled into a fresh cycle of suffering and uncertainty. And to what end? I hadn’t the foggiest clue, which was maybe the scariest aspect of the entire situation.

Judging from where I’d been standing before—nearly homeless, without any sentimental possessions, living in the unfinished basement of an old house, working at a bowling alley—in my simple mind, things couldn’t get any worse.

Lesson learned.

It can always get worse.

In between crying and my scribbles, I looked up at The Randomizer, waiting for the charge light to transition from red to green. Waiting for my next sentence of agony to be ready for injection.

I shook my head, trying to break free of my pessimism. Just because the first time had twisted my life to provide me the most horrifying vantage point, didn’t necessarily mean that was how the next journey would be. Right?

After all, the device was called The Randomizer, hence the experience was random. To give myself hope, I imagined that it was like rolling dice. The varying degrees of luck could provide me with any number of outcomes. I wasn’t going to roll snake eyes every time. What were the odds of that?

As I wiped the tears off of my bumpy, deformed cheeks I saw the light flash to green on the side of The Randomizer. Like I was getting ready to swallow the most bitter pill, I put the diary back into Baxter’s briefcase and fastened it shut.

It was time to find out what came next. I could only hope that it was going to be better than my current situation.

LAYERS OF SUFFERING

When I pulled the lever this round, I managed to stay conscious the entire duration—but that wasn’t a good thing. The pain surged off the spectrum. I think subconsciously, the reason I was able to avoid passing out was that I knew it could be very dangerous if I did. If I wasn’t awake, The Randomizer and Baxter’s notes could fall into anyone’s hands again. I had no way of knowing if they’d be as kind as my caretaker was.

I couldn’t risk getting stuck.

The shock of the device made my eyes water and the subsequent fluid sizzle again. The jolting spears of pain ranged from my temples to my toes. My body involuntarily flailed. The grip I had on the briefcase intensified as the muscles in my hand seized upon the handle. The smell of burnt hair and sweat crept up my nostrils.

The pressure at the bottom of my feet remained consistent, so I could only assume I was still standing. Just like my first trip, the faint outlines of the office furniture beyond the visor transformed. The swirling molecules broke down, dripping into new, mysterious amalgamations. What they would become was not for me to know, but I feared for the worst.

As I pulled The Randomizer off my head, a thin ring of smoke drifted off my scalp. I felt woozy like I could barely stand. My hold on the briefcase and The Randomizer broke in unison when I saw who was standing before me.

Gary’s wide grin was just as silly and frightening as I remembered it. Even more terrifying than his general presence and glee was his current state. He was naked all but for the red helmet he wore for protection. In his dirty hand was his massive, uncircumcised member. He was hard as horseshoes.

“Time to make the babies,” Gary said, slurping drool from the corner of his mouth.

Horror and repulsion throbbed inside me. My dread only intensified when I saw the foreskin stretch and peel as Gary grew harder. The yellowish penile crust and off-white chaffed skin splotches that speckled his manhood were gag-worthy. As the raw flesh further unfurled, the advanced state of his smegma was apparent. The jam-like substance was both brittle and gelatinous depending on the area. The scent of the freshly revealed bacterial infection intertwined with his already potent body odor, creating a scent that I can only describe as cataclysmic.

In my weakened state, I might have fainted without the already devastating smell, but Gary had already started to violently rip the silk robe away from my body. When he shoved me on the bed, I was expecting to see my flesh as I recalled it—not perfect, but me. Instead, I was confronted by a revelation that I hadn’t accounted for.

The misfortune from my prior travel had carried over! I wasn’t able to leave the gruesome burns that coated my exterior in the nightmare that was the prior universe! Out of all the choices in my lifetime, I found the path of bodily incineration again! What were the odds? It was impossible by Baxter’s calculation! Fucking impossible! I may have escaped the environment that shaped me, but its effects were everlasting! The misfortunes of each version of myself that I inhabited were piling up!

My disfigurement didn’t seem to bother Gary. If anything, it excited him more.

“My burn bear!” he screamed, pushing me onto the bed and spreading my legs apart.

With all the chaos, I hadn’t had much time to fully inspect my body before switching timelines. I had been mostly concerned with moving past it. I had imagined I’d be moving on from the melted version of myself, but instead, I was examining my body closer.

Apparently, my nether regions hadn’t gone unscathed in the fire. My vagina looked like it had been deep-fried—a dehydrated clam that had been left out on the beach. I laid back and allowed him to do what came next—there didn’t seem to be a better alternative.

When his mammoth member slimed my charred lips apart, I could smell the overpowering stench of his hideous genitalia. The deconstruction of the jock-jam, crumbling apart like over-aged gorgonzola that had been left out to rot.

When Gary open hand slapped me across the face, the ferociousness behind the blow stunned me. I remained dazed until his fingernails scratched down my scaly, flaking flesh and tore into my recently healed skin.

My shrieks and cries went unheard. I suddenly realized that I still wasn’t even sure where we were, never mind who would’ve been in a position to help me. The terror in my heart caused a needle of pain to stab it with each pump—the madness of the situation was absurd.

In what scenario had Gary found me?! I wondered.

I suppose that it was possible, but the notion didn’t seem fair. As he reached for the jug of milk that sat upon the bedside, the pitch of my scream intensified. The memory of the last time we’d seen each other invaded my brain. He must’ve been fond of that memory too if he had gone through the trouble of recreating it.

One thing about the reenactment that wasn’t true to form was, unfortunately, the condition of the milk. I could sense that it was far past the sell date when he twisted off the cap. My fears were further confirmed as the lumpy, rancid stream splattered over my face and scarred body.

The curdled puddle oozing over my shell left me crying and begging for mercy. But my pleas were cut short by the fetid funneling of disastrous dairy into my mouth. As the porridge caused me to gag, I swallowed some of the wilted wads which triggered a violent coughing fit. Clumpy streams—with a scent too vivid to describe—of snot and rotten milk ejected from my nostrils.

“MAKE A FUCK! MAKE A BABY!” Gary bellowed, his obese body rattling with ecstasy.

As disoriented as I was, I was carefully crafting a plan. Figuring out when to make my move was the most difficult part. The hell that had harnessed me wasn’t to be my life. I felt a rage boiling inside me. The wrath that I wanted to unleash like never before. If I didn’t do something to stop the insanity, then anything could happen. Gary might destroy The Randomizer sentencing me to remain a slave to his punishment forever.

When he elevated what was left of the awful jug to his lips, I saw my opportunity. I quickly thrust my palm directly into the bottom of the big jug. The plastic spout smashed into Gary’s face it partially collapsed. But the force of my shot was enough to knock him off balance and send him reeling.

After he toppled backward off the bed, Gary’s head smacked against the wooden floorboards, causing his loosely adorned helmet to fall off his head and onto the floor beside him.

I was still trying to spit the nauseating dairy chunks from my mouth and clear the clumps from my eyes while attempting to gain my balance. I saw the hard plastic glimmer and rushed to grab hold of it. Gary had just turned onto his side as I was raising it above my head.

When the first blow connected with his forehead, he cried out like a child being chastised. Hearing the hurt in his voice made something inside me snap. I didn’t feel bad; I tasted the blood in the water. Curling my deformed fingers around the hard shell of the helmet, I once again raised it. There was a brief moment of hesitation. But I couldn’t stop—stopping wasn’t an option.

Gary was more than just a mentally unhinged stalker, more than just a rapist. He was the catalyst of my woes—the pivot point to my downward spiral. A random person. A freak. Someone that I probably should’ve never even met, but still it happened.

If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve never had to leave home in the first place. I would’ve never become displaced by my apartment fire or stumbled onto The Randomizer. Was this the universe’s way of offering me a moment of retribution? As I let my rage take over, I accepted that I’d probably never be able to answer that question.

The unforgiving safety helmet found Gary’s face again and again. Each strike cracked him wider. Each strike opened up his flesh and tenderized meat.

I loosened his teeth.

I mashed his nose.

I exposed his bones.

As I continued to pound his face, it transitioned from a sturdy outline to a warped wealth of beat-up slop. I whipped the helmet around wildly, thrashing it with all my might against his cheekbones, listening to the crack of the hard plastic casing as it started to give way. His blood dotted the ceiling and furniture and left long crimson slashes across the walls.

The painting of my surroundings continued long after he stopped crying and breathing until his head had turned into the fucked-up shape that I envisioned when Baxter talked about the outlines of life.

It was only fitting.

I slumped down to the floor, emotionally and physically drained. There was no getting around it—I’d just killed a man. Yet somehow, it didn’t feel that way.

Is it because he deserved it?

That might’ve been part of it. I couldn’t even be sure what was real. Certainly everything around me felt authentic, but the very nature of what I was involved in was quite surreal. But after a few seconds, I wasn’t even thinking about things I couldn’t prove. It set in on me again—I could remember how bad things had gotten.

How frightened I was.

How monstrous I looked.

How uncertain my future had become.

The tears started to stream down my cheeks. Being thrust into survival mode put me on a cloud. The power of the unexpected high served to bottleneck the deeper shades of my emotions in the moment. But now the floodgates had been opened. The horror, disgust, and depression smacked me in the face all at once.

What the fuck did he do to me?

I looked at my disfigured body in the mirror and shuddered. Quickly picking up my robe, I used it to clean the rosy fluid leaking from between my legs, and I slid down to the floor. The deep red swirling out of Gary’s bludgeoned face attracted my gaze. I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t help myself.

I had to kill him. I tried to reason with myself, to make sense of my actions. He lost his mind. If I didn’t stop him, who knows what he’d have done to me…

I needed to focus on what came next, but unsurprisingly, I was having trouble. The weight of such an assault—the one on me as well as the one I’d dished out—wasn’t something that could just be brushed away temporarily. But I closed my eyes and tried to focus.

Suddenly, another thought came. A thought that instantly struck terror into me. Amid all the commotion, I hadn’t even stopped to ponder if there was anyone else in the house.

WEIRD WORLD

After searching the premises, I was shocked to find Gary was the only person living inside the house. Well, the only person besides me…

A horde of joyful pictures was placed throughout the home, each depicting a story I didn’t see coming—the story of us.

Yes, we were in a relationship. The warped snaps of me—burned to a crisp—and Gary—his filth-covered face and deranged smile—happily together at various parks and establishments were everywhere. Apparently, in this extra cynical strain of my most twisted of outcomes, I’d returned home after my shocking disfigurement and sought out my stalker.

Was it because I’d been so horrifically burned that I thought I couldn’t do better? I thought. Jesus fucking Christ…did I…did I settle for Gary?!

Whatever the reason, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d just murdered the man I both hated and—at least in this universe—loved. His perverse affection was misplaced in this version of me, but not in his damaged mind. Never had I felt like such an imposter. Never had I been so sickened by myself.

For the first time, I felt like I didn’t know who I was anymore. An experience that I’d never witnessed even in my darkest moments. The feeling was strange, but what I felt was the truth. In this timeline, I was submitting to things I would’ve never been able to fathom. I’d become some sinister doppelgänger that had invaded Gary’s dream world only to snuff him out of it.

After dwelling on my realization, the urgency stung me like a wasp. My feelings were irrelevant—I needed to get moving. I took a shower and cleaned myself off. As the water fell onto the few strains of hair that remained on my scalp, I couldn’t help but think about Baxter.

I can see why he killed himself now. Why didn’t I think this through more?!

I felt trapped and—whether it was fair to feel it or not—tricked. In this world, I was a murderer, which meant I needed to get the fuck out as soon as possible. I could only assume there were still authorities in the timelines I entered. I had no reason to believe otherwise.

Hanging around too long would undoubtedly leave me feeling even more trapped. If I was stuck in a cell, there would be no way I’d ever be able to fix this. But the mere thought of what came next scared me almost as much as getting caught.

I settled on penning another diary entry while recharging The Randomizer—the details of which have been integrated into this larger record. I slipped into some clothing that fit me perfectly before making my way back to the suitcase. Luckily, The Randomizer was not hit with any of the curdled milk or bloodshed, but I did have to use a towel to clean off the luggage.

I didn’t feel comfortable being around Gary’s corpse, so I decided to set up in the kitchen. I left The Randomizer to charge and opened the suitcase. When I completed my journal entry, I went to place the book back inside when an envelope slipped out onto the table.

What’s this?

I looked down at the piece of mail—it was the letter I’d stowed inside before beginning my horrific journey! I’d forgotten about it! Without hesitation, I immediately tore open the document. I needed any answers or information that might be able to help me un-fuck my situation. I had no problem opening a dead man’s mail any longer! Hell, I’d just killed one myself!

I was excited, but still calm as I carefully opened up the letter. It read:

Dear Charles,

Enclosed are the pages you asked me to hold for you. As curious as I was, as promised, I never read them. I suppose the secret will be someone else’s to explore and understand. You never gave instructions as to what I should do with them if something were to happen to you. I assume whomever gets your final letters will know what your wishes were.

You were an interesting and mysterious man. Even though you never let me get close to you, I still felt close. I wish I’d gotten to say this to you while you were still here. Maybe if I did, things would’ve turned out differently for you. I’ll miss you, old friend. I look forward to seeing you in the next life.

With all my love,

Victoria Abernathy

I fished inside the envelope locating the sheets wrapped in black plastic that Victoria had referred to in the letter. Even beyond the plastic, they were sealed separately in another plastic baggie. My heart pumped furiously as I yearned to learn any final details that might guide me forward. My biggest worry was not being able to understand them, but that was an unwarranted fear. What the pages revealed was that there was no help for someone in my position.

In reading over each paragraph of Baxter’s scribbles I learned several things:

1. Baxter saw fit to remove several pages from his comprehensive study because he thought their findings were too off-putting. The hope was that whoever stumbled onto his hidden lab might have the courage to resume his journey. But if any potential traveler understood the devastating impact that The Randomizer could have on one’s life, they would most certainly skip the experiment.

2. Baxter’s path was even more horrific than my own. It was the very reason he took his life. The details he inscribed left me terrified of my future.

3. The reason that Baxter wanted someone to continue his work was that he truly believed that he’d created the pathway to nirvana. As he noted, each time he slipped into an alternate reality it continuously got worse. His calculations—or maybe it was just his beliefs—concluded one had to reach the bottom of the barrel before they could achieve the ideal version of their own life. It was the ultimate descension before ascension. It was only when one hit rock bottom that he believed the system would reset and place the subject at the pinnacle. For my sake, I prayed he was right. I also prayed that I was stronger than him. Otherwise, I hadn’t the slightest chance to of correcting my trajectory.

There were more details included, but nothing of true relevance.

The bottom line? I was fucked.

If there was any accuracy to Baxter’s disclosures, wherever I was going would be far worse than where I was. And I would be forced to repeat the process until something gave. Eventually, Baxter’s notes just became rows and rows of single lines that encapsulated each horrific experience. There were a few dozen before he finally stopped. In the end, there was no farewell, no fancy write-up, nothing.

He simply gave up.

Suddenly, a shrill cry ripped through the room. A closet door that I’d failed to inspect remained ajar on the other side of the room.

No.

The child cried again.

No!

I didn’t want to look but I’d never be able to live down not knowing. As I opened the closet door, the smell of neglect smacked me in the face.

The baby—what I could only assume to be my baby—lay in a crib filled with filled diapers and stained blankets. Black mold and filth infested the sleeping space.

My heart sank into my stomach but still raced with such speed that it felt like it might explode. I couldn’t stop to think about it. It might’ve been mine, but it wasn’t mine. I forced myself to look back at The Randomizer.

I was about to leave my child to starve to death in a disgusting closet. As sickening as it seemed, considering the conditions, I might’ve been doing the kid a favor.

While I stared at the freshly transitioned green light on the headset of The Randomizer, a fresh tear trickled down my face. I took a deep breath and prepared myself as best I could. The only problem was, I had no idea what I was preparing for.

GOING FOR BROKE

It’s been a while since I’ve written. I don’t have enough ink or patience to meticulously catalog every horrible detail as they happen to me. I’m not sure the details would be of use anyhow; they would serve no true scientific purpose. It would merely be an exercise in the most inane travesties that could be visited upon an individual.

Should this diabolical experiment conclude in success—whatever that looks like—I’m not even sure if it would be appropriate for the data to exist. Maybe it’s just my own selfishness, the ego I never had manifesting before my eyes, begging to tell my story—or stories—I should say.

Furthermore, I feel like Baxter duped me. It’s not even a feeling, there’s no other reason anyone would go to such lengths to obscure revealing data. So my disclaimer is that the following notes were not recorded in an effort to secure the legacy of Charles H. Baxter, but more for the morbid curiosity of the masses.

Moving forward, I will jot down some short descriptions to represent each timeline I’ve entered. As previously stated, this isn’t every single timeline transition, just the lowlights. I can see the paper is running out and I need to conserve space in the event I reach whatever it is I’m looking for.

I still have no idea why each of these interactions is more horrible than the last, but at the time of these writings, it should be noted that I am still hopeful that Baxter’s hypothesis was correct.

And why shouldn’t I be? At this time, it’s the only hope I have left.

JUNKHEAD

I couldn’t tell exactly what was wrong with me initially—but I definitely felt off. After finding dozens of infected track-marks on my arms and between my toes, I deduced I’d entered the path of a junkie.

A lot of veins were already blown, and because I transferred into the body of an advanced addict, when the urges started, I quickly had to get myself up to speed. I had no idea where to find the drug I was hooked on—or even what I was hooked on—but thankfully I still had a dose of what a homeless woman explained was black tar heroin.

She offered to help shoot me up so long as I gave her a taste. Clueless as to how else to suppress my withdrawals, I immediately obliged her. After laying about in an alley and drifting in and out of consciousness for several hours, we wanted more. The woman then offered to show me how to find various odd jobs on the street that could help fuel my addiction cycle.

I found out what it was like to become a street whore completely dependent on other unhinged gutter people. Thankfully, due to the burns that my body was covered in, even the scum believed me to be some kind of diseased vagrant. Forget about selling myself—I couldn’t suck a dick for free. There were some men who came on my face for the novelty of it, but none of them actually wanted me to touch them—which, for the degenerates in that crowd, was saying something.

That actually played in my favor. Although my stay was longer than anticipated, I avoided getting trapped. I recalled that I had stashed The Randomizer and briefcase in the basement of an abandoned house. But the entire plan almost went to hell when I returned to retrieve it.

My withdrawals throbbed harder, and I immediately tried pawning The Randomizer for cash. Thank God the store owner thought it was worthless junk. He must’ve thought I was some kind of a lunatic when I explained to him what the device was capable of.

With his rejection fresh on my mind, I knew there was no other choice. I had to move forward. I locked myself inside a smelly McDonald’s bathroom, located a charging outlet, and shit my brains out inside the stall while The Randomizer charged. It was the first bowel movement I’d had in days—the constant smack use had left me severely constipated.

In the end, the one withdrawal I was grateful for was finally being able to withdraw from that disgusting timeline.

SICK LOVE

While I don’t know if this was the most disturbing path in the grand scheme of things, on an intimate level, nothing else was even in the ballpark.

This timeline backtracked to where I’d never left home or even met Gary. If that would’ve been a voluntary, permanent choice, I would’ve opted for it without an iota of hesitation. And I would’ve suffered the deepest trauma possible for all eternity.

My parents were always loving beyond what any child could ask for. When I’d moved away, I left a piece of my heart home with them. But this was not the mother and father I grew up with.

These people were demons.

The kind of ‘affection’ they showed me was perverted beyond anything I’d witnessed. Watching the sweet, kind faces I trusted so absolutely betray their wholesomeness and indoctrinate me into incestuous slavery destroyed any semblance of who I was. I never imagined I’d see the people responsible for my conception stretch me—both mentally and physically—with such jarring depravity. The repercussions will reverberate in my nightmares until I’m deleted from the matrix. It’s almost impossible to put into words.

My pen shakes with each character I strike.

The grueling nature of those weeks left me broken, hate-filled, and confused. Was the universe really that cruel? Was that the point in Baxter’s journey when he decided to quit, or did he experience something even worse ahead? Was it my parents who were fucking me or him? After all, Baxter was the warped architect behind The Randomizer.

These were the questions that haunted me. Questions I still have no means of answering.

It took me weeks to break free of the forbidden love triangle. I was able to accept that the people brainwashing me weren’t actually my real parents. I then knew that something needed to change. That the knife in our kitchen was my only friend in the world.

Dad was still at work when I caught Mom coming out of the shower. Because I did it around lunchtime, I had some time with her—maybe too much time. I’m not exactly sure what happened. I just remember seeing her nude, flabby body. The dark brown mole just above her cunt triggered me—I’d been forced to stare at it so many times before while she suffocated me with her lady parts.

It was probably for the best that I blacked out. I liken the experience to losing television reception for a while before eventually tuning back into the regularly scheduled programming. Except there was nothing regular about this. Not one bit.

Mom was stepping out of the shower one minute, and in the next minute, she was on the floor, covered in a slimy heap of entrails. The chasm I left in her doughy gut seeped. Her belly looked like an enlarged version of a toothless elder’s gummy mouth, the yawning wound puking up the giant worms of her guts.

I stared at Mom’s destroyed corpse for some time. I tried to remember the good times—the real version of her. In a way, I was having a funeral for both of them. I wasn’t prepared for what I felt during the spontaneous event. I did my damndest not to let my emotions get the best of me.

I forced myself to clean up—first my blood-soaked body, then the bathroom. It wasn’t the only time I’d seen that much blood but my prior experiences didn’t make things any easier. Once I’d gotten the space in decent enough shape, I stuffed my mom—and all the pieces of her I’d collected—into the shower and slid the frosted glass shut.

It didn’t take long to locate The Randomizer. It was in the basement in a box labeled ‘Heather’s Stuff.’ I’d retrieved it long before I knew Dad was scheduled to return home from work. I didn’t have to kill him, I wanted to. The change in my character shocked me the same as it did the first time. Once again, I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. I felt doomed; like I’d somehow already lived a hundred horrible lives.

When Dad finally got home, he asked where Mom was, and I lied, of course. She was at the store, I said, or something like that. He seemed satisfied enough with my answer—I think he was far more focused on playing with me than his wife anyhow. I noticed a distinct alteration in his posture.

Lighting up a Pall Mall and unbuckling his trousers, Dad told me to get down on my knees like a good little girl. As usual, I complied. I made sure my tongue was dripping wet, letting my saliva dribble—keeping him distracted was crucial to not only my thirst for vengeance but my eventual escape. I was at peace with jeopardizing my future. Even though the risk obviously outweighed the reward, in my mind, I didn’t believe I’d be able to go on living if I didn’t right our wrong before I moved on.

When he started fucking my throat, Dad got even more excited than usual. After several weeks of obedience, I had a fair read on both of their pulses. I wasn’t sure what was different about today. Maybe it was because Mom wasn’t in the picture anymore, or maybe it was because I was acting like I was into it. Since I knew it was the last time it would happen, for once, I kind of was.

Why did I let him fuck my throat? I thought. I could’ve just killed him without reliving the trauma again. What’s wrong with me? I looked at my burned reflection inside the glass of the deactivated television set. I looked unrecognizable. Why would he even want to fuck someone that looks like me? When I was a junkie no one did.

It was obvious that I was damaged in ways I couldn’t even begin to understand. I stopped asking myself questions and focused on the task at hand.

Dad looked up at the ceiling and took a deep drag of the butt while thrusting his cock further into my esophagus. As he exhaled a cloud of smoke, the cigarette burned closer to the filter, and Dad inched closer to climax.

I choked on his saltiness, but as the tears ran down my cheeks I could feel it—the perfect moment to make my move had arrived.

When I slid the pruning shears out from under the couch, he didn’t even feel the edges. Maybe it was because they were of the compact, hand-held variety and the two-inch mouth fit around his wrinkly cock with ease. The jaws made their way through his penis like a wet spoon through baby food. The blood surged out, creating a morbid money shot I wasn’t prepared for. But even as the ruby fluid splattered across my face, I smiled. Dad fell backward onto the couch, squirming and shrieking like a little girl—as his little girl had for the last several weeks.

He said he’d never meant to hurt me.

I said the same.

He continued to cry, asking me why I’d done it—as far as I was concerned, he’d have to figure that out for himself.

It must’ve been a truly bizarre moment for Dad when he watched me slide the purple visor over my eyes while his nub continued spewing. The last I heard of him was his high-pitch wails as he tried to give the 911 operator details.

As I felt the pain of The Randomizer activating, it suddenly dawned on me—what if he somehow survived? What if my dad was the next John Wayne Bobbitt?

There was no turning back, so I guess it didn’t really matter anyway. Hopefully, he’d learned his lesson.

RED CLOUDS

The next several transitions I went through seemed less about my immediate life and more about the entire world around me. The environments were hellish—beyond anything I could’ve imagined. Because there was no one instantly confronting me in these worlds, I was able to observe the overall state of the dimension and consider if I wanted to stay.

While these new horrors weren’t as personal or intimate as what I’d experienced previously, they might’ve been the most traumatic yet. To see the fast-functioning, ever-growing, and—in my own mind—invincible world as I knew it on doomsday was a nightmare that extended far beyond my personal circumference. It impacted everyone and everything.

The first Armageddon scenario was wartimes. The cool blue sky was no more. The sky I gazed into was overrun with red chemicals from the explosions. The audio was as atrocious as the visuals. In this chaotic world, the gore-caked streets were seasoned with automatic gunfire and constant screams. I’d been privileged enough to live in a first-world country my entire life. I’d had hardships but never lived in a war zone.

This was not the America I knew. It was the confusion, violence, divisiveness, decay, and lies—but all out in the open. It wasn’t overtly obvious why such madness was unfolding, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out. Unfortunately for me, where I went next wasn’t any better.

ALL EYES ON ME

The insane world that followed was dominated by extreme paranoia, fear, and disease. Everyone was not only in hazmat suits at all times, but masked underneath. It didn’t take long for me to hear about the virus. It was on every tv screen, billboard, magazine cover, and airwave. In fact, I didn’t see anything that wasn’t about the virus.

Apparently, the sole point of life had become trying to survive the pandemic. I couldn’t have given a fuck less about it. I couldn’t relate to the countless Rubbermaid minions or the snitch culture that had been cultivated and interwoven so seamlessly into society. After all, how could I? I no longer feared death—I welcomed it.

It didn’t come as a shock that the first people I encountered didn’t welcome me. When they saw my burnt flesh uncovered and out in the open, you’d have thought that they’d seen the devil himself. The rage in their overly-medicated eyes was true. They wouldn’t stand by and let anyone contaminate their sterilized civilization.

Part of me wanted to just let them crucify me, but the wilting hope I still harbored was somehow more powerful than the whole of my depression. I willed myself from the paths of their surveillance-state stares.

Seeking refuge, I broke inside a dilapidated church. This thread seemed to have abandoned God altogether. I couldn’t blame them, for so had I.

It took several days to finally find a window where I could sneak out and get The Randomizer recharged. During that time, I didn’t develop any symptoms or traces of the viral rash that everyone seemed so fearful of. As I was readying myself to exit, I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d just done an impeccable job of sterilizing the city, or if the virus existed at all.

PAIN

Eventually, I transitioned back to several timelines that seemed to be more normal, if you can call it that. They were still awful. Every person I ran into somehow turned out to be the most warped possible version of themselves. The themes were as constant as they were rotten.

Sexual perversion.

Violence and murder.

Greed and indecency.

As awful as it was, at least it was transparent. I knew what to expect and nothing seemed hidden. Despite knowing what I was in for, the insidious and gory nature of an average day had become incredibly daunting. My body had scars from countless altercations, but for each one carved upon me, there were several I’d dished out in return. That was a completely separate trauma—a can of worms I’d yet to open.

How long had I been doing this?

Months?

Years?

I suppose I should’ve dated my log entries. It’s probably of little importance. Whoever reads this will probably just think I’ve gone mad anyhow.

It feels like my body and soul have aged five times as fast from just the stress alone. But I rarely have the courage to confront a mirror. Whenever I have, the person I saw looking back was unrecognizable. My flesh was already ruined and incapable of displaying the full effects of my journey.

Each time I had slipped that visor over my eyes, I just wanted it to be over.

SECLUSION

And suddenly, everyone was gone…

I wasn’t sure what happened to the rest of the world, but the total absence of humanity didn’t upset me. It was the first time there was no one in sight or earshot. The lack of people wasn’t something I needed to complain about. There was no one to complain to anyhow. I found I was happy to accept a world of blankness. It filled me with joy to know that peace and quiet could surround me again. It was a relief.

What happened? I wondered. There aren’t even any bodies. What the hell happened to everybody?

I’d never know, but there were plenty of leftovers for me to scrounge up and indulge in. I’d grown resourceful enough to take care of myself. It still took weeks for me to adjust, but I was grateful to be adjusting instead of continuing along the path of agony and evil.

Was this what it was supposed to be like? Was this the breakthrough Baxter had dreamt about? Certainly he couldn’t have made it this far. His corpse was found in my origin dimension. Would that mean that my best plane of existence was his worst? What the fuck was going on behind closed doors in that timeline? There were so many questions but few verifiable answers.

Finally, with so much time to myself, I speculated on many things. My mind—for better or worse—was catching up on the puzzle. Moving from empty apartment to abandoned house, I thought day and night. As I picked at the scraps of those who had vanished, I asked myself if wandering the world was to be my destiny. Until one morning, when I awoke with a gag. Vomit erupted from my throat and onto the floor beside my bed.

I didn’t immediately realize that I was pregnant, but after several morning sickness episodes, it became fairly obvious.

Was it Gary? Or worse, could it have been Dad? Did anyone fuck me while I was a junkie?

I couldn’t really remember. It felt like an episode of Maury Povich unfolding in my head. I suppose who it was didn’t matter. Someone had ripped one off inside me and I’d have to deal with it. While I certainly wasn’t happy about the revelation, I would find a way to get through it.

Women had had babies without hospitals since the beginning of time. Some of them died, but at this point, that would still be a blessing. I didn’t need anyone’s assistance. After everything I’d been through, the pregnancy didn’t really seem like something I needed to get hung up on.

Reading was something that I always enjoyed, so, I decided to move into a library. The building was beautiful and massive. Unlike some of the other buildings, it still had power and it also had some incredibly comfortable couches. I gathered plenty of food for storage—mostly canned goods as all the meat and vegetables seemed to have spoiled. I needed to ensure that I had enough stocked up to get me through the entire pregnancy.

When I was finally able to relax, I tried not to think too much about the past. Every memory hurt. My initial timeline was so distant that it didn’t even feel real.

As the nameless prenatal cluster in my stomach swam about innocently, I realized how happy it must be. Through my incredible journey I’d truly only learned one thing: isolation is perfection.

I had lived a hundred lives and there wasn’t a single life better than this place where I didn’t have to deal with anyone. Still, things weren’t perfect. I may have escaped the physical anguish but the emotional aspects continued to haunt me.

When I watched the sunset, I saw Gary’s bloody skull. When I closed my eyes, I felt my father inside of me again. When I heard the thunder, I felt the jarring explosions that tore humanity limb from limb.

I hadn’t come to my conclusion overnight. The idea of being a mother was one I struggled with. I had dreams about performing back-alley abortions on myself, but I fought hard not to bring them to reality. Still, as the days counted down and I grew closer to motherhood, I knew there was only one choice.

Just days away from birth I surprised myself. I started reading The Bible regularly—a routine I’d never fallen into before. I wasn’t sure why, exactly. I’d never been much of a believer one way or another. Never took the time to stop and truly think about it. But I figured it would, at the very least, make for an interesting read. Ironically, I suppose, I came across 1 Kings 3:16–28.

The story recounted was about two mothers living in the same house. Each of the women had an infant son. One of their babies had been smothered, and each swore that the remaining boy was her own. The women both went before King Solomon to plead the case.

After consideration, Solomon called for a sword and declared his judgment: the baby would be cut in two, and each of the women would receive half.

One mother did not contest the ruling, announcing that if she couldn’t have the child, then neither of them could. The second woman begged Solomon, “Give the baby to her, just don't kill him!”

The wise king then declared that the second woman was the baby’s true mother since a real mother would give up her baby if that was required to save its life.

When I gave birth to my nameless child on the carpet in the back of the library, to my surprise, the child came into the world as healthy as could be. A slimy vessel crying out for its mother, typical of everything I knew and imagined childbirth to be.

As I looked down into the baby’s little eyes, I validated my initial suspicion.

I wasn’t sure that I was like either of the women that stood before King Solomon.

I reached for the thick, hardback volume of the Good Book. Pushing through my exhaustion, I raised the hardback above my head, then brought it down.

When the crying stopped, I sighed. When the tender skull between my legs erupted with the ease of a grape, I felt relief. There was nothing more that I wanted than to be alone. The jagged bone and squished brain blended together disgustingly.

My child’s head only became sloppier and further exposed with each repeated strike. I had no interest in seeing what the mushy mound that twitched ever-so-slightly would’ve become. What ideas it might’ve offered, or what impact on the world it might’ve had.

In my fractured mind, nothing the child said would have been more important than the silence I’d found. None of its impacts would have been more profound than the isolation I’d become immersed in.

SIGNING OFF

Eventually, I recovered from my unwanted pregnancy and found my way again. I cleaned out the library and healed over time. It was a relief when I was able to slip back into the semi-normal, hermit lifestyle I was dead set on embracing. Excited may be too strong of a word, but at the very least, I’m grateful.

Grateful not to be tormented.

Grateful not to be stressed.

Grateful not to be vulnerable.

My journal is almost full now, and thankfully, there is little left for me to write. I’m okay with that. At this stage, I could use a good dose of boredom. While I still think about Baxter from time to time, the thoughts no longer consume me. But it was more about the legacy of The Randomizer than the trickster who had pushed me down this spiral of depravity.

Do people deserve to know about this or should my story be left to remain lost in a world of absence?

I know what the safe answer is. Regardless of what should happen, I need to be alone for the foreseeable future. I found my peace, and after my many traumas, I deserve to let it linger.

But maybe someday, when I feel death lurking near, I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to finding a power source and recharging The Randomizer one last time. Just to see if the next layer on the cake could somehow be sweeter than this permanent separation. To offer some other world my story and to give someone else a choice. Or, at the very least, the illusion of one.

BACK TO THE BASEMENT

Venus closed the book shut and set the dusty diary back beside The Randomizer. She looked to Mia to digest her reaction, but she remained speechless.

“I know, it was a long read,” Venus said. “Longer than I remember, but just as good. What did you think?”

“I’m not sure good is the proper word…” Mia replied, trying to hold back her emotion.

“I’m sorry if the story was too much.”

Tears began to run down Mia’s face.

Venus bit her bottom lip. “I’m just remembering, you said ‘nothing about children’. I completely forgot how her story ended. I’m sorry—I just feel terrible now.”

“It’s okay,” Mia sniffled. “Don’t get me wrong, there are times I wish I could just be transported elsewhere too.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing,” Mia replied, wiping the droplets away.

“I apologize. I feel like you’ve lost a child and I’ve reopened that wound—”

“I haven’t lost a child. The problem is, he’s still alive. I drove across the country trying to hunt his fucking father down, but he’s great at disappearing. Ever since he left, my son, he’s—he’s just been out of control.”

“I see, that sounds difficult.”

“It hasn’t been—not until lately. Kyle has spent the last three years in juvenile detention. He got out this summer. But the way he’s been acting… I doubt he’ll be able to stay out for long.”

Venus rubbed her hands together. “Do you mind if I ask what he did wrong?”

It wasn’t easy for Mia to open up, but something about Venus made her comfortable. There was a certain humble wisdom to her. She seemed like a powerful woman that didn’t ask questions without reason.

“It’s more like what didn’t he do wrong. Fist fights, drugs, his attitude. It’s just a really volatile situation. He nearly left a kid paralyzed.”

Venus didn’t seem shocked but calmly whispered, “Hmm, he sounds dangerous.”

“I thought—I thought if I could convince his father to be involved again, that he might be able to straighten him out. But he’s nowhere to be found. He’s gone. And now there isn’t a damn person in the world that can help me get out of this.”

Mia broke down, hands shaking over her face, balling her eyes out.

Placing her fingers gently under Mia’s chin, Venus elevated her teary eyes to her face. “That might not be entirely true.”

“What do you mean?” Mia asked.

“I mean that I may know someone who can help. A pair of old acquaintances who specialize in this very sort of thing.”

Mia’s glossy eyes glimmered with a dash of hope.

“But be warned,” Venus continued, “the kind of help they offer is…unorthodox. But I can see that you’re desperate, so maybe that doesn’t matter so much. Desperate times call for desperate measures, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mia grew quiet. “I suppose so.”

“You’re interested then?”

Mia wiped her tears. “I’ll take any help you can offer.”

“Alright then, follow me.”

The two left the basement and went upstairs. The lights were active once again, and the women made their way back to the front of the shop. Mia followed Venus until she paused at the check-out counter, rustling about.

“Ah, here it is!” Venus said. “I met Patricia and Patrick Crane some time ago. They were browsing my store and we got to talking. Patricia is a doctor while Patrick is an anatomist. They’re brother and sister—an absolutely brilliant pair of siblings. Unsurprisingly, family is their focus. They take great pride in helping problematic children; it’s their utmost passion.”

Mia looked down at the card. The bone white parchment with the tiny font simply read ‘CEMETERY CAMP’ with a phone number underneath.

“Again, while their methods are unconventional, their success rate is flawless. Every child or teen sent to stay with them has had a, dare I say, miraculous turnaround. A total transformation and never looked back.”

“Cemetery Camp?” Mia asked.

“I know, it sounds a bit grim, but so is your situation. If you’d like a solution, I promise you—should you be willing—you have found one.”

Mia took the card and looked at it closer. There was nothing else there. Part of her wondered if that was intentional. The uncertainty of her situation, along with the ominous nature of the title, sent a chill down her spine.

“But what does it even mean?” she asked.

“That’s not for me to say,” Venus replied.

“I’ve looked up all kinds of places over the past few months. I checked everywhere you can imagine. But I’ve never heard of this—”

“That’s by design,” Venus interrupted. “The program doesn’t allow for large groups. It’s word of mouth only, so based on those nearly-nonexistent odds alone, you should consider yourself lucky.”

Mia didn’t know whether to thank Venus for the gesture or cuss her out. The title of the place alone was worrying.

“What do they do there?” Mia asked.

“Darling, that’s what the number’s for. Anyway, I’ve truly enjoyed our time together but I feel that it’s come to an end.”

“Why do you say that?

Venus pointed out the foggy glass into the darkness. “Because, a road has finally opened up for you, should you choose to take it. But the choice is yours, of course.”

When Mia turned to the storefront, beyond the glass she could see the storm had faded. The road outside was no longer black—the glow of the moon illuminated the wet tar. Mia stared at the glistening highway and slipped the card into her pocket.

MORBID CURIOSITIES

BOOK 3: CEMETERY CAMP

Find out Mia’s decision in the third and final installment of Aron Beauregard’s Morbid Curiosities. Order on Amazon or visit ABHorror.com for further details!

Morbid Curiosities Book 3

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Morbid Curiosities Book 1

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Acknowledgments

Huge thanks to Kristopher Triana for helping me edit this book. Great guy—hates eggs. Also, many thanks to the people who constantly read and promote my work on social media and elsewhere. There are too many of you to name individually, but I want each of you to know I truly appreciate you. Thanks to Daniel J. Volpe, Carver Pike, Rowland Bercy Jr., and Joe Camara. Huge thanks to all the other awesome people in the horror community. I look forward to seeing our strange genre continue to rise and provide people an extreme alternative.

About the Author

Aron Beauregard is no longer in this timeline. He is no longer an author. Instead, he just keeps everything in his head now so it cannot upset nor offend anyone. In light of this selfless and monumental decision to safeguard all of society, he has decided to focus on full-time turd-burgling as his new career choice.

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