#edward alderson
Chapter 1 : An Extension
——
You remembered a strange story from before. It may have been from a children’s book, or maybe it was just something your mother had repeated to you when you were too young to notice. Beyond the hall there is a door. Beyond the door, there is a room. Beyond the room…
What was there?
Darkness encroached upon the space in a way that made your skin crawl, a cool breeze coming in from somewhere, somewhere unknown. Moisture hung in the air, a distant dripping reminding you of the smell of mildew that frequented these kinds of places.
There were no corners of the room, no walls to see, only an empty dark space beyond the door. So how did you know it was a room? Well… It just was. A gut feeling, one of familiarity.
It was the same strange sense of familiarity you felt when looking down at the table in front of you—a duality side by side, two masks staring back at you each with a silent sense of judgement.
One of them was undoubtedly clear to where, you didn’t need to stare at it for more than half a second to recognize it. Curved, shadowy features, white sharp teeth with a disquieting expression of deep disturbance etched into its face. If you could call it that. A demon registering as a face. One that understood fear.
It often unsettled you in a way that, even if briefly, disorganized your thoughts.
Your eyes shifted towards the other face on the table. Nearly the opposite; white, creamy features like that of a figure in a kid’s candy commercial. An almost jolly face, except for the slight downturn of its brows which didn’t seem quite content. It almost reminded you of the monopoly man, a vivid icon of a closed world. His smile was threatening, in a ‘I know something you don’t’ kind of way.
You pondered the message of these two meanings when a door opened to your right. The door you yourself had come out of. As the gun was held up to your head, a strange sensation came over you, one of almost immediate surrender. A calling. The urge to give up, just a tantalizing breath away. And as the shot of a handgun rang out, you could almost feel the fulfillment of what a dark nothingness would finally feel like, the near satisfaction of being free.
——
You allowed the warm feeling of sleepiness to fade away. It was being replaced by the cold, frigid air of your apartment, but the muggy drip in the background pursued. What finally awoke you from your subconscious state, bringing your eyes back to the bedroom of your apartment was a cold water droplet breaking on the skin of your forehead.
Rain fell outside your window, a cascade of hydric pressure pouring onto, and now through, your roof.
A sigh escaped your lips, the stress of the day already settling in far too early for comfort. Thoughts of planning, habitually mapping out the day’s schedule began resuming in your brain. A distraction was needed.
You thought about the mask from the dream last night.
A symbol you had known for what felt like an eternity. The past five or so years had been taken out of context into a world that only existed within the corners of your mind. Everything related to the dark web and rampant injustice, where the real evil lies, not the kind of evil that captures petty theft on the morning news. The kind that looms in the background when everything else goes to shit, it was something that had interested you from a young age.
The Dark Army. A myth of the real world, for sure. You’d heard about rumors online and vaguely in conspiracy-based news articles. But you weren’t a techie, as much as the interest in this new path was sparked online. Curiosity about peoples’ dark sides formed in an area you were much more familiar with. Psychology was the creature comfort of yours. A way of understanding the world you lived in, without having to necessarily understand people by way of interaction. At least, not directly and not all the time.
You pushed the sheets off of you to put a pot of coffee on the stove. The light and sweet aroma of coffee grounds was helping you to settle down a little. Even having something as small as that to grasp onto was comforting at least. The soft breath of peace and quiet in your newly ironed work clothes and pleasant fragrances kept you in line for a short period of time.
At 9:55 exactly, your self-protecting world of peace was brought to a screeching halt by a familiar knock on the door.
One that couldn’t even hold off long enough for you to pour your coffee into a mug. Exasperated, you closed your eyes for a moment to recollect, before moving over the cramped space to the peephole of your door. And you let him in.
He wore a two-piece suit with a striped tie, his overall impression and presence that of a middle-aged car salesman. A pair of silver frames guided his face, and he oftentimes he could almost seem sympathetic.
“Sorry to interrupt your morning, sweetheart, but we really gotta get down to business with this whole end of the deal we’re trying to establish.”
As your poured your coffee from the pot, a couple of men dressed in all-black came in, one posted by the door and the other, the half of a dining room table Irving had sat himself down at. You couldn’t help but recall the masks from your sleep last night. Brushing the thoughts off, you offered him a cup to which he complied.
“So… sweetheart,” Irving started as he stirred a couple spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “And understand—I’m only calling you that ‘cause you have stated previously you don’t want me calling you by your name. And I care enough to respect peoples’ wishes, by the way.”
You were surprised to find that he complied. Even if just for the purpose of not wanting to get too comfortable with them. You knew. Complacency was dangerous.
He continued, tapping the remaining drops of coffee from the spoon into the mug.
“Understand that you’ve been with us for some time now. And hey—congrats. Not everyone gets to outlive their expiration date, if you get what I’m saying. And as the saying goes, ‘simply forget the past and…’” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember the rest. “How does it—ah. ‘And forge towards the future,’ right?”
You weren’t entirely sure of who he was trying to quote, but nonetheless the essence didn’t go over your head. What he was saying was that…
“…we want to give you a little promotion project. As they say, get up or get out. And clearly it isn’t your time to get out yet, so what do you think? You up for that?”
A silence settled over the room momentarily. You couldn’t help but remember the sense of impending doom that, throughout the past five years, had been looming over you. Not always, but your intuition for timing generally could be counted on. Even when it came to your own well-being. Any person you had come up against, whether ordered to or not, you had a sense of the when and where to talk about certain things.
In this case, however, a question pushed through your consciousness, one that you didn’t feel entirely agreeable to. Yet.
“What kind of promotion?” Your fingers enclosed themselves around your mug, the heat emanating feeling almost burning to the touch.
“The kind of question I like to hear. ‘What kind of promotion?’. Well, to be honest it’s a more personal one. Something a little more long-term with benefits provided, not like these interviews you’ve been doing for the big, three-letter corporations.”
He leaned forward, a sense of clearness communicated by his gaze and posture.
“You’ll have a place provided for you, rent paid in full, granted, a little shabbier than the place you currently occupy now. Food will also be provided for, but you have to limit yourself to the stores we pre-approved of. Remember to keep it mixed up, so as to not look too suspicious. Lastly, your only terms of requirements for being on the job are watching over a certain fella every now and then. You know, checking in on information we need, making clarifying judgements about his behavior. He’s a bit of a hard shell to crack if you know what I mean. Kind of an odd-ball, but nothing that we don’t have confidence in you with.”
He continued on for a little longer, mainly about the living space and kind of neighborhood it was in, since that was something previously established as important information to how you’d work your case.
“…He’s important. So much so that the boss wants to put a specialist in the building to keep tabs on him. And we think you might just do the job, with your background and such.”
All of this processed in your head as he spoke. Already you were thinking about various angles of approach, the times and places it would be best to begin conversation with someone. The way fear could interact with the psyche, what actions could bring about suspicion, since, if anything that was your main goal to avoid in cases like these.
You hated to admit it, but these kinds of cases excited you.
One more clarifying question. It helped to compartmentalize an identity, connect a soul to a body.
“I just need to know his name.”
Irving appeared somewhat satisfied, apparently approving of the fact that you had essentially certified your acceptance of this promotion.
“His name is Elliot Alderson. You’ll appreciate him, I’m sure.”
most cursed thing I have ever drawn
