Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. – William James
Walter savored the Cohiba and poured himself a second tumbler of Glenfiddich, then turned to look down on the city. Since the year this whiskey went into its cask he had worked to build his business, and after the most recent deal he felt that he had at long last arrived. In all that time he had rarely relaxed, seldom taken a vacation and never allowed himself the luxuries other businessmen did, but all that was about to change; perhaps he might even restrict himself with the kind of business ethics he had always totally disregarded before. But now that he had finally reached the goal he set himself at eighteen, he could afford morality as easily as he could expensive indulgences.
With that thought, he turned back to his computer screen and hit “send”. His days of cheap cigars, second-rate liquor and reasonably-priced escorts were over; now he was playing in the big leagues, and could easily spend the money for a companion of real quality. For him that meant Sibyl, the woman who had fascinated him since he first encountered her website months ago. Still, he had hesitated; though her price was well within his comfort zone, he found her screening requirements rather daunting. He did not like the idea of identifying himself so clearly and definitely to a stranger about whom he knew absolutely nothing, but two generous servings of Scotch had helped to steel his resolve and now he was committed.
Walter wasn’t sure how long Sibyl would take to get back to him, but he certainly didn’t expect it to be within minutes. Perhaps it was just an autoreply, though it didn’t sound like one:
My Dear Mr. Grey,
Thank you for sending the information I requested! Though I know you’ve been frightfully busy with that important deal you mentioned in your last letter, I was beginning to think you had perhaps changed your mind about meeting me. I’m glad to see you haven’t, and I look forward to meeting you in person after I’ve finished my screening process, which I’m sure you will understand must be very thorough. I’ll let you know by Friday afternoon, but as my preliminary inquiries have indicated that you’re exactly the sort of man I like to see, I don’t imagine any difficulties.
Very Sincerely Yours,
Sybil
Friday! What kind of damned screening could take three whole days? Walter shrugged, closed the email program, and barely even noticed the fleeting error message which flashed on the screen during the shutdown procedure.
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He had thought about taking the next day off, but he was a creature of habit and so eventually found himself at his office again, though several hours later than usual. It was more than early enough; there weren’t really very many loose ends to tie up, and he would’ve been done in plenty of time for a round of golf had he not been required to deal with a long column of annoying emails on a computer which seemed uncharacteristically sluggish, while at the same time dealing with phone calls from the accounting and contract departments. It was a singularly frustrating day, and while it was not bad enough to completely ruin yesterday’s celebratory mood, it did demonstrate exactly how much the intense negotiations of the past few months had exhausted him; after his date with Sybil this weekend, a long vacation in the Caymans would be in order. In the meantime, though, a leisurely day tomorrow would help; he had been cooped up in this damned office for so long he kept receiving the bizarre impression that his computer was watching him, and that the screen was its enormous, unblinking eye.
The night’s sleep did not alleviate the delusion at all; if anything, the next day was even worse. Every screen he passed or used – his plasma TV, the stereo display in his car, even the touch-screen on his iPhone – seemed to be watching his every move, carefully examining him, peering through his clothes and skin to the nerves, dissecting his brain and smearing his soul onto a slide to be viewed under some impossible, intangible microscope. Walter was far too rational and self-assured to actually believe what he thought he saw; it was perfectly clear to him that this was merely the inevitable but long-delayed result of years of intense stress which would have destroyed a lesser man, but was now catching up to him. Sybil would do him a world of good, and he had already told his secretary he might be out of touch for weeks after he left for his holiday next Tuesday. And though there would be far too many screens at the airport and on the airplane for his liking, he would be far away from the hateful things on a lovely beach in the Caribbean.
In the meantime, though, the scrutiny from the peering eyes behind the screens grew almost unbearable. They watched him from his golf partners’ phones after he turned his off, and later from the windows of stores after he covered the car’s console screen with his jacket. He felt so surrounded in the restaurant that he was forced to cut his dinner short, and though there was a movie he wanted to see the thought of sitting for over two hours in front of a screen twenty meters wide was absolutely unbearable. So he instead went directly home, took a bottle and glass into his bedroom, and closed the door so he wouldn’t have to see the huge flat screen in the living room. He then tried to read for a while, but mostly drank until he sank into terrifying dreams of gigantic, long-lashed eyes prying into every corner of his home.
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When he at last awoke to the sound of a ringing telephone, the day was already half gone. The nightmares had finally ceased about dawn, and the beautiful, sultry voice on the other end of the phone heralded a far brighter day than yesterday as Sybil told him that she was done with her screening, and would be happy to see him tomorrow evening as he had requested. She told him the address at which he could pick her up, and suggested they begin the evening with dinner at a restaurant he had heard good things about, but never tried for himself. He hung up the phone with a smile on his face and a much lighter heart, and he dismissed the lingering scent of a strange and spicy perfume as a figment of his imagination brought on by the unsettling presence of the television set within view of his breakfast table.
Friday afternoon passed without incident, and Walter enjoyed the postponed movie as much as the reviews had assured him he would. A lovely late dinner and a good bottle of wine made for the perfect conclusion to the day, and back at home he laughed at yesterday’s ridiculous fears as he flipped channels to relax before bed. His sleep was peaceful and unhaunted by ghastly disembodied eyes, and he awoke the next morning refreshed and optimistic about his date with Sybil and his life in general. He had always regarded his doctor’s warnings about overwork with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, but now he recognized that he had been wrong and resolved to apologize at his earliest possible opportunity…after his vacation, that is.
He hurried out for a haircut, had his car washed and went through all the other preparations he would have made for an unpaid date; though he knew Sybil was a professional, he also knew she was very selective and might refuse to see him again if he made a bad impression. He arrived exactly at the agreed-upon time, having already made an electronic payment to her account yesterday as instructed. She was more beautiful than he imagined; her face and body were flawless, her style impeccable and her personality enchanting. The only thing which kept her from total perfection in his eyes was her perfume; it was strange and spicy, yet vaguely familiar and somehow associated with the unpleasant memory of Thursday. But that one sour note soon vanished into the symphony of her presence, and the disquiet it caused was more than drowned out by his rising passion for her.
The next few hours passed in a blur, and Walter felt as excited and nervous as a teenage boy on the drive back. Her house was nearly as intriguing as she was, and her parlor adorned with all manner of beautiful, unique and obviously expensive furnishings and curios. She offered him a drink, then suggested with a mysterious smile that it was time for her to change…but he felt an unaccountable chill sweep over him when she glided off to a shadowy corner of the room and slipped behind an ornate Oriental screen.
Fuuuuck me – this story scares the shit out of me!!
You know what this reminds me of? Helen Reddy’s song “Angie Baby” – I got the same chill from this that I get from that song.
That was the idea; I’m glad I was able to accomplish it!
Maggie I know you used to be a librarian, but you really could become an author, fiction or nonfiction.
I already am one; I’m just waiting for a publisher to offer to pay me for it. 🙂
It’s a good story, although there are some minor faults I’ve noticed.
I just feel the need to say this, for my own sake: Maggie, writing business is not the escort business; here you actually have to pitch your stories to the publishers – your “clients” won’t come to you.
I don’t think there has ever been an instance that a publisher approached an author and asked him or her for the stories, unless the author was already an established name.
Also, if you publish a story online like this one, you can’t have it published it anywhere else, ever (unless you self-publish it).
Just a word of advice.
Even though the president of the Science Fiction Writers’ Association is a counterexample, he agrees with you.
Maggie, Is Krulac your husband, an alter-ego with whom you carry on an internal dialogue or your Daddy?
None of the above. My husband posts (rarely) as “Maggie’s Man”, my Daddy hasn’t spoken to me in 15 years and my animus (a woman’s Jungian male alter-ego) is too busy having adventures in the Collective Unconscious to have time to read my posts. Krulac, like several others, is just a very faithful reader for whom I am very grateful. 🙂
General V. Krulak, perhaps?
I don’t know Maggie, never met her … couldn’t tell you what she looks like. What I DO know about her personally – is she LOVES off-the-wall shit you and I have never heard of or thought about – and you just about have to go on a “scavenger hunt” to find the stuff if you want to send her a gift! LMFAO. That’s an exaggeration but … check out her amazon wish list!
I got turned on to her writing. She doesn’t realize this – but she writes in a very methodical “military-type” way. What I mean by that is she takes all the points and explains them thouroughly – even for people who don’t have a college reading comprehension. Her writings remind me A LOT of some good papers I read that were written by some great people when I was in the Navy. Papers on naval strategy … or policy … etc. Some of those could be boring – but good writers made them interesting – as she does.
“General V. Krulak” – well, I must confess … I had to Google him. Amazing – he’s a Marine (Maggie likes Marines unfortunately – it’s her only flaw). I chose “krulac” for my handle only because it sounded “uncivilized” … and I’m not a very “civilized” man. 😉
Funny story – I recently contacted an escort who’s ad said she was looking for “upscale” gentlemen. I wrote her and said I think I have the “income” to be “upscale” – but I don’t have the social skills or intelligence to be “upscale”!!!!
She simply replied … “When do you want to see me?” 🙂
A “devoted” man. Nothing wrong with that
I get that the screens really were watching him, and that Sybil was somehow in his home (the perfume). But I’m missing something here.
Are you sure? Maybe it really was just paranoia over being screened, coupled with exhaustion. Psychotic delusions often express themselves as puns, i.e. “screening” expressed literally.
Delirium, organic brain disorder. A psychotic can no more reliably report on their perception of the world than someone who is severely intoxicated. At the same time, psychologists and psychiatrists can record the sometimes interesting answers to the questions they pose to people suffering from delirium, organic brain disorders, or psychosis. Memory is processed/recorded close to an area of the brain which serves the sense of smell. Just saying.
Exactly so. Or maybe she’s just a witch. Or a superhacker.
Unless the author “knows” her protagonist (god I love that word) is suffering the hallucinations caused by self-imposed sleep deprivation. On the other hand he could just be remembering the hypnopompic and hypnagogic hallucinations as he moves in and out of sleep, fleeting memories for sure.
Btw, I’m sure you rival Severine with her affect and it’s effect on men. You are a Muse, too? Ref: Macau casino scene from Skyfall
There’s nothing wrong with “homeboy” … this woman is some kind a witch or more likely an escaped character from the “Hotel California” song by the Eagles …
Yeah … scary shit there I know.
No one takes THREE DAYS to do a “screening” on a dude with as much cash as Walter is pocketing.
What was behind the “oriental screen”? I’ll tell you what was behind there! It was a “Dorian Gray” style picture of Sybil. In order to stay young, this woman is harvesting the life force of powerful men as a sacrifice to her “picture” – which then repays her by taking on her agedness and leaving her looking young and hot.
But the woman’s SOUL? Well, it’s not quite as attractive as the rest of her.
And not only that – before she harvests their souls she has them write out a will and leave their companies to HER! Yeah … money to buy more curios for the mansion!
I like the Dorian Grey hypothesis. Before I read that I was leaning toward Circe or one of the lamiae.
Definitely not Circe; I already told y’all what she’s doing nowadays (or rather what she was doing in the early ’60s).
Whups, forgot that.
But maybe she started a franchise???