The Forgotten Never
Matthew Ryan Fischer
The light flicked on and Jeremy forgot why he had entered the bathroom.
He felt off. Not tired, but slightly off. He didn’t feel sick. He couldn’t tell
why he felt odd, or why he had come into the room. Perhaps he had meant to
brush his teeth. It wasn’t very late, but the sun was going down earlier this
time of year. Maybe instinct had taken over. But that didn’t seem quite right.
The house was quiet. Nothing. No strange creaks or moans and boards
settled. No neighbor next-door working out or tuning their motorcycle. There
was a low strange hiss, but Jeremy found no leaks. Maybe it was the low hum of
electricity, or the fan in his laptop running. But nothing seemed to be making
it.
Outside, the night was still. Neighbors had put up their Christmas
decorations. Blinking light and simulated snow and someone had a twenty-foot-tall
Santa outside their house. But the night was calm. Still. Empty. No birds. No
random cat digging around the backyard.
Jeremy paced back and forth, rubbing his fingers together, trying
to think.
The night felt empty. Just as the house had. But what was missing?
He couldn’t put a finger on it.
The shadows seemed a little dark and too close to the house. Jeremy
had never been claustrophobic, but suddenly he thought he could relate.
He pressed his left thumb into the palm of his right hand. He felt
pain, but it didn’t make him focus. It didn’t make the paranoia any less.
The trash was full, as was the recycling. Someone had been
throwing boxes of personal items away. Photographs and letter and notebooks.
The trash was full, but the night was empty.
The shadows seemed to grow and Jeremy couldn’t clear his mind. Where
was the emptiness coming from, and how soon before it got to him?
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