The Monstrosity of Kansas

When Wyatt takes a hiatus at a secluded, rural home, a great feeling of uneasiness continues to haunt him. He feels like he is being watched, but when his efforts to comfort himself fail, Wyatt turns to desperate measures to protect his sanity.

This short story is less than 5,800 words long and consists of four chapters, making it a delight for a casual reader. Please remember that all work on this page is copyrighted, and anything stolen will be pursued.

 

The Monstrosity of Kansas

 

Day 1

Wyatt Hillary stepped down from his Ford F-150, dust and sedimentary particles rising from the dirt road as his boots collided with it.  He looked over to the solitary old house which sat in the middle of a field populated with dead tallgrass yellowed from heat and neglect.  He was in the right place. 

Wyatt walked to the passenger side door of his truck, opened it, and set his eyes on the typewriter he had brought with him, the old device sitting eagerly on the seat.  The thing was a little rough around the edges, but nothing too rusty, especially for the deal he got from the pawn shop.  He hauled the heavy machine into his arms, shut his truck door, and started towards the house.

The man felt the blazing heat of the Kansas Sun relax as he took cover beneath the withered porch.  Wyatt set the weighty typewriter on a small bench below a dusty, unclean window and beside a shovel before examining a fresh note taped to the front door.

 

Hey Wyatt,

 

The key is underneath the doormat.  Like I said, you can stay as long as you need.  The water, AC, and electricity work just fine. I packed some food for you in the fridge and you can sleep in the left room in the back.  But sorry, no washing machine.

Whenever you leave, just be sure to lock up and all that, and I hope you get some writing done.

Oh, and I also hope you and your wife can work everything out.  You always do.

 

Thanks, bud.

-Lou   

 

Wyatt removed the note from the door and crumpled it into his pocket.  He peered underneath the slightly tattered doormat and saw a dull, silver key resting on the floorboards.  He unlocked the door and hauled his things inside, setting them on a table just right from the kitchen.  The entire home seemed rather decrepit and eerie, yet Wyatt thought that maybe this would help him write that horror story he’d been thinking about.  

He hung his denim jacket on the coat rack nailed to a wall beside the front door and drew his phone from his pocket.  He turned it on, seeing a missed text from his wife, Shannon.  He unlocked the device to see the full message:

 

Hi, honey. Have a great time at Lou’s place, I hope you can get some writing done and I can’t wait to see you again :)

 

Wyatt sighed deeply before marking the message as read without replying.  He opened up the settings on his phone and ensured the location tracking was deactivated.  Wyatt always felt paranoid about his location being accessible.  He didn’t color himself as much of a conspiracy theorist, but the idea of the phone tracking him always stuck with him.  He grew up in the age of these devices, and he was there to watch as they slowly became part of mundane, everyday life.

Despite this, however, while standing within the quiet house, he still felt as if he was being watched.  He felt observed.  It was as if someone had torn him open and began reading him like a book.  

Wyatt glared into the camera on his phone, which loured back at him.  He recalled stories of deep web hackers viewing people through their webcams, which made his hair raise.  He powered the phone off and set it face down on the table before walking over to the window above the kitchen sink.  He looked out into the barren field of tallgrass.  He noticed darker clouds just over the hills slowly encroaching on the land, casting the ground in a veil of darkness as they hovered above.  He turned his attention back down to the tallgrass.  Something unnerved him about it, like he was a gazelle being stalked by a tiger camouflaging itself in the flora.  

He brushed his unease off as nothing but his overactive anxiety, stepping away from the window and exploring the remainder of the small house.  He examined the bathroom, his bedroom, and also peered into the office and master bedroom.  Nothing in particular intrigued him, yet what did catch his attention was the withered green door leading to the tornado shelter beside the kitchen.  It bore a very new looking gold-colored padlock with a combination built into it.  Wyatt was rather perplexed, as Lou didn’t mention anything relating to the tornado shelter, and certainly not whether or not to go down there.  He decided to tug on the lock just to be certain it was sealed.  The metal jostled against the wooden door and didn’t budge.  

Nevertheless, Wyatt moved along and attempted to sit down and write a bit.  He seated himself on a crude wooden chair by the table and looked blankly at the page, which only bore two measly paragraphs.

“Gotta start somewhere,” he thought to himself aloud.

Occasionally, Wyatt would think of a sentence, maybe just a few words.  But ultimately, he felt himself incapable of writing.  Too often would he simply rise out of his uncomfortable seat and circle around the table, pacing about what to write.  He did this throughout the remainder of the day: thinking, then writing a word or two, procrastinating, and then finding an excuse to ponder some more. 

As the hours burned away, tired and paranoid, Wyatt decided he needed to get some sleep.  Perhaps, he believed, sleep would suppress his tension.  He entered the room he would be staying in.  The bed was in the far left corner, hugged by the wall, and the covers lay beneath another dirty window looking out into the black fields, as no lights were nearby to illuminate them.  

He inspected the sheets for bugs, and despite seeing a couple dead ants and cobwebs, he didn’t see much.  Still, he opted to rest atop the covers instead.  Surprisingly, Wyatt found himself sinking into the soft material.  He stared up at the fan slowly spinning above, thinking back to how he got here.

He loved Shannon, but both of them knew they needed some space.  Just for a little while, he continued to reassure himself.  Wyatt began to sweat, as he still felt something was wrong.  

“It’s just your paranoia,” he whispered to himself.

He tried to think of something else, paying the window to his right with no attention.  He thought of Shannon again.  He nearly shed a tear recalling himself earlier not responding to her friendly text.  Wyatt wanted to reply, he did, he wished he could sleep beside her again, hear her beautiful voice again, feel warmed by her flawless smile and kind eyes again.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Shannon, I miss you, too.”

Wyatt found himself tossing and turning in the damp, sweaty fabric.  He was still very much perturbed by something in the air.  He felt cold, alone, naked and exposed.  He swerved over back to the window.  He saw nothing.  Nothing was watching him.  He erupted from his bed and burst the closet open.  He saw nothing.  He went into the pantry, grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet, and peered under his bed.  Once again, he saw nothing.  Wyatt sighed, he felt like a fool, like he was a lab rat in someone’s game.  He could feel them laughing at him, he could feel them breathing down his neck, like the breeze from the vent on the floor of the room.  

He paused, slowly looking over to the vent.  He tore the worn plate off, nearly falling back.  Staring into the black abyss of the interior, Wyatt approached.  He shined his light: nothing.  He moved his head into the hole and pictured some dangerous, musty man hunched over, a rotting grimace crossing his dirty face.  He saw nothing.  It felt as if now he was watched from a tall, lingering figure right behind him.  Once again, Wyatt checked behind him, and once again, he saw nothing.

The man was quickly boiling into frustration at his humiliating uneasiness.  He set the flashlight on his night stand before looking out into the darkness of the night once more.  He saw nothing.  To help ease his mind, Wyatt swung the thin curtains over the window, finessing them in a way as to leave no view to the outside.  He sunk back into the bed and hoped to finally get some sleep.

Day 2

 

The previous night had been an onerous one for Wyatt.  It had taken hours to drift to sleep, and he now emerged beaten and exhausted.  However, he was quickly rushed awake by his impending sense of peril.  Enveloped in a tight restraint of sweat, he continued to feel as though one was observing him, excavating the depths of his mind.  He felt nugatory and vulnerable, like a soldier standing tall in the midst of no man’s land, awaiting death by unseen snipers and gunners aiming down their sights.  

Nevertheless, he crept out of bed and swung open the bedroom door intensely, as to frighten off a threat which wasn’t there.  Wyatt scanned the room: everything was as he had left it, and nothing new had come.  He peered through the windows and checked the other rooms: nothing.  He forced himself to accept that he was simply paranoid, nothing more.  Perhaps, Wyatt pondered, this feeling would provide him with inspiration for his authorial work.

He seated himself at the table before the typewriter.  He sat and stared at the page, as if he awaited to be bestowed with words in which to repeat.  Wyatt must have read the final sentences nearly a dozen times over, and yet no idea, good or bad, came to him.

Wyatt glanced over to his phone, which beckoned him.  Maybe Shannon had sent him another message.  The man picked up the phone and powered it on.  Upon starting, the phone displayed a voicemail notification.  Shannon?  Wyatt went to his visual voicemail and noticed that his wife had left two messages.  He hesitated, his finger hovering over the play button.  Was it wrong?  He was still away from her, just hearing her after the fact.  Despite his reluctance, Wyatt played the first message.

 

“Hi, honey.  It’s me, Shannon. Ugn… well, I’m just calling to check in on you, you know, make sure you got to Lou’s in one piece.  But… I understand you’re probably busy writing.  I just… wanted to say hi.”

 

She sighed.

 

“Anyway, I hope you’re doing okay… I’ll see you in a few days, okay?  Bye.”

 

Wyatt slumped back into his chair and let out a sigh of his own.

“I miss you, too, Shannon,” he whispered.

He lunged over to his phone and stared meaningfully at the second voice message.  Wyatt felt as if his internal back-and-forthing were being witnessed, and he felt as if a watchful eye glared down at his screen from over his shoulder.  Because he had already listened to the first message, the man felt it illogical to not listen to the second.  He pressed the play button, and listened.

 

“Hey, Wyatt.  It’s me… again.  Look, I know the marriage counselor didn’t want us talking to one another, and I know you’re probably writing… but I miss you.  I know things haven’t been the best between us lately, but I still love you.  I understand if you’re not ready to talk, I can’t blame you.  It’s just that… ugn… I really wish you were here.  Okay… well… talk to you soon… I’m sorry to bother you.  Bye.”

 

Wyatt collapsed his head into his hands and began to weep.  All he wanted in that moment was to see his beloved wife once again, and to tell her that she could never bother him.  Alternatively, he knew he had been in the house for but a single day.  It was too soon to leave; he needed more time apart, they needed more time apart as a couple.  

His sorrow, however, metamorphosed into anger as he felt some sort of sinister presence mocking him and his grief.  Wyatt was comfortable opening up about his wife, but not to a devilish spectator.  He peered out the kitchen window: nothing.  Regardless, Wyatt threw the curtains shut, and continued to do this throughout the house.

Upon completion, the house was cast in further darkness.  It constricted Wyatt with melancholy and drained him of his focus and sanity.  Fretful, sweaty, and out of breath, Wyatt found himself in no state to write.  Furthermore, the paranoia failed to cease.  He looked around the room, and though he was alone, it felt like there was an immense crowd staring daggers into the man.  The tension seemed palpable, causing Wyatt to look at his phone and consider calling the police.

“No,” he told himself. “It’s just your anxiety, that’s all.  There is nothing here!  You checked!” he scolded himself.

“Don’t waste the authorities’ time, it’s all in your head,” he argued with himself.

Wyatt would spend the remainder of the day wallowing in indecision.  He battled with himself whether or not to respond to his wife.  He knew he couldn’t break the counselor’s solution after just one day.  Wyatt found himself constantly peeking over his shoulders in his state of dissolution, picturing a figure staring at him as if he were a pathetic child.  His fear never quelled, perhaps it escalated even further as he shivered his way to sunset.

With no writing completed, and with his skin crawling, Wyatt wished nothing but to sleep the remainder of his time in the house away.

“I’ll leave after tomorrow,” he assured himself. “Three days ought to be enough.”

Following this, Wyatt sent himself to the bed, where he once again found falling asleep quite harrowing.  Hours had ticked away, and the man could do nothing but toss and turn.  As his discomfort grew, however, Wyatt crawled underneath the dead-ant-filled covers.  His body itched all over, and yet he continued to hide below the covers like a toddler afraid of thunder.  Every gust of wind, and every creak of the floorboards rattled his spine and chilled his skin.  

Wyatt knew something was watching him, listening to him, or even tracking him.  What could it be?  The question gnawed at him, as if someone was flicking him in his forehead until he spat out an answer.  His phone, maybe?  No, he turned the location feature off.  Wyatt recalled tales of cunning hackers and their disturbing tricks.  Was it possible they were tracking him?  

He’d had enough of these games.  Wyatt emerged from the covers and crept to the table in the other room.  He glared down at his cell phone, which mocked his imbecilic habits and paranoia.  He swiped it from the table, carefully aiming the camera away from his face.

Wyatt creaked open the front door and stepped into the Kansas night.  The sky was filled with stars which looked down at him like the eyes of a great beast.  The cool wind brushed and groped against him like a pickpocket swiping his wallet, and the crickets chirped like children’s laughter, taunting and teasing him.

The frustrated man glanced over to his right to see a shovel resting beside the bench.  If he buried the phone, he thought, maybe it would be harder to track.  He swiped the shovel into his hands and journeyed to the left side of the house.  He stomped through the rough tallgrass, which itched him and scratched him with every passing step.  Wyatt continued to tread his way into the field, perturbed by standing in the middle of a vast open space, with a hill observing him from above, as if an intruder peeked down from behind the cover of the incline.  

He approached a small patch in the field where the tallgrass bore less density.  Wyatt assumed it would be easy to dig in that spot.  He slipped his phone in his pocket before jabbing the spade into the dry dirt, chipping it and piling it up beside his crater.

As he did this, however, Wyatt began to dread an incoming threat which seemed to slowly creep up behind him.  He believed he only grasped a small ounce of time before his phone would lead a crazed killer to his back.  The crickets continued their laughter, as Wyatt had walked into their trap.  The stars continued to gawk downward, pondering the fate of their puny, human entertainment.  Like a gladiator doomed to die, his blood would satiate their need for amusement.

Wyatt continually stabbed into the crunching dirt, every passing stroke raising the volume of the crickets until their chirps were nothing less than ear-splitting.  The man wept as he hurriedly dug, and upon creating a sizable hole in the ground, he threw his pristine, clean phone into the decrepit ground.  

He swiftly began burying the phone, dumping large chunks of dirt into the hole with his spade.  Wyatt watched in bereavement as his only connection to the outside world drowned away in the Earth.  Despite his desire to continue to be capable of hearing his wife’s voice, the encroaching danger forced his hand.  Within seconds, the hole was filled, and the crickets quieted, yet they still remained ever audible.

  Wyatt collapsed to his knees, which sank into the dusty dirt.  He pulled the wooden handle of the shovel to his cheek and he wept.  His phone was gone, and so was his way of contacting Shannon.  Separating was a stupid idea, the house was a stupid idea.  He was all alone, and now the grass, crickets, and heavens gawked and goaded the man.  He let the shovel tip and crash to the ground before plummeting his face into his palms, his tears intertwining among his fingers.  Was it worth it?  To get rid of the watchers, yet to be without Shannon?  The phone was to remain in the Earth, Wyatt decided, to prevent his paranoia from sparking again.

Again?  The man noticed no change in his head.  He still shook with every chill of the wind, he still shivered as the tallgrass swayed, and he still sank when he looked to the stars above.  The man stood to his feet, and as a stronger gust of wind brushed against his skin, he was sent fleeing back to the porch, leaving the shovel behind.  The tallgrass grazed and flayed away at Wyatt’s exposed lower legs as he ran.  He hurled himself onto the porch, feeling a pursuer nearing as he stretched for the door.  Wyatt swung open the door, feeling the clutches of some unknown abomination hovering just behind his neck and shoulders.  

He dove inside and locked the door as hastily as possible.  The man, however, felt no greater comfort within the walls of his breached castle and sprinted through the dining room to his bedroom, where he slammed the door and burrowed beneath the covers like a child.  Wyatt shivered in terror and squirmed himself into the corner of the bed, hugged by the walls.  Though it seemed as if there was an invisible man under the covers with him, Wyatt still remained.  He continued to scold himself, repeating to himself he was just uneasy about being off the grid.  Besides, the phone was buried, he thought, no one could hurt him now.  He demanded of himself just one more day at the house, just one, and then he would leave.

 

Day 3

 

Wyatt slowly pulled the covers away from his view, looking into his bedroom.  It was exactly as he recalled it.  He had experienced a tormenting, nearly restless night, and judging by the dim light which lit the room through the shut curtains, it was somewhere around late morning to noon.  He lowered the covers and made his way to the dining room.

The door creaked open and Wyatt stepped into the chilling room.  He felt like an alcoholic walking into his own intervention: watched, judged, read, yet with no explanation why.  An alcoholic, however, would eventually have it made clear to him why his loved ones gathered.  Wyatt received no such privilege.

A gust of air brushed and swung among the hair on the back of his neck, which startled the man.  He leaped several lunging steps forward before swerving behind him to stare his tormentor in the face.  Yet of course, nothing stood there.  Nothing but the AC vents above his bedroom door frame which had just kicked on. 

Wyatt said to hell with remaining in that godless place another day, he announced he must flee at once.  Alas, he could see Shannon again, and be rid of whatever allergen plagued his nerves in those wretched fields.  He threw on his denim jacket and packed his bags, all the while waiting for a voice to ask him what he was doing in such a rush.  However, the inquisitive voice never spoke.  The man slipped on his jeans, tied on his boots, and stormed to the dining room table.  Wyatt lifted the leaden typewriter into his arms, swiped the front key from off the kitchen counter, and started to the ominous door, which stood between him and the vulnerable openness.  He clambered to the door with his vintage, unwieldy machine and used his elbow to force down the handle and crack open the door, allowing a trivial amount of sunlight to bask the hardwood floors.  

Wyatt jostled his way outside, where he could sense a myriad of gawkers scowling at him and his cumbersome device.  As he approached his F-150, however, his heart sank and his skin unraveled.  He was so frightened in fact, he dropped his prized pawn shop typewriter onto the dirt road below, smashing the series of small parts and sending certain characters rolling and bouncing away.  His tires were slashed.

No longer was it just his overactive and sudden paranoia, no longer was it just unfamiliarity with new surroundings, nor the anxiety of living in another’s home.  There was someone here to claim his life.  And this sadist, sick as the worst, was clearly a cunning killer willing to stalk and wear down their prey.  Wyatt now understood calling the authorities would be the best choice of protocol, and he hurriedly sprinted behind the house, past the locked tornado shelter, and to the patch in which he buried his phone.  

Wyatt stumbled his way along the path drawn by his memory until he saw a wooden handle of a large shovel protruding from the ground in the distance, towering over the tallgrass.  He raced over to it, once again feeling as if he were a scanned document, all his thoughts out on display for an unknown perpetrator to examine.  

As he approached the patch, however, the tallgrass opening to reveal the dig site, Wyatt’s face turned pale.  Before his sight sat an empty hole, no phone, nothing.  His heart was racing.  He possessed no method of communication, nor a vehicle in which to escape.  Could he run?  No, he thought, he was in the middle of nowhere, even if he escaped off the dirt road and onto the interstate, he would be far too vulnerable.  Wyatt had crept too far into the jaws of a sleeping giant, and the giant had just woken up.  

He could see no other option but to remain hidden in the house as long as possible, maybe his silence would be noticed.  Or would it just be brushed off as committing to the separation from his wife?  Would Lou notice Wyatt’s silence?  Of course he would, he wouldn’t let someone staying in his vacation home go off the grid.  Wyatt’s shaking intensified, and he fled back around the house, past the locked tornado shelter, and up the porch and locked the door behind him.  Although, it felt less like locking someone out and more like locking himself in with another.

Wyatt’s thoughts were scattered; he needed to hide.  Where?  How?  For how long?  As he made his way to his room, he reached into his pocket and felt something strange.  He drew it from his jeans while leaning in the doorway to see the note left by Lou.  Wyatt thought it was only right to inscribe a note of his own for Shannon on the rare occasion she finds him here.

He burst into Lou’s office and scrambled rapidly for a paper and pen.  Upon finding his ingredients, he hurriedly scribbled his message:

 

Shannon,

 

I love you, and I always have.  Something is not right here in this house.  I had felt I was being stalked since I had arrived, and now my tires are slashed, and my phone is missing.  I don’t know if I will ever see you again, I fear my assailant will reveal himself shortly.  I love you, Shannon, and it’s because I love you that I tell you to leave this place immediately.  I’m sorry, but leave me and this place behind forever.  Maybe I may see you again in another life.

 

I love you,

-Wyatt

 

Wyatt put a sliver of tape on the paper and ran to the front door.  He swiftly opened it and slammed the note on the door blindly before throwing the door back into place and locking it.  Following this, tears watering his vision, he sprinted back to his room, slammed the door, and dove under the bed like a child.  Wyatt’s eyes were fixed on the door, waiting for a black-booted killer to stroll his way inside.  However, as daylight became jaded, nothing happened, and Wyatt drifted to sleep shortly after sundown.  

 

Day 4

 

Wyatt awoke surrounded by darkness, a familiar tune repeating through his ears.  He struck his head on something above him as his eyes burst open.  It was then he recalled drifting to slumber beneath the safety of the bed.  His eyes and ears adjusted to his surroundings, clearing his vision and continuing to hear the repetition of the jingle coming from the other room.  Something was too familiar about it, like he had heard it many times before yet paid little attention to it.  His heart sank as he realized the sound was his phone ringing.

Wyatt continued to cling to the hardwood floors of the bedroom as the jingle concluded, believing the killer was inside the house.  However, the ringtone began its melodic song once again moments after it had ended.  What if it was Shannon?  Could Wyatt hear her voice again?  

It was then his fear began to tremble.  He insisted on hearing his wife again.  The man emerged from under his bed and tiptoed to the bedroom doorway.  He creaked the door open as quietly as its aged hinges could, peering into the room.  Nothing had changed, except for one thing.  This one thing, however, sent chills down Wyatt’s spine, only his love for Shannon keeping him fixed on the macabre sight.  The padlock on the door to the tornado shelter hung from its loop on the frame, and the door was gaping open.  Furthermore, the ringtone continued to sing from down below.  

Wyatt gulped, and in his state of paralysis, he pondered.  Would it be worth it?  If he remained in his room, would he be found regardless?  Could he bargain with his captor to speak to his wife one final time?  The man was growing desperate.  The jingle once again came to an end, leaving the dark house in silence aside from the old ticking clock, which displayed it was one o’clock in the morning.  Wyatt had his eyes fixed on the mouth of the tornado shelter, staring into its black oblivion, awaiting some ski-masked killer to emerge from its lips.  

However, the only thing to leave the clutches of the doorway was the sound of his phone once again blaring its ringtone.  Wyatt exhorted to himself that he must investigate.  No one other than Shannon would call him this many times after failing to connect.  The man crept back to his nightstand and equipped himself with the flashlight he had used to investigate the vents in his room.  

Subsequently, Wyatt trod into the dining room and turned on his light, scanning the room.  Perhaps if he stormed down into the shelter with his light, he would terrify the intruder away.  He began excessively stomping as he approached the doorway, and as he stood looking down along the dark staircase, he shouted, in the deepest voice he could muster:

“Hey!  Hey!  On the floor, I have a knife… and a gun!”

There was no answer aside from the careless carrying on of the ringtone.

“I-I’m warning you!  C-come on into the light!” he stuttered out, sneaking down the creaking, old steps.

Wyatt stumbled onto the floor of the shelter and swerved his flashlight into the interior, dropping it to the floor.  His heart skipped several beats and his tongue could do nothing but spout confused gibberish.  Before him, a figure had its back turned to the man, the light of the ringing cell phone illuminating its untextured silhouette.  Wyatt could do nothing but stand, shiver, and stare at the figure, who regarded his presence with apathetic silence.  Before long, the ringtone concluded, casting the room in darkness aside from the dim angling of the dropped flashlight.

Just then, the sound of the decrepit hinges of the shelter door squealed throughout the chamber as it slammed shut, its force echoing and thumping within Wyatt’s head.  Nevertheless, he persisted in his gawking at the figure.

Then, the nude, balded silhouette began to slowly rotate, now facing its victim.  Observing the shape, it appeared as if it were hugging itself, yet there was something far more aberrant than its stance: its feet.  They appeared to not be of any human anatomy.  They were wide and flat, and bore reflective black talons.  Then, the silhouette just stood there, staring at the man, yet no eyes reflected the glare of the flashlight.  

The thing then outstretched its arms and spread its fingers, highlighting their razor-sharp claws.  Subsequently, off from its head, outstretched a smaller pair of arms from where its ears should be, bearing the same organic blades.  Wyatt found himself tranced in paralysis as the thing silently and gracefully stepped toward him and into the light. 

This light, however, only revealed that which Wyatt hoped not to see.  The begrimed monstrosity bore no eyes, nor did it posses a mouth, and its deep ears were pierced into the thing’s four palms.  Its grey skin boasted of asymmetric lumps erroneously molded into its wrinkly person.  As the creature approached, however, the shadows danced and flooded the shapes of these lumps, and revealed them to be a collection of hands embedded in its gluttonous epidermis.  Then, as it stood mere feet from the petrified man, a deep, ominous voice echoed into Wyatt’s head.

“I had been observing you for several days, Wyatt Hillary.  Your thoughts, your worries, your deepest desires were all uncovered.”

Wyatt could say nothing as his face turned pale by the abstract experience.

“You have been unnerved by my presence, uneased by my way of learning,” it said, “There is no way to escape this, as your mind, your thoughts, and your free will are mine to boast.  You may run to the ends of the Earth, swim to the depths of the deepest seas, and soar to the furthest stars and I will never fail to remain all around you, and nowhere near you.  I will hear every thought, know every move, and feast on our shared mind.”

Just then, the phone began to ring once again, and the thing approached Wyatt further, its arms encroaching on the sides of his head.

“I trade knowledge for the eradication of pain.  An address and a padlock pattern for courage to buy a home in the metropolis.  You wish to see your loved one again, and it shall be done.  You may see her smile, hear her voice, and gaze into her kind eyes.  And in turn, I may satiate my thirst.  I possess limitless knowledge on any soul, and therefore I keep them safe from the anguish of reality.”

Just then, the cold, dismal flesh of the creature’s palms pressed against Wyatt’s cheeks and its fingers wrapped around his head.  A searing pain drilled into the man’s head, forcing him to cry out in agony.  It felt as if his very free reign of thought were being stripped away from his being.  In rapid time, his vision turned pale, and he drifted away into a sea of white.

Wyatt awoke in a familiar room, on familiar bed sheets.  No longer did he itch on the old covers of Lou’s house, but he was now in his warm home.  Just then, the bedroom door gently opened, and in walked a familiar figure.  Was it really her?  Yes, alas, Wyatt was reunited with his beloved Shannon!  He sat up on his cushioned mattress and smiled with glee as his wife approached him.

“Oh, good,” she said with a smile, “you’re finally awake, how are you, honey?” she asked, sitting along the side of the bed and caressing him softly.

Wyatt bore no words as he fell enamored in his love’s crystal eyes and snow-white smile, and hypnotized by her siren’s voice.  He couldn’t help but laugh and tear up as he looked into his wife.  Everything was just perfect, he had told himself.  So flawless, in fact, he fell into a trance too unbreakable to allow himself to sense the aberration that was this perfection.  He was home, and with the person he cared about most.  What more could Wyatt want?  Perhaps it didn’t seem real, perhaps his wife’s smile was too angelic to not be sinister.  But would it matter if it weren’t real?  Would it be so awful to live in a perfect, false reality without your own awareness?  After all, reality can often depress and disappoint.

In actuality, Wyatt was not with his wife, not that he knew this, of course.  The real Wyatt lay in the tornado shelter.  His throat was torn out, as to not speak against the lies.  His eyes were sewn shut, so he could not see the truth.  His ears were removed, as to not hear the whispers of liberation.  His hands were missing entirely, no longer could he feel reality, nor could he bend it to his whims.  His tongue too was removed, as to not detect the sour flavor of the real world, and lastly, his nose was sliced off his face, denying him the ability to smell the stench of his own rotting corpse, a corpse left to decay in a lonely house in Kansas.