TETHER
DREADFUL - EVENT #20
As I rake the stories out of my brain and onto paper, I can’t help but wonder whether it ends. Not just at The Amorphophallus, but everywhere. Pain, / / / / / / /, torture, ridicule, heartache, loss. Every foul, diseased emotion one can feel has been exploited over this one dismal evening.
And I feel we aren’t even close to the end yet.
Why are you here? Why is anyone bothering to absorb this work of grotesque discomfort? I want you to stop. I want you to walk away and never come back. Save your soul. Keep that ignorant part of you uncompromised. I have no way of knowing if you will obey that command, but I can hope. That’s about the only thing I have left. I’m afraid that I am losing myself. Like a rock being smoothed after a millennium of water rushing over it, I’m losing my shape. My edges have softened and no longer resemble who I was. Perhaps this is necessary. Maybe this is a much-needed rebirth. No, it can’t be. I find myself growing numb to all this death, all this / / / / / / /. I write about it from different perspectives and viewpoints to entertain, as if that will make the content more palatable, as if I am trying to turn this into a career. Sometimes, I / / / / / and / / / when an undeserving character gets devoured or taken or ripped apart. I fear that it’ll only grow more obscene the deeper I fall.
I am terrified of what will happen to me after I am finished. Will I be of use? Will I be given more knowledge and another assignment?
I can feel my hand and my mind tugging me back to the path. I have no choice. I’m guided by an unseen force that triumphs over us. These
entities—that feels like the best descriptor—surround us. I don’t believe they are the source. They are a cog within a planet-sized wheel that spins and rotates without interruption because it knows nothing else than to spin and rotate. Does a parasite do anything more than feed? Do cancerous cells intend to achieve anything more than to multiply? Nature binds us all to repetitive motions./ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / before I tumble deeper. I need to squeeze out this story before my hand trembles and my mind course-corrects me back to misery.
I found this buried within. Hiding. Trying its hardest to make itself frozen from view. I hope I won’t ruin it all by sharing this with you. Everything within The Amorphophallus is known to me, even those events that creep in the margins.
This is the best I can do for you. This is the only reprieve I can give.
If you value the future of all things, stop after this story. Please. Please do not go any further. Walk away from this knowing that you ended in a / / place—the only one I can offer.
Not much is known about the philosophy behind superstitions. It’s likely that one unlucky flesh sack stepped on a crack and then their mother soon after broke her back and doomed everyone else. It’s even likelier that someone once decreed that the number thirteen should be banished to unlucky depths where only witches, warlocks, ghouls, and bakers find use for it after an innocent error caused a chicken to be listed for $13 as opposed to $130. It’s even more, more likelier that one grumpy grandpa didn’t like how his grandkids were always cracking their knuckles, so in classic fashion, the grumpy grandpa told them how they’d get ar-thri-tis, a word the kids cocked their heads at, only laughing at the grumpy grandpa’s typical bah-humbug attitude. When questioned further, the grumpy grandpa attributed the curse of knuckle cracking and ar-thri-tis to an old wives’ tale, further proving that men will always blame women when given the opportunity.
The likeliest concept is that superstition is born out of sterile and utterly uninteresting coincidence. Unfortunately, people loathe coincidence when it does not favor them.
Within this storied history of fables, myths, and delusions, something monumental still exists that has become a valued industry secret. Whenever a sprawling, city-block long apartment complex spreads its wings and shits open its doors, one apartment must be left empty. Yes, that’s right. One apartment must remain perpetually empty. Think of it as an offering or a sacrifice. Think of it as a tribute to a (the?) complex god. Without setting aside a dust-riddled, roly-poly-infested apartment, the complex will suffer dire consequences. Residents will rage against management. Lights will flicker and water pipes will leak without rhythm. Fire alarms will chirp sporadically . . . even after changing the batteries.
Woe to any complex that does not abide by this sacred superstition.
It should come as no surprise how The Amorphophallus has adopted this superstition. While having an empty apartment is not a one-pill-cures-all solution, until tonight, The Amorphophallus has avoided any catastrophes that weren’t self-inflicted.
Apartment 400 sits at a corner, tucked near the stairs and elevator but seemingly unbothered by the bustling activity surrounding it. The door is opened once a month by one of the leasing agents. The kitchen lights are flicked on and off five times to appease the minute details buried within the superstition and to confirm that a rogue wall hasn’t collapsed or a kitchen appliance hasn’t scampered off. At the last check-in, four days ago, all appeared as it should. Priyanka poked her head inside, dribbled out some thoughtful words, fiddled with the lights, and then quickly locked up the apartment before any foot traffic saw her suspicious behavior.
Tonight, though, the apartment is anything but empty. The collection of individuals inside Apartment 400 are strangers, mingling and chatting about inane topics that would bore and snore the average person. They do not hold alcoholic beverages in their hands or munch on toothpick-pierced appetizers. They do not wander around the apartment, seeking the secrets hidden in drawers and closets. These partygoers are so enraptured in their pockets of prattle that all but one notices the new arrival, a disheveled woman bearing a look of confusion and unease.
“Hello,” the observer says to the newcomer.
“Hi,” the newcomer says, eyeing the room with rightful suspicion. “What is going on here?”
“A party. A shindig, perhaps. A gathering. A formal formation of an appropriate number of people to be considered something more than a tiny get-together.”
“I see,” the newcomer says. They nod, doing their best to accept the explanation as fact. “I have many questions.”
Now it’s the observer’s turn to nod. They nod. “Are you new?”
“I think so. I feel new. This feels foreign to me.”
“Sort of like going to a high school reunion—familiar but wondering how everyone there were people you used to associate with?”
“I guess. I never went to one.”
“Or maybe this feels like a half-remembered dream? Something to spend the mid-morning hours tapping your forehead trying to jog loose the information you never will?”
“I suppose it feels something like that.”
“Good,” the observer smiles. “People usually prefer that description, given its universal relatability. Everyone dreams after all, even the ones who refute that fact.” The observer thrusts out an arm. It’s wrapped in a semi-translucent chain that winds and curls all the way up to their shoulder. The chain doesn’t seem to carry much weight given how easily the observer moves their arm toward the newcomer. “I’m Flo.”
The newcomer examines the hand like a questionable meal being served at a restaurant. The hesitation stems from unknowing how to answer. “I’m . . . I can’t . . . My na—”
“It’s okay,” Flo says with a reassuring smile. “I only remembered the o in my name after my latest link faded. Try to focus on what’s in front of you. One letter. Perhaps a symbol comes to mind or an image of something familiar to you.”
The newcomer narrows her eyes and purses her lips. It’s a dense fog, so thick and pervasive. It’s worse than trying to recall a half-remembered dream. The effort feels like you are hoping to create your own dream from scratch, capturing all the bizarre logic and situations one might encounter.
Flo reaches further and grabs the newcomer’s hand. The touch is gentle, a nurturing mother doing what she has always done. “It will come to you. Give it time.”
The newcomer nods, accepting that to struggle against the tide will only lead to their metaphorical drowning.
“You have questions,” Flo continues. “I can see them forming in your mind. I will answer what I can. You must understand, though, that answers are in short supply around here. You will see why soon.” Flo steps closer and further entwines her arm around the newcomer’s. “Let’s go together and see what we can learn, hmm? You can be my anchor and I’ll be yours.”
“That sounds . . . nice,” the newcomer says. “Thank you, Flo.”
They take a short walk over to the first circle of people. They ease their way into the conversation, tilting heads at the sounds and nodding in agreement when necessary.
“I recall the Pythagorean theorem,” the first man says.
The circle of people declares its awe at this new idea.
“I think I used it when I was younger and during math class. I can picture myself sitting in a room with other kids who seemed just as bored as I felt. There was a person at the front writing on a . . . on a . . .”
“Chalkboard,” another man offers.
“Yes! Yes, a chalkboard.”
“So, what is a theorem?” someone asks.
“I don’t know,” the first man says. He rubs his jaw, neither upset nor surprised by the lack of knowledge. “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” he concedes.
“Cats. I recall cats,” a woman jumps in. “They are devilish creatures with sharp claws and filed fangs. They devour small critters and, for whatever reason, people choose to domesticate these rabid beasts.”
The circle of people declares its dismay at this new idea.
“My sentiments exactly,” the woman continues. She looks satisfied that the others are invested in her contribution. “The worst part is that a tickle in my mind tells me I loved these cat creatures. I think I owned three. Or maybe four. I must have been insane!” she laughs.
A brief silence overtakes the circle until a girl standing amongst the group clears her throat and contributes her memory. “I remember using a swing. It’s this . . . it’s this thing that moves back and forth”—she sways her arms at a melodic pace—“and moves up and down.”
“What is its purpose?” a woman inquires.
“To have fun,” the girl says. Her face softens into a grin as if she is reliving the memory with unmatched clarity.
“Fun?” one man asks.
“Can anyone elaborate on that?” another man asks.
The girl shakes her head. “Fun. And wind on my face. And . . . that’s all I remember.” She dips her head, saddened that there isn’t more to explain. The chains wrap around her midsection, haphazard circles of links that overlap one another. It’s impossible to tell the beginning from the end.
The newcomer listens with interest as the circle of people continue popcorning from topic to topic. Armed with more questions than before, the newcomer eventually leans into Flo and asks, “What is the purpose of all this?”
Flo turns toward the newcomer. “We have forgotten so much. This is our way to learn from one another.” Her voice is no louder than a whisper, but the newcomer hears it as if the words are already known to her.
“Why, though?”
“Why not?” Flo says with a smile. “For some, they remember their names and perhaps their childhoods. For others, they may recall a certain smell or what they did for a living. This is an endless puzzle that we choose to help one another fill in. There is no deeper reason besides it being a way to grow together.”
“Is that why I’m here? To share what I know?”
Flo latches onto the newcomer’s arm again and pulls her back from the group. When they are alone again, Flo no longer speaks in a whisper. “You are dead, my dear.”
“I am?”
Flo nods.
Most don’t balk at being dead. Most no longer choose to internalize what sadness means or how someone living may long for the life they no longer have. In this place—in these places—you hold on to the moments you have and learn what you can.
The newcomer shakes her head. “I don’t . . . I don’t . . . Am I supposed to remember why or how?”
“Most never do. I still don’t if that gives you any consolation. While everyone comes to their own conclusion, most usually decide that the answer no longer matters. What would you be able to change if you knew, you know?”
“Why are we here then?”
“A place of power. A place where energy concentrates and allows us to become whole again. There is no definitive rulebook as to how and when. There are no guarantees that we will ever come across this specific group of individuals again. That is why most spend their time wisely—seeking, learning, and internalizing all they can. It’s tough to predict what will stick from one instance to the next.”
“You mean that this is temporary?” the newcomer asks. She can’t seem to pull herself out from underneath the pile of questions.
“Very much so.”
“I don’t understand.”
Flo goes on to explain how these places of power are conduits, like bugs being attracted to a light on a porch. They can be anywhere. In an apartment complex, in an open field, at an abandoned mall. The living may see these places as haunted, but that is not the case. The dead who occupy these places cannot interact with the living. They cannot be seen or felt. The living and the dead exist on different planes. Consider it like layers in a painting. One may start with the background and then add in the colors to represent the clouds. All of the separate aspects of the painting add up to a single creation, but each part remains distinguishable from the others. Flo has no experience with violent entities who defy this notion and intend to harm the living. She speaks only of what she knows.
When Flo and the countless others are not their whole selves, they become everything. They are the wind sweeping across mountaintops. They are the rocks cascading down a cliffside. They are the echoes of a wolf pack howling into the night. They are the atomic particles that nestle themselves in between every object. They are space, time, and matter. They are gods and goddesses. They are waste and commerce and famine and intellect.
They are boundless.
And while that sounds beautiful and compelling, the result is so overwhelming and fracturing that when they become whole again, they lose pieces of what they were. Hence the circles of people chatting as if they are reuniting with long-lost friends. Everyone’s goal is to regain and retrace.
“But why?” the newcomer asks. “Why bother to come together and seek knowledge? What is the end goal?”
“There is none!” Flo says. “There is absolutely no reason. We are here because everyone else before us has walked this path. It’s your choice how you intend to walk it. You can isolate yourself. You can insert yourself. You can twirl around in the open space until you grow tired. Although I will warn you that such a concept does not exist here. You are free, my dear.”
“Why were you waiting by the entrance?” the newcomer asks.
“Waiting for you.”
“Really? Did we . . . Did we know each other?”
Flo shakes her head. “We are all strangers. From what we understand, these places of power do not group or cater to our previous lives. We are here now, occupying this space. Take solace in that if you can.”
The newcomer pauses her flood of questions and reexamines the apartment. While she can’t quite recall every aspect, she once believed that ghosts, if that is the correct term, are meant to hover above the ground and be see-through. None of the people in this apartment are. They stand firm on the floor. They have well-formed skin of varying colors. To Flo’s point, there are no common elements among the circles. The people are cobbled together into groups, not distracted by the differences. The newcomer doesn’t need light to see these people perfectly. All their shapes. All their sizes. The clothes they wear. The accent they speak with.
Shouldn’t I be able to walk through walls, the newcomer thinks. She steps to the nearest wall and places her hand against it. Solid. She understands that the living exist just beyond the divide, a gap she can never overcome. She taps the wall with her palm and then her knuckles. No sound emanates from any of her movements.
“Not what you expected, huh?” Flo asks.
“We are whole.”
“We are.”
“And we are separated from the living.”
“We are, in subtle ways. After a while, you will lose any desire to interact with them.”
The newcomer considers this. “It is almost as if we are still alive but without any of the benefits.”
“Benefits?” Flo asks.
“Yeah, like, memories or money or a place to sleep. Or family or what a summer day feels like. I know I haven’t been here long, but I do know that I will experience none of those things again.”
“You’re right,” Flo says. “It’s easy to become lost in a haze after gaining too much knowledge about what living was like. But it’s also easy to forget that living was not simple. Endless choices encapsulated us. Emotions ebbed into us all and flowed back out without fair notice. Life was not a linear path but rather a series of loops, zigzags, and sudden drop-offs.”
“You know all that for certain?”
“Just a hunch.”
“I’d like to listen some more to the others if that’s okay,” the newcomer says.
“Of course. Of course.” Flo guides the newcomer toward another group.
Time means nothing to the dead. The world beyond the apartment walls means nothing to them. While the rest of The Amorphophallus is suffering, the people here are absorbing and listening, which are two things the living don’t make enough time for.
During this extended period of ingraining herself into one of the groups, the newcomer rediscovers nuggets of knowledge. Some of it pertains and will stick for the next time, while other portions slide off into the ether. Either way, she finds herself enraptured by it all. She knows that these are people she would never have met when she was alive. An image floats across her mind. It’s a creature of some sort. It has . . . wings. They are spread apart. It has a b-b-beak. And f-feathers. The haze scatters as the newcomer focuses on it.
A bird. That’s it. A bird. Common enough that the struggle the newcomer waded through becomes a minor annoyance until she lets the frustration go.
The bird has an orange chest that pulsates within the image. Nothing else is special about it. A bird is a bird is a bird, the newcomer believes.
And yet, it is a start.
The newcomer drifts to another group, leaning in to hear the excitement in their voices. It’s now that she notices what everyone in this apartment has in common. She steps back and lifts her arms, checking all angles. When she looks down, she sees the chains coiled around her legs. With urgency, she finds Flo and plucks her from the crowd.
“What is this?” the newcomer asks. She points down at the chains. Much like the others, the chain is semi-translucent, an odd hybrid between gray and white.
“I have been waiting for you to ask,” Flo smiles. “Usually that is everyone’s first question.”
“I didn’t notice until just now.”
“Unsurprising. Yours are not easily noticeable unless you have your eyes glued to the floor. Do you feel the weight of them now that you know they are there?”
It seems like a trick question, but the newcomer answers it with the truth. “No, they feel weightless.”
Flo nods. She runs a hand along her own set of chains. “I have never met anyone who has said otherwise.”
“So, what is this? I can’t think of anything positive that this could be.”
“That’s understandable, but let me alleviate your concerns: there is nothing bad about this. You see, everyone has these chains. They appear on different parts of the body for each person. We haven’t figured out if there is any significance to the placement.”
“But why?” the newcomer asks, growing impatient.
“I’m getting there,” Flo says with a tender smile. “From what we know, the chains are our tethers to the living.” She pauses, waiting for the newcomer to question the claim. Most do. Most then glance around and compare their chains to everyone else’s, which is why Flo says next what she always does. “It’s not a competition or some indication that your life was better than others. We think the point is to remind us that there are people still thinking about us.”
“That’s sad. Terribly sad,” the newcomer says.
“Is it? I think it’s beautiful. I think about how lucky I am to have left an impression on the world and the people around me. I don’t remember who my family was or how I spent my time, but perhaps it was all sufficient enough for me to be carried on into the future. I have heard someone describe it to me this way: when someone died, we grieved their passing and wondered what happened to them. This is the proof needed that there is a link between us and the living. And while we can’t interact with them directly, I think that this is plenty for me.”
“I . . .”
“It’s okay. This can be hard to wrap your head around. You may forget much of this the next time you are whole.”
“Is it possible that I have been whole before?”
Flo shakes her head. “We have been here a while—whatever that means. You showed up far later than the rest of us. That’s the clearest sign that a person is experiencing their first time.”
“Oh, okay.” The newcomer looks down at her legs and counts the links. She stops once the loops start crisscrossing over one another. She looks back up and asks, “Some people have more than others?”
“Yes. Everyone is different.”
“How many do you have?” the newcomer asks.
“I have twenty-eight left.”
“Left?”
“Ah, yes. That is the other piece worth mentioning. The links fade as the memories do, as the people in our lives no longer think of us. Who’s to say whether each link is tied to a specific person or a specific memory, but the idea is all the same. With time, the links disappear. Each time you are whole, you are likely to notice less and less of them.”
The newcomer looks to the ceiling, then to the floor, and then back at Flo. “I don’t know how I should feel about that.”
“You may be upset to hear that, but I don’t intend to spare you from the truth. Besides, it’s all about your view of things. For me, I know enough to understand that memories fade. People die. While I hope I inspired and did meaningful things, it would be bold of me to assume that my death will live in the minds of those around me forever. Time may mean nothing to us, but it means everything when you are alive. And time skips ahead without our buy-in. Does that make sense?”
“I guess. What happens when all the links fade on a person?”
“We watch.”
Flo grabs the newcomer’s hand again and brings her to the far side of the empty apartment. Standing amongst a group the newcomer hadn’t visited yet is a young man. His hair is parted to the side, with the longer portion hanging near his ear. Every so often, he sweeps a hand through his hair to push it back, although the movement does nothing to shift how it sits. He is dressed in a three-piece suit. The bowtie is cherry red and matches the handkerchief stuffed into his breast pocket. On the opposite side, the newcomer notices the link. It is solitary, a lone soldier remaining on the battlefield.
Flo and the newcomer remain engaged with this new group for some time until the link on the young man begins to crack. The fissures are dark, a sharp contrast to the translucent nature of the link. The young man looks down at it and then up at the group. “Is it my time?”
“Appears so,” the woman across from him says.
“What happens next? I never asked that before.”
“None of us know.”
“Do you think it’ll be painful?”
“Have you felt pain at all during your time here?” another man offers.
“No, I can’t say I have.”
The fissures intensify. The young man opens the palm of his hand. He is now holding a book. Its pages are numerous, thousands upon thousands, but it appears to lack any weight. “What is this now?” the young man questions. He eyes the group. They offer him no answers. Everyone watches as if they wished it were them instead.
Unceremoniously, the link shatters. The pieces shrivel to ash before they reach the floor. The ash then flutters away.
“Oh, I see,” the young man says. He smiles. “It makes sense now.” He softens and then shrinks until he loses shape and meaning. The book falls to the floor in a noiseless crash. As the young man is reduced to the size of a pinhole, the tiny speck of light presses itself against the open page of the book. His name appears next to a thousand others. It glows long enough for Flo to bend down and see.
“Elias Free,” she reads.
The book snaps shut and blinks out of existence.
The group wavers for only a moment before they return to their conversation. The newcomer pulls Flo aside once again.
“Have you seen that before?” the newcomer asks.
“Many times. That is why we are made whole. Someone always leaves us during these times.”
“Where did he go?”
“What answer sounds best to you?” Flo asks.
“I’d need to think about it,” the newcomer says.
“Can I tell you what I think?”
The newcomer nods.
“We aren’t meant to know. Knowing would diminish our time here. A harsh task for many, but that is what I choose to believe. He is only moving on to whatever comes next. I like to think he finds peace. As will all of us.”
“Peace?” the newcomer asks. “The word is . . . That word—”
“It’s okay. You will come to learn it. Everyone does.”
The newcomer surveys the apartment. “What happens now?”
“We go.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Flo echoes.
“Will we meet again?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a giant world filled with an infinite number of places to commune. I hope we do, though. I hope you can hold on to at least some of what you experienced here.”
“Oh, I see. Well, thank you. You have been very kind to me.”
Flo pulls the newcomer into a hug. The newcomer doesn’t feel any warmth at the contact. That is reserved for the living.
When the newcomer opens her eyes, she is alone in the apartment. The circles of people have broken apart and gone away. Flo has moved along with them. The newcomer stands in the emptiness and stares down at the chains.
Reminders.
She still has an overwhelming number of questions. What about historical figures, the ones seemingly never forgotten? What about those who lived terrible, hate-filled lives? Was there a specific, tragic place those individuals went? What about family pets?
Before the wonderings can consume her any further, the newcomer is given a piece to her own puzzle.
“R,” she whispers. “I—”
That is enough for now, she thinks as she lets herself go from The Amorphophallus, from that perpetually empty apartment.
R becomes a part of everything, both finding and losing herself within its beauty and vastness.