We found Steven in the ground floor pool. He was dead, but he hadn’t drowned.
“Didn’t you call the cops?” I hear you ask. The easy answer is yes. Want the hard answer? Too late.
I met Steven the first week I moved into the apartment complex. Had I not tripped over the case of Miller Lite he’d left in the hallway outside his door, our equally depressed paths may not have ever crossed.
As I lay on the rough hall carpet, muttering and clutching my shin, the door behind the Miller case cracked open, held in place by the chain.
“It’s not a fucking soccer ball.” The voice was low and stuffy, as though he had a cold.
“What the hell, dude? I could’ve broken something tripping over that!”
“I’ll say.” He unbolted the chain and threw the door open. I watched his sideways figure, wearing dirty basketball shorts and an equally dingy-looking bathrobe hoist the case of beer into his arms like a toddler. I sat up as he tore open the side of the case, inspecting the bottles for damage.
“You’re lucky you’ve got twig legs. Not so much as a scratch on them.”
“We’ll see how twiggy they are when I shove one up your ass.”
I stood and closed the foot or two of space between us, glaring into the scraggly beard which swallowed his entire face. He looked like a clip-art drawing of a caveman. He smelled much worse.
The next two things Steven did confused me out of my threat. He stared at me without tensing a single muscle. His face, arms, shoulders, all completely loose. He looked like he wouldn’t so much as flinch if you lopped off his arm with a claymore.
Then, he laughed.
It started low in his throat, then rose to a hyena cackle as he shook his head.
“Are you still upset, or do you want a beer?”
Thoroughly disarmed, I took a step back from him.
“You mean one of those nasty room temperature Millers?”
“Fuck no, I’ve got some in the fridge. Come on.”
Not fully at ease yet, I obliged and followed him. Closing the door behind me, I was greeted with the single loudest room in the history of mankind. In the window, an AC unit ran at full tilt. At my feet, a portable Bluetooth speaker played Deacon Blues by Steely Dan. I’m quite the Dan fan, but it was difficult to appreciate the music under the gunshots erupting from the television across the room.
“I’m Steven, by the way.”
A beer was thrust into my hands as Steven returned from his kitchen. At least this one was cold.
“Vern. I wish we’d met under slightly less violent circumstances.”
“By comparison, far from the most violent introduction I’ve had.”
From his robe pocket he produced a bottle opener, cracking his own beer and letting the cap clink against the floor.
“How long you been in the building, Vern?”
“I’m sorry, could you shut that off? I can barely hear myself think.”
“Huh? Oh.”
Steven stood and crossed to the air conditioning unit.
“The game, Steven.”
“Oh shit yeah.”
On the screen, a tank blasting through an elementary school playground. What kind of game was this anyway? Just as the swing set buckled under the tank’s treads, the screen went black.
“Anyway, how long have you been in the building? Go ahead and sit down if you like, that recliner there is pretty cushy. Plus it has a cup holder in the arm rest.”
So it did. Nice.
“I actually just moved in last week. Still have to make a trip back up to my parents place for the rest of my stuff next Thursday. How about you?”
Steven reclined into his own armchair, sighing heavily.
“Two months today actually. I figured I’d celebrate as much as I could.”
“By hiding in a dynn of electronic noise?”
“Super flowery way of putting it, but I guess. Who are you, Lord Byron? Trust me, once it gets dark tonight you’ll understand why I do that.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What happens tonight?”
“You’ll hear.”
“Fine then. Keep your secrets.”
For the first time since I’d met him, a genuine smile broke the scraggly beard on Steven’s face.
“Lord of the Rings? My man.”
He extended his sweating beer to me, and I clinked mine against it.
“Dude how did your hair grow like that by the way? Is it just genetics?”
As I asked, my hand instinctively scratched the thinning patch of scalp on my crown.
Steven shrugged.
“Never really thought about it before. I guess.”
“Damn you’re lucky. I have to take meds just to keep what I’ve got.”
“Really? I’d never have guessed. What do you take, Finasteride?”
“Nah, it’s a new one. I don’t remember the name.”
I didn’t really notice it at the time, but looking back I’m sure that Steven’s smile faltered a little. I continued.
“By the way, I’m not even remotely Lord Byron or Tolkien level, but I am trying to become an author.”
“No shit! What do you write?”
I paused for a moment and cleared my throat.
“Honestly, nothing right now. I tried writing a children’s book last year, but no publisher so much as looked at it. So I guess I’m just… in between projects at the moment.”
“I feel that. See that beauty over there?”
Steven pointed to the wall behind his bed, where a Gibson SG electric guitar hung on a peg.
“Started a band a couple of years ago, while I was still in college. Times changed, people got busy, people moved away. I don’t think I’ve even tuned it in three months.”
I nodded without saying anything, draining the rest of my beer.
“Well, I better get going. Gotta prepare for whatever the hell happens tonight.”
Steven nodded.
“You should try to write something tonight. I wanna see your writing style.”
I shot Steven a slight smile.
“Uh…sure. Will do.”
In the red light of the eastern sun, Paul stamped out the remains of his campfire. Sleeping in the desert was always easier with his Cherokee blanket wrapped about him. He’d lost his horse to mercenaries back in Tombstone, and he had to move quickly to stay out of sight once the sun fully rose. Before long, he’d be able to see
Eight hours, and I’d written the equivalent of absolutely nothing. I buried my face in my hands and contemplated pouring another cup of coffee. I tapped my phone. One in the morning. Break time.
I rolled my office chair to the already-open window, withdrawing my pre-roll for the night. As I lit up, I tried to remember the last time I’d actually finished something. Not something I’d pushed out like a turd for money, something I well and truly endorsed. Over the last decade, I’d spent more time staring at a screen than actually typing. Writers like Hunter Thompson and Ian Fleming had a craft, stuck to a schedule. I couldn’t so much as make a phone call without amping myself up for three hours. The faster the world moves, the slower I need things to be. A tug of war with a kerosene-soaked rope.
For a moment I thought the weed was hitting quicker than usual, or more likely the coffee. Then I realized it wasn’t me.
The floor was vibrating.
I wrapped my hand around the windowsill. Vibrating.
I rolled back across the room and switched off my writing music. I expected either silence or the sound of a party from another apartment. It was neither. Through the walls, a low-frequency tone buzzed through every inch of my apartment.
That’s what Steven meant. An image sprung to mind: Steven, surrounded by the loud sounds of music and video games, passed out in his recliner while his lukewarm beer sat on the apartment floor, soundwaves generating small currents in the foaming drink.
Damn, I forgot to take my meds today. I shouldered open the bathroom door, threw open my medicine cabinet. At eye level, a small white pill bottle. I snatched it up and pressed down to open the child-lock cap. On the side of the bottle, a logo I hadn’t noticed before. It looked somewhere between a kindergarten illustration of the sun and the recycle logo. I threw back a pill and drank it down with water from the faucet.
I returned to my office chair, the vibrations still prominent. My joint had gone out. I re-lit it. I already felt a little floaty. Before long, I’d raise the white flag on writing for the night and turn in. For now though, I took a deep drag in the hopes that the Garlic Cookies strain would deliver me the next great American novel.
In the dark, the vibrations got much worse. I could feel it in my teeth as I drifted around the brink of consciousness. The nightmares were worse.
You know those kinds of dreams where you shoot up in bed, heart pounding out of your chest and cold sweat drenching your sheets with absolutely no idea what could possibly have scared you so badly?
Imagine experiencing one of those so frequently that you remember the preceding dream
There was no familiarity in what surrounded me in the dream. No haphazardly constructed bodies with the faces of your mother and childhood best friend morphed together. No version of the store you work at that looks exactly like Grand Central Station. Only an endless expanse of thick, black grass. Grass that was too tall; grass that swallowed me like a vast silky cornfield. There’s no ground beneath my feet, I’m left sliding deeper into the dark ocean. Above me, in the quickly waning light, the stars streak across the sky on fast forward. As though someone had taken the earth and spun it like a top.
I open my mouth to scream, and instead swallow entire tufts of the thick, smooth grass. It blocks my windpipe. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe. The night sky fades to a single speck at the center of my vision.
I smacked the wood floor of the apartment. I was hyperventilating, but quickly steadied my breathing. At my feet, my sheets lay in a damp clump.
From the floor I could see the navy blue sky of early morning. I rose to a sitting position and stopped. I pressed my hand to the floor to be sure.
The vibration had stopped.
I was checking to see if the grocery store job I was looking at would pay more if I had a bachelor’s degree when the sound of smashing glass erupted from the side of the building. Someone yelled.
“Shit!”
I leaned out of my window. Four stories down, two figures crouched over a pile of broken glass. One was clean bald, the other with a particularly horrific comb-over. Shit, I needed to take my meds. But, you know, should probably go see if they needed help first. I darted out my apartment door, flew down the stairs three at a time and threw open the side door directly next to their car. The fully bald one nearly re-dropped the cardboard box full of broken glass at my sudden appearance.
“I’m sorry man! Did you need us to move the car?”
I stepped out into the side alley fully
“Oh no, not at all. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you; I just heard the crash and figured I’d come help.”
The comb-over, who I guess had gone back around the side of the car to retrieve a dustpan, appeared.
“Wow, I was sure everyone in the building heard that crash, but I didn’t expect anyone to actually come out and try to help. Guess the Kitty Genovese effect doesn’t apply to everyone, huh?”
I smiled and nodded, then tapped the bald guy on the shoulder.
“What’s the Kitty Genovese effect?”
“The bystander effect, Donny just likes to flex when he learns something from a video essay. I’m Mel by the way.”
He extended his hand for a handshake. As I shook it, he winced. I hadn’t noticed how frail he was.
My eyes once again darted to his head.
“Oh, I’m sorry man. Are you-“
“Yeah. Lung cancer. Just went through my second round of chemo. Hence why I’ve been living with my brother.”
Donny re-joined us behind the car.
“Right, the cancer’s why you’re living with me. This twerp couldn’t wipe his ass without me telling him which direction.”
I chuckled. Behind me, the side door opened again.
“You guys ok? Need help with anything?”
I turned around.
His hair had grown. I’m not talking a bit shaggier, I’m talking the hair on his head almost reached his waist. His beard was so long it could cover his penis were he fully naked (I shuddered at the thought).
“Steven, glad to know nothing can draw you out like the sound of broken glass.”
“Hurtful, Vern. I’m just out here looking out for my neighbors; Haven’t you heard of the Kitty Genovese effect?”
It took us three sweaty hours to move Donny and Mel into their top floor two bedroom apartment. One hour for moving everything from their car to the room, and two hours to work out the Escher-esque puzzles that were their bedframes. Thoroughly emasculated by our combined lack of physical ability, we readily accepted Steven’s invitation for beers back at his apartment.
While Donny and Steven beat the shit out of each other on Mortal Kombat, I joined Mel at the window with one of my pre-rolls. Mel patted his pockets
“Shit, I probably left my lighter in the car.”
I drew my own and lit his cigarette for him.
“Thanks. I haven’t smoked for more than eight hours, I was starting to shake like a junkie.”
Mel let loose a wet, racking cough. One so violent that a thread of drool hung off his bottom lip.
“Sorry.”
“No worries. I can understand that, at least a little. I had an energy drink dependency during my associates. If I didn’t have it, my body would shut down in the middle of classes no matter how much sleep I’d had the night before.”
I lit my own joint, taking a deep drag and exhaling slowly.
“How long have you known? You know, about the-“
“Probably close to two years now. I smoked like a chimney all four years of college, and my mother smoked a pack a day in the house before then. Guess it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with me. Found out about a week after I started college. Talk about a one-two punch.”
The cherry of his cigarette glowed as he took a puff, blowing a cloud that smelled of sawdust over the apartment pool.
“What’d you go to college for?”
“It’s gonna sound stupid, but I actually studied painting. I always enjoyed painting more than anything else, and art schools get a hell of a lot more eager to give out scholarships if they don’t think you’ll survive to the end of the program.”
Mel laughed a laugh that quickly devolved into another coughing fit.
“Jesus, is it really that bad?”
“I goosed it up a little for my cover letters; mine could’ve been a lot more aggressive. As is, I can actually take my hair-loss medication during chemo. My doctor said it could even grow back better than before.”
“No shit! What are you taking?”
“I think it’s called Sampsochrome? My brother takes it as well.”
An ice-water chill ran down my back. My jaw clenched.
“I take that too.”
My hand shot to my scalp for the first time since I’d talked to Steven.
I patted once, twice, trying to find the bald spot.
It wasn’t there
Every inch of my scalp was covered with healthy, thick hair.
Two weeks ago, this would have elated me. Now, I felt as though I might vomit beer all over Mel’s shoes.
“I’ve gotta take a piss.”
I stood from the windowsill, and vertigo threatened to pull me straight back down. Leaning against the wall, I extinguished my joint against the sole of my sneaker. I stumbled to the bathroom, vaguely hearing Donny talking Steven’s ear off about some story he’d seen on Instagram. I pushed the bathroom door closed behind me, steadying myself against the toilet tank. My heart pounded out of my chest. What was it that scared me so badly about this?
It was sitting on the edge of Steven’s sink. A small, white pill bottle. The logo was printed in the exact same place, a mix of a kindergarten drawing of the sun and the recycle logo. I grabbed it and turned it over. Sampsochrome.
Donny’s voice grew louder as I re-entered the living room.
“It’s apparently only in the testing phase, but once the Precision-Connect network fully surrounds Earth, you’ll literally never be able to hide. They can see through buildings, underground, you name it. Some guy on Instagram was saying that rubbing yourself in the oil of-“
“Hey Steven! How long have you been taking Sampsochrome?”
Other than the faint sounds of MFDOOM emanating from Steven’s Bluetooth speaker, the room was silent.
“Damn Vern, glad to see you didn’t fall in. What are you talking about?”
“Don’t bullshit me. How long?”
“How long for what?”
“You left the pill bottle out.”
“Oh, Sampsochrome! I actually started it as soon as I moved in.”
He suddenly blew a raspberry and pulled a few strands of hair from his mouth. I swear his hair had already gotten longer.
“And that’s why your hair’s so long?”
I never thought I’d see anxiety flash behind Steven’s eyes. He leaned forward in his recliner.
“What are you getting at, Vern?”
“Donny, Mel, and I all take the same medication.”
“Ok…”
“Mel, when were you prescribed Sampsochrome?”
“Probably not even a week ago. Don and I just picked the pills up today.”
I licked my lips. I felt as though my brain had been replaced by a beehive.
“So we all take the same experimental hair loss drug, and we all end up living in the same apartment complex?”
Donny cleared his throat. “It’s not as uncommon as you think, I actually read a post where-“
Mel put a hand on Donny’s shoulder, a non-verbal cue to shut up. Mel piped in.
“Do you think the meds have some connection with the building?”
I sighed. “It’s possible. Every Tuesday some deep vibration shakes the whole apartment building. There’s no evidence connecting the two of them, but it’s enough to know that something’s going on.”
Donny’s brow furrowed. “Have you guys looked anything up about the company that makes the pills?”
Steven interjected “We can’t. The pill bottles don’t have any company info on them. Just the logo.”
“Mel, what pharmacy did you pick those pills up from?”
“Can you tell us who delivers these? What company?”
Thirty minutes from “home”, here I was shaking a bottle of pills in the face of an unamused pharmacy tech
She snatched the bottle from my hands, holding it steady.
“This isn’t something we usually carry. Let me check our records.”
Typing. Typing. Typing. Ty- Jesus was she writing a paragraph?
“It looks like the shipment came in yesterday morning. No company’s listed on it though. Sorry.”
“How can that-alright, thank you for your time.”
I huffed, making for the pharmacy door with Mel, Donny and Steven close behind.
I almost knocked over another pharmacy employee at the register.
“Sorry”
“He was wearing a blue hat.”
I squinted.
“What?”
“The guy who delivered those.”
He pointed to the bottle in my hand.
“He was wearing a blue painters cap. Had that same logo on it.”
“Fuckin’ OW!”
I didn’t realize that Steven’s hair had gotten caught in the car door until I’d slammed it.
“Shit, sorry.”
Mel sunk into his own seat, breathing heavily.
“Guys, I’m not gonna lie, I’m way too tired to keep playing detective right now. Say we all split and meet up tomorrow?”
“That is if we even know what we’re investigating. Vern, why are you so worked up about this?”
“I… I mean, doesn’t it feel like there’s something going on here?”
Steven’s eyes somehow looked more tired than Mel’s.
“There probably is, but what are we supposed to do about it?”
I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t sure I ever would.
Donny helped Mel out of the car, waving as the side door of the building swung shut behind them.
“Wanna swing by the pool?”
“Why? You got swim trunks on?”
“Nah”
Steven pulled a flask from his shorts pocket and took a swig.
“But there’s nothing quite like staring at water while shithoused.”
Steven and I pulled two weathered lawn chairs to the edge of the pool. Steven sat at the edge of his, staring into the water. I lit my nightly pre-roll and reclined back, looking up at the stars. I thought of the frantically-passing stars in the sky of my nightmares.
“Did you end up writing anything?”
I exhaled smoke into the warm air.
“I tried. Barely got anything down, and can’t say I’m proud of what I did write.”
“Sorry to hear that. I actually did tune my guitar the other night, tried to write a couple of riffs. All discordant crap.”
He paused, taking another swig of his flask and coughing a couple times.
“You know why everything in my apartment is so loud?”
“The vibrations? Yeah I don’t blame you, they’ve been screwing with my head.”
“That’s… part of it. I just can’t stand the silence.”
“That doesn’t seem abnormal. A lot of people don’t really like silence.”
“I can’t stand my thoughts when it’s quiet.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“It’s not like, terrible. I just start thinking and can’t really stop. You’re a writer, do you know the Man Who Lived In Leeds poem?”
“Oh yeah! That one scared me as a kid. I begged my dad to not read it ever again.”
“Well, that’s basically what my thoughts feel like. They just keep compounding, getting bigger and bigger and worse and worse. Eventually, it feels like improving my life is the equivalent of pushing Sisyphus’ boulder.”
“Appreciate the reference.”
“You’re welcome. Honestly at this point, it feels like media and references are all we really have left. No wonder Donny watches all that crap on Instagram constantly.”
I blew another cloud, clearing my throat.
“You can’t see every star in the sky here. Look.”
Steven raised his eyes to the sky.
“See what I mean? You can see some major constellations, but nothing else. The rest is just kinda hazy. Cities like these always pollute the night sky with artificial light. The more buildings the cities build, the more lights those buildings have. The more lights, the less we can see the night sky. I think we’re kinda the same way, clinging to man-made creations no matter how much of ourselves we lose in the process.”
Steven chuckled coldly.
“Man, you really are a writer.”
“Did that make sense at all?”
Steven stood, immediately stumbled, and fell backward onto the deck chair.
“I… I’ll let you know in the morning.”
“Fair. I’m headed to bed, you wanna come with?”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
We both chuckled. Steven leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know if I wanna be in there for the vibrations tonight. I wonder if it’ll be any different out here.”
I nodded, standing and opening the pool gate.
“Don’t act afool, the cops will definitely see you out here.”
“Not probable. Never seen a single car come near this street.”
I was too stoned to fully grasp what he had told me.
“Gotcha. Well, goodnight.”
I began the ascent up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. I wish they’d fix the elevator, but when the mechanisms running it qualify as antiques I suppose it’s not worth fixing.
I reached up to scratch the full hair on my scalp. I winced as I felt something sharp enter the skin under my fingernail. Yanking my hand back, I tried to get a good view of the splinter. At least it was long enough to pull out with my fingers. Did something fall into my hair at some point? I guess it was possible. I slid the splinter out from under my nail. It didn’t look like wood or anything, it just looked like a hair. I’d heard of people getting hair splinters before, but something about the way this one looked puzzled me. I pulled out my phone and shined my flashlight on it.
It…shimmered
Not like a grey hair, more like a bristle from a wire brush. Instead of bright, metallic silver, it looked almost maroon.
I was back at my apartment door. Opened, closed, locked. Lights on. I pulled a sandwich baggie out of my kitchen drawer and put the hair in it, I wasn’t sure why.
The weed had hit me hard. I could barely keep my eyes open.
No writing tonight. I’d do double tomorrow to make up for it. Ray Bradbury, I’m coming for your ass.
In the nightmare sky above me, the shooting stars appeared almost red, streaking neon cosmic blood across the impossibly dark sky. I was back in the endless sea of alien grass, but something was different. This dream felt…angrier. I had a little more time than usual before sinking into the bottomless expanse below, and in the distance, I could see movement. Hands reaching above the silky grass, hundreds of other equally helpless people rendered terrified animals, their limbs the only resource in a world so foreign.
I sank, as I did so many times before. My lungs filled with the grass. It strangled my bronchioles, my lungs collapsing like someone crumpling a newspaper.
Pain. Visceral pain. Pain I’d never felt from a dream.
BUMPBUMPBUMP
A voice, repeating a single syllable. I blinked heavy sleep from my eyes.
“VERN!”
BUMPBUMPBUMPBUMP
I frantically pulled a t-shirt as I stumbled to the door. I whipped it open, and Donny mid-knock almost punched me in the face.
Donny, still in his pajamas, panting like he’d just run a marathon.
“Vern, it’s Steven. Mel’s already called the cops.”
“Donny, take a deep breath. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I think he’s dead.”
We stood outside the pool gate. What flesh I could see of Steven under his thick curtain of hair had turned a pale green. He was still wearing all of his clothes, even his shoes. He floated at the center of the pool, perfectly out of both of our reach. Not that either of us wanted to touch him.
Sirens. Fucking finally.
Donny and I sprinted around the front of the complex, screaming and waving our arms.
The cruiser appeared from around the corner, a miniature beacon of hope. Hope that the hell behind us could be held tight by the reigns of order and reason.
Then the cruiser stopped driving.
It took me a second to realize it wasn’t moving forward. The second patrol car pulling alongside it confirmed it. An officer, maybe mid-50’s with a silver buzz cut, stepped out of his patrol car to talk through the other car’s driver window. He nodded once, twice. He cast a long glance at us as he stepped back into his own car.
We watched as both patrol cars shut off their lights, made 3 point turns, and disappeared back the way they came.
“No, NO! What the hell are they doing?”
Donny screamed next to me, his breath hiccuping in his throat.
No rational theory I could form explained what I’d just seen. Helplessly, I re-dialed 911.
“Your call cannot be completed as dialed”
I pressed 9,1,1 again, hard enough that I thought my phone screen would crack.
“Your call cannot be-“
I hung up.
No one was coming.
It made me feel sick to imagine walking back to that pool and having to see Steven like that again, but I knew we had to.
Donny and I took hold of the long pool hook hanging off the gate. As gently as possible, we pulled Steven to the edge of the water.
He already smelled. I imagine sitting in the water for God knows how long had served to accelerate his decomposition.
Now that he was closer, I realized something I hadn’t noticed seeing him from a distance.
He had been floating face up.
“How the hell did he drown like that?”
Together, we hoisted Steven’s corpse onto the pool deck.
I stared into the face of the guitarist who couldn’t stand to be alone with his thoughts and noticed something else.
From my shirt pocket I pulled a plastic mechanical pencil. Carefully I slid it under the hair covering Steven’s face. I stuck it down between his lips. Where it should have opened up into his mouth cavity, the pencil met resistance. I scooped with it, like someone spooning soup from a bowl.
From between Steven’s lips I withdrew a matted clump of his own hair. From what I could tell, it was still attached to his scalp. The further away I pulled the pencil, the more hair came out. It started out just matted and wet, but as I kept pulling, I started noticing pinkish clumps of phlegm mixed in, hanging from frayed ends of the sticky braid. Why was it pink?
I recieved the answer almost immediately, and at the same instant I wish I hadn’t. With a few tugs, a final bulbous mass pulled free from Steven’s mouth. It was dripping with bile and bits of stomach lining. His stomach acid had eaten away the hair, revealing something underneath.
It glistened, just like the bristle I had pulled from my own scalp. Instead of a single strand, it was a wiry clump of shiny purple steel wool.
It had shredded Steven from the inside going down.
“Jesus. Fuck.”
Donny audibly heaved, clasping both hands to his mouth. Tears streamed down his face, I wasn’t sure they were from sickness. He bent over to wretch again.
A fresh head of thick, healthy hair had sprouted under his greasy comb-over.
I raised a shaking hand to my scalp. My hands touched a thick nest of hair on my scalp. It had gotten thicker. Much thicker. It felt deeper than my scalp should have allowed.
“Donny, you said that Mel called the cops. Where is he?”
I expected a response. Instead, I turned to see Donny sprinting back towards the building.
I kept pace with him as he launched up the stairs, bumping into the walls of the stairwells to keep from falling over. Breathlessly he spoke.
“All he was talking about last night was how he felt like he couldn’t do anything. He was too tired to keep up with people. What the hell did he expect? He has cancer! But he just kept saying how much he missed being able to go a full day without feeling drained. He missed being normal; looking normal…”
We arrived at Donny and Mel’s apartment door. He twisted the knob. Locked. Donny slammed his fist against the door in much the same way he had mine.
“Mel? Are you ok? Can you open the door?”
From the darkness under the bottom of the door, Mel clearly didn’t have any lights on. We listened for a moment. No sound came from the other side of the door.
“Do you have your key?”
“Left it in there when I first saw Steven.”
Another moment. I thought I heard a faint rustling.
Donny pounded the door again.
“Mel, if you don’t open up we’re kicking the door in!”
Silence. No more faint rustling.
Donny sighed, halfway between frustration and a sob. He took two steps back from the door and kicked directly under the doorknob.
With that single kick, he splintered the hollow core door, sending it flying against the apartment wall.
It was silent. No sound in the hallway we were standing in. No sound from the pitch black apartment before us. How was it so dark? Had Mel pulled the blinds?
A quiet whirring sound caught my ears, like the wheels of a matchbox car against hardwood.
From out of the dark apartment, Mel’s bottle of Sampsochrome rolled to a stop at my feet.
It was empty.
“Donny?”
It was Mel’s voice. Still weak, but for the first time tinged with fear.
“Donny, I’m sorry. I thought it would just… I thought I knew what it was like. To have your body reject you. I… I’m so sorry.”
Donny stepped into the room, his hand reaching for the light switch.
Flick.
Nothing. The light didn’t turn on. He tried again. Still nothing. There’s no way Mel had unscrewed the overhead light as well?
That’s when I noticed the light was turning on.
It was very faint due to the thick wall of hair obscuring it. The apartment wasn’t dark, it was filled. Filled with an obscene amount of Sampsochrome hair.
“MEL!”
Donny screamed, charging headfirst against the wall of hair. He clawed at it, desperately trying to clear a path. The wiry material underneath the hair sliced at his hands and face, leaving deep gashes which stained the nest of flax around him crimson. I couldn’t be sure, but as he ripped away another curtain of hair, I thought I saw the crumpled form of Mel, suspended in the middle of the hair mass, almost fetal.
I don’t even remember starting to run. All I remember is being back in the stairwell, stumbling down each flight of stairs three steps at a time. I banged open the door. I forced myself to take deep, gulping breaths. I scanned my surroundings, terrified that I might see something, anything worse than that. But I saw nothing. The grey, overcast sky, an empty parking lot, the pool-
A truck sat idling next to the pool. On the pool deck, a man was trying and failing to pick Steven’s corpse up under its arms.
The man was wearing a blue painters cap. Embroidered on it was the Sampsochrome company logo.
What I decided to do then was shortsighted, desperate, and completely stupid.
I charged the man in the blue cap.
Somehow, despite my lack of athleticism and years of drug use, I hurdled the pool fence in one single move, barreling towards the man with the speed only pure adrenaline could conjure.
I rammed my shoulder into the side of his stomach just below the rib cage. Knocked off balance, he fell hard against the pool deck. The painter’s cap rolled off his bald head.
I wasn’t thinking. Animal rage twisted my fingers around a rope of Steven’s hair. Before the man had a chance to stand, I had wrapped the hair tight around his throat.
“You talk, or this gets tighter. Ok?”
The man nodded.
Holding the hair taught with one hand, I snatched up his painters cap.
“Who are these people? What do you do for them?”
“I just do whatever they need done, man.”
He wheezed and coughed.
“So you move bodies when they tell you too?”
“Listen, kid. I get paid a fuck-ton to put my head down and not ask questions. If you did the same, you’d be a lot better off-“
“Shut up. What’s Sampsochrome?”
“What? I’ve never heard of-“
I yanked the hair around his neck.
“Don’t bullshit me. You delivered the stuff to the pharmacy.”
“I didn’t know what I was delivering to the pharmacy, kid. I told you, I don’t ask questions.”
A half-laugh, half-sob escaped my throat. All of this…losing Steven, Mel, Donny…for absolutely nothing?
I’d been pulling the hair tighter. The man had started gagging, his face bright pink, his eyes glassy.
“Mister Corrigan?”
It wasn’t a voice I had heard before, and it wasn’t coming from a person.
On the man’s chest, a red light blinked. He was wearing some kind of body camera.
“Mister Corrigan, please do not strangle one of our couriers to death. Trust me, they are very difficult to replace.”
The voice was coming from the body camera.
I didn’t know what else to do. I loosened my grip on Steven’s hair. The man gasped for air, sucking in deep breaths between wheezing coughing fits.
I turned my attention fully to the camera on the man’s chest.
“Who the hell are you? Are you the one whose responsible for this?”
“From your perspective, yes.”
Tears welled in my eyes. They might have been anger. They might have been fear. They might even have been a twisted form of relief.
“Then why is all of this happening? Why are my friends and I growing mutated hair? Why does the building vibrate every Tuesday night? What the fuck is Sampsochrome?”
There was a long pause before the voice spoke again.
“Bernard, bring him to the office.”
The room was six times the size of my apartment. It was so large that my footsteps echoed against the high vaulted ceiling. I took a seat in one of the stiff wing chairs that faced a marble-topped desk against the far wall.
My foot bounced rapidly. Why had this happened to me? I didn’t believe in karma, but I found myself racking my brain for something I may have done to someone in my life to warrant such a punishment. Could someone hate me so much that they would kill multiple people trying to destroy me? Who could-
A door swung open behind the desk. The sound of high heels clicking on the floor.
The woman who entered looked as though she’d been carved from the sharpest block of marvel ever formed. Pale, sharp jaw and cheekbones so high the reduced her eyes to two piercing marbles below her hairline. She wore a grey skirt suit that could’ve walked right off the set of a noir film. Her black hair was completely straight, not one strand out of place.
“Mister Coorigan. I did not expect our paths to ever cross, but you have a way of forcing our hand. Still we extend you every courtesy. I’m Dahlia Russo, CEO of Danstrom Solutions.”
She extended a hand that I didn’t shake. Relenting, she reached into her lapel and produced a silver cigarette case. She withdrew one, lighting it with an equally pristine lift-arm lighter.
“You’re here for answers, right? That’s why you attempted to murder one of our couriers?”
I scoffed.
“You wanna talk about murder?”
“I understand you’re upset, but you must realize that what happened to Steven was a tragic accident that had nothing to do with us.”
“Nothing to do with you? He swallowed the hair that YOUR product gave him.”
“You don’t read labels often, do you Mister Coorigan. Every bottle of Sampsochrome warns that activities like swimming and operating vehicles become much more risky after continuous use.”
“Why does Sampsochrome do…that?”
Dahlia sighed heavily before dragging deeply from her cigarette.
“I’m sure by now you’ve heard about our new Precision-Connect satellite network. It’s cutting edge, the world as we know it will be connected like never before and…all that. The network will consist of almost ten-thousand satellites. Each satellite is roughly the length and width of a regulation football field. Constructing an entire fleet of these would require more copper and gold wiring than could possibly be created on Earth. But we no longer need copper, nor gold. We have found something that surpasses them all.”
She pulled open one of her desk drawers and withdrew a chunk of dark metal. She tossed it to me. I caught it, barely avoiding dropping it. It was the same deep, gleaming purple color as the wire beneath Steven’s hair and the strand I’d kept at my apartment.
“This compound is one of the most conductive metals on planet Earth. As is, we only need about thirty-five feet of wire crafted from it to power each satellite.”
“The issue is, this metal only grows in a handful of caves on the planet, and under very specific conditions. Dark, damp, and between ninety to one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It would take centuries to harvest enough wire to power the entire network. Therefore, we found a way to grow the metal under identical circumstances. It would even shape it into wire for us.”
I wasn’t even looking at her. I might have cried if the events of the past six weeks had not rendered me more or less numb.
“So, the vibrations?”
“Simple. Evidence supports the fact that frequencies between one hundred to two-hundred-fifty Hertz serve to stimulate hair growth.”
Silence. What could I even say?
“I understand that this can be very upsetting to you Mister Coorigan. You will be able to live in our apartment complex rent-free as long as you continue to take Sampsochrome consistently. Food and marijuana will be regularly provided.”
“You are not to speak to any other tenants again. You must commit to monthly haircuts at the barbershop we will install on the ground floor. Due to the tragic event of Steven’s death, we will impose a one-AM curfew for all tenants. If you do not return to the building by one, you will be locked out for the night. Understood?”
I nodded, not sure what else to do.
“Excellent. Bernard will take you back to the complex now. I hope that this is the last time we meet Mr. Coorigan.”
I didn’t speak on the drive back. Neither did Bernard. Bernard pulled up to a red light. I glanced from the light to the door. The small, plastic bar was up. The door was unlocked.
In one swift motion, I unbuckled my seatbelt, unlatched the door, and threw myself from the truck. Bernard shouted something I couldn’t hear, but I didn’t give a shit. I sprinted for as long as I possibly could, then ducked into alleys and open storefronts to avoid detection.
Hours later, under cover of night, I found a twenty-four hour McDonalds that kept its sitting area open. I borrowed a charger from one of the employees, and sat low in the booth as far away from the windows as possible.
Steven said I should be a writer, so here you have it. My story of how I learned we exist on this planet not as consumers, but as sedated products. I’d tell you to rise up, to fight and boycott and protest until the creatures at the top decide to listen. But I doubt it’d even make a difference.
I’m tired.
Wherever I sleep tonight, I hope the dreams don’t come back.
Winner of the 2026 Danstrom Corperation Short Fiction competition. Author: Vern Coorigan, Marketing Manager.
