Time-Stealers

The first time I saw one, it was only a reflection. Its hands were clasped around the neck of an old man, and it was contorted around his body, smothering him. But he didn't seem to notice. When I turned around, they were everywhere. I could feel an attack coming on. My heart started beating more quickly, and I could feel my palms sweating. I patted my pocket for the plastic vial of Klonopin, but when I turned back around to the shop window, I saw my own reflection and then my hands were shaking too much for me to get them out. I sat down, but everywhere I looked, I could see them. I closed my eyes tightly and opened them a few seconds later, but it didn't work: whatever I did, I knew they were there. Eventually, someone walked over to me and kneeled down.

"Are you okay?" they asked.

I tried to reply, but all the while I could see the grey shape of it --whatever it was-- looming over her. She didn't seem to notice. If she knew, she didn't care.

"Klonopin," I managed to say, eventually, and patted my pocket with my hand. She reached in there and handed them to me. I could see it hanging over her like a bad omen. My vision was blurred, but I couldn't take it anymore. I had to get out of there.

I stood up and tried to walk, but either I was swaying or the world seemed to be. I looked at the floor, tried to steady myself. I felt someone touch my shoulder, but I shrugged them off and stumbled away as fast as I dared.

I heard the screech of brakes and everything went black.

***

Three hours earlier. My Dad's birthday. Diane, my girlfriend, went to pick him up from his house in the next village over.

Just before I went downstairs, I washed a Klonopin pill down with a glass of water. I'd only been awake for about an hour, and I already knew it was going to be a bad day. When I walked into the living room, my dad was sitting in his favourite chair (it was his favourite because it gave him the best view of the TV.)

I looked at the picture of him which Diane had turned away so he couldn't see it. It was important to us, but not the kind of thing he would want to see on his birthday. In the picture, he had a long, seventies-style head of hair. It was strange seeing the young version next to the old one, whose hair had been taken away by the chemo.

"Happy birthday," I said, sitting in the chair opposite him. From the kitchen, I could hear the noise of Diane preparing food over the sound of a game show on the TV. He didn't say anything. He was probably in pain.

"You want some painkillers?" I asked.

He nodded, so I went to the kitchen to get some. When I was reaching for the biscuit tin which we kept all of the medical stuff in, Diane turned to me.

"Can you go out for some more eggs?" she asked. "I need them to make this cake."

"Really? Today?"

Diane sighed.

"You can't avoid going outside forever."

"It's my Dad's birthday, for God's sake."

Diane moved closer to me, and spoke in a hushed tone.

"And you've got a responsibility to make sure he enjoys it. We both do, but I'm doing my part. It's time for you to do yours."

I paused. She paused. There was nothing left to say. She'd pretty much left me with an ultimatum: go and get eggs, or ruin my dad's birthday. In the end, I did the only that could be done. I conceded.

"How many do you need?" I asked.

"Six will do."

I nodded, and went into the living room.

"I'm just going to the shop," I told him, handed him the painkillers, and threw on a coat.

***

Five weeks later. I locked my bedroom door so nobody would interrupt me, and stood in front of the TV in my room. It was turned off. I could see the monster behind me. I took the knife, a regular, slightly blunt butter knife out of my pocket and pressed down onto my wrist. As I did it, the monster behind me recoiled, bringing its claw to its head as if it was in pain. It was around that time I decided I had to convince people they were real. It was all I could do.

***

Two weeks earlier. I was in a psychiatrist's office.

"So, you're seeing these . . . monsters?" she said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Have you been going through a tough time recently? Maybe an illness, or financial trouble?"

"My dad has cancer. But listen. That has nothing to do with this, okay?"

"Why don't you talk more about that?"

"I've been looking online. Other people have seen these, too. Not many, but they're out there. I've been speaking to them regularly."

"Speaking to them?"

"Online. You know, on forums."

"And what do these people say about the monsters?"

"Well, I posted a description, and then people commented saying they thought they were the only ones, that they were crazy. But they're not. None of us are."

"I mean this in the best way possible, Jason. But isn't it possible these people are just having you on?" the psychiatrist said.

"Christ," I replied, standing up quickly.

"Calm down, Jason. I wasn't trying to --"

"No, you just. You know what, screw you, okay? I pay you to help me, not insult me and doubt what I'm saying. I come into this room every week, and you believe I'm crazy. Everyone does. Nobody will consider the possibility of me telling the truth for even a goddamn second. I'm leaving."

"Jason wait," I heard the psychiatrist shout, as I was walking down the corridor.

***

Four hours later. I was in the hospital, and before I opened my eyes, I could hear the schh-schh sound the respirator was making, and the beep of the heart monitor. When I was fully conscious, my thoughts seemed to pick up where they had left off. The first thing that came to my mind was the things I'd seen back on the street, scarier than anything else I'd seen in my life.

After a few minutes, I started to think more rationally. If nobody else was panicking, then they must have gone, or been a hallucination. Whatever it was, I eventually convinced myself it was over. I opened my eyes.

But there they were: one was behind the doctor, one of its hands clasped around the back of her neck. Another one was trailing a nurse, but his body was untouched by it, which led me to believe your susceptibility to them, whatever they were, was directly related to how healthy you were, how old you were. That sort of thing.

"He's awake," the nurse said.

The doctor came over to me, leaning over slightly to seem friendly. It was arching behind her, and I couldn't look her in the eyes. No matter how unpleasant it was, I couldn't look away from the monster (which is what I started thinking of them as. I couldn't think of a better word.)

"Jason?" she said.

I didn't reply.

"Can you look at me?" the doctor continued.

When I didn't reply a second time, she took out a light and shone it into my eyes. I followed the direction it took, and the doctor turned off the light and put it into her pocket.

"I need to talk you," I said.

"I'm listening," the doctor replied.

"No. Alone."

The doctor looked over at the nurse, and she nodded her head. The rest of the staff left the room, a group of monsters following behind them, and for a while the only noise in the room was the whirr of the machinery.

"Did you want to tell me something?" the doctor asked.

"You're going to think I'm crazy," I said.

"Crazy isn't a word we like to use in here."

"What do you say instead, then?"

"We just ask questions."

"Well, in that case, I'm going to ask you a question."

"Okay."

"How often do you get people who are hallucinating in here?"

"Not often. But it happens. What do you see?"

"I don't know. There are these grey things behind everyone. Monsters. I don't know. I can't think of any other word for them."

The doctor paused.

"Excuse me," she said.

She left the room, and I couldn't help but think it was because something bad was going to happen, no matter how reassuring she'd sounded. There was a TV in the top corner of the room. It was turned off, and in the screen I saw the monster that was trailing me perched on the wall, hanging above me like a giant fly, staring down at me. I started to sweat, but I tried to look somewhere, anywhere else, and eventually decided to close my eyes until the doctor came back into the room.

When she did, she was carrying a chart.

"Well, medically, there seems to be nothing wrong with you," she said.

"What does that mean?" I replied.

"It means I'm going to refer you to a colleague."

"What kind?"

"One that deals with emotional problems."

"You're sending me to a shrink?"

"That's another word we don't like to use."

I left the hospital.

***

One week later. Diane was sitting in the living room, across from me. Staring at me worriedly.

"I think these monsters are real, Diane."

"Jason."

"No, listen. Other people have seen them. When have you heard of anyone hallucinating stuff like this? Assuming they weren't whacked out on drugs."

"I don't know."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe me, then?"

A few minutes of silence. Diane looked like she was mulling it all over, trying to decide what to think. What to say.

"I think you should just do what you need to do, Jason."

"Okay."

I left the house, and I thought it was going to be the last time we saw each other.

***

Sometime, but I have no idea when. It was all a blur. My hands were shaking and all around me the monsters were skulking behind people and it seemed like the walls of the takeaway where I usually buy noodles felt like they were closing in on me. In the corner of the room there was a guy who might not have been there before but he was now. He was waving his hands towards me, but they were moving in slow motion. I couldn't tell whether he was being friendly or shouting at me, and then I realised the Klonopin bottle was in my hand. I shoved two into my mouth, and then washed them down with the drink that was on the table next to me.

I stood up and walked out to the street, into the road where I could hear cars honking at me. I walked up a side street as quickly as I could and tried to remember what the hell had made me feel so anxious. But I had no idea.

I woke up sometime later in my bed with the covers kicked to the floor and Klonopin strewn across the sheets.

***

Two weeks later. The only believer I met, the only one who agreed to meet me, was a priest. I was sitting in his church, next to the altar.

"Yours is still a long way from touching you," the priest said. "It seems like you're going to live a long life."

His was clasping its claw around his neck. He must have known. I didn't say anything.

"You want to help convince people these things exist?" I asked him.

"I want to help in any way I can," he replied.

I nodded.

"If this gets more recognition, it's going to be important for religious people and atheists. It's going to make people more accepting of God, the idea that beings exist which only a select group of people can see. All of us will need to decide whether to use science to make our lives longer, or to carry on living us normal. For people like me, it's about discovering God's wishes. For people like you, it's an ethical question: find a way to kill them in order to prolong your lives, or to let nature run its course, and know when your life is coming to an end," the priest said.

"I don't want religion to be a part of this," I said. "I can prove these things exist. It's different from religion, from God. I can see them. They can touch people," I replied.

The priest laughed in surprise. "You can't talk about these things without considering them from a religious viewpoint."

"Either we do this from an unbiased view, or not at all."

"You can't ask me to put my beliefs on hold."

"I'll do this myself then."

"Jason, wait--"

"Don't try to follow me. You being religious doesn't bother me, but you're only doing this to promote your church."

The priest stood and walked towards me, and I got the sense that he was going to try and grab me, or hit me, so I raised my fist, and he backed off. I left the church.

***

Three months later. I was standing on the edge of the bridge and looking down at the water below, the swirling currents I could just about see in the darkness. I took a mirror out of my pocket, and looked at the monster behind me. I hovered a foot over the edge of the bridge, and it contorted a little, as if it was in pain. When I moved my foot back onto solid ground, the monster reverted to its original shape. For a while, I stood there, trying to decide how much I valued life. I came to the conclusion that I cared about being alive a hell of a lot less than I used to. What's the point in living if nobody believes anything you say, nobody takes you seriously?

I had no idea how long I'd been standing there for, but I heard a car door open and then shut somewhere behind me.

"Jason?" someone said.

I didn't reply.

"Jason. We're here to help, okay? Let's just talk."

I looked behind myself, in the end, and saw Diane there. I had no idea how long she'd been standing there, but considering I hadn't seen her in the mirror, I assumed it must have been a short amount of time. A group of policemen and a few reporters with cameras and microphones were dotted around her.

"Don't jump, Jason," Diane continued. She looked as if she was about to cry.

"Why not?" I said.

I looked down into the river again and started to doubt myself. I realised that all I needed was someone -- just one person -- to believe me, to do things my way. To trust that I knew what I was talking about.

"Jason, look. I was wrong. I'll listen to you. We're all here to help, just come back from there. Please."

That was probably one of the toughest decisions I've ever had to make. Standing there, looking down into the water, I was well and truly on the brink. Before then, I never really realised how much of an effect words could have. All that time, I'd been looking for people to do things, take action. But in that situation, what did I really expect people to do?

"You've got all of these people here who care about you, Jason," a voice said through a loud speaker. "Come back here and we can talk all of this out."

"And then what? You throw me into an asylum?"

"That's not how we do things. Just step away from the ledge, and you can go back home."

Eventually, the idea of dying started to seem scarier than living. Or maybe the dying wasn't the scary part. It was the moments before dying, the period of time when all that would pass through your mind was: "This is it. I'm going to die." Who knows, in those moments, whether you'd feel like you'd made the right decision?

And because of that, I turned around and stepped back from the edge.

THE END

Bio: Mr. MacDonald has a degree in English and Creative Writing from Manchester Metropolitan University, and currently works as a Teaching Assistant in Magdeburg, Germany. He's been published in NOUS Magazine - a magazine which is sold in the U.K, America, and various European countries including Germany, Greece and Switzerland.

E-mail: Frazer MacDonald

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.