See you soon

Seb Winkelmayer

It’s dark out. It usually is. I like it that way. That’s when business is safest. Today

I was asked to pick it up at a run down ice cream parlor. I bring the usual gear.

The bolt cutters, the mold respirators, the gun, and my lucky horseshoe. The

horseshoe is rusted and imperfect, ageless. One edge is pointed and sharp.

Grandpa’s dad used it in the great war long ago. Three generations of luck in a

piece of metal. My wife never believed it was anything special, but when she

died, our daughter did too. She apologized in her final moments and admitted it

was unique. Our client asked us to bring the package back to HQ. As usual, we

don’t ask questions, they don’t ask questions.

I brought Armando along with me. Other workers would call him the new

guy. But I can tell he’s had experience in this type of business. They always

pick a run down food place for our jobs. Why here? There’s literally any other

abandoned place in the 6th district. However this time seemed different, I think

to myself as I snap the chains keeping the gate together.\

As we open the doors, the rusted metal screeches as it swings open after years

of being closed. We enter the parlor and Armando says something along the

lines of “encore cet endroit?” I assume he’s been here. I can understand a bit of

what he says. Ever since he immigrated from Belgium a few years ago, I’ve been

picking up bits of French simply by being around him. Turns out, Spanish and

French are pretty similar. We explore the rooms one by one. Black mold grows

along the decrepit walls like thick viscous veins. A veil of dust and cobwebs

covers what seems to be an ice maker. What used to be industrial sized mixers

are now filled with dead critters, mold, and decades of dust and grime.

This used to be a pretty busy place judging by the size of them. They were large

enough to fit a bathtub each. I flicked the light switch on as I walked in. The

lights clicked and buzzed as they failed to turn on. Behind us, in the darkness

we heard the ice machine rumble. Armando took out his piece. “Who’s there?”

he yelled into the void. The sound echoed through the chamber, mocking his

broken english. “I check it out, okay?” he told me. He then walked into the

darkness, gun in hand. “Be careful,” I say, but he’s already disappeared into the

void.

I shrug and walk on. There’s so much black mold, way too much. I’ve never seen

so much in one concentrated area. I know that I should have already put my

respirator on, but I take it out and pull the straps over my head. I can breathe

more easily now that I don’t have as much to worry about. I find a beige bag,

untouched by the mold, and open it up. Inside are plastic wrapped bricks of

what can only be drugs, and I know for sure that this is the package. I sling the

parcel over my shoulder and call back to Armando, who has been gone for quite

some time now. I am greeted by the cold silence of the unknown.

My skin crawls. Why did he ask to split up? He knows it’s against company

policy, but I guess it’s for both our safety. An inhuman screech and a string of

gunshots interrupt my train of thought. I trace the shape of the horseshoe in

my back pocket as I reach for my gun. I hear cries of horror and more gunshots.

Armando is screaming in agony when I get to him. I see why he was so terrified

now. Armando takes his gun and fires it at something I can’t quite make out.

When I point my flashlight I see the source of his terror. A pasty white ghost

wearing a red and white striped apron has grabbed Armando by his head. I

ask, “who are you?” in an attempt to stop its violent plans. It replies, “I was the

reason they closed this place. I was killed by this ice machine here.” It pounds a

red button on the machine. “You should never have come here.”

It proceeded to take Armando’s left arm and guide it into the metal coils,

crushing the bones and flesh with a horrible squelching and crunching sound.

Armando tries to pull away, but is pushed further into the death machine. His

head is the last thing I see before it disappears into the wet crimson coils.

“You’re next, boy.” it growls. I squeeze the trigger, but the bullets pass through

the ghost. Of course it doesn’t hit it; it’s incorporeal. I holster my gun and try to

run, but it’s fast. I can’t escape from it.

It drags me to the proctor of death as I scream for mercy. My left arm goes in

and the pain is unbearable. I plant my feet upon the sides of the machine and

pull. The parcel hits the floor with a thud, distracting the unholy demon, giving

me just enough time to grab the horseshoe. I call upon my ancestors as I grab

the makeshift handle.

I drive the sharp end into the underside of its throat, and green blood squirts

onto my shirt and the walls. It pleads for mercy, but I can’t stop now. I tear

the unholy flesh apart, ripping the head away from the body. The spine comes

along with it, and the body of the ghost collapses into a pile of white and green

powder. I collapse, and try to stop the bleeding, but it’s no use. I am going to

die. As I take my final breaths, I admit that my wife would have been proud of

me. I will get to see her again soon.