Halloween I.F. – “Going Dark” – Day 6

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Fern kept the radio on as they turned the sauce to low, tossing the frozen veggies in and giving it a stir.

“C’mon, throw a guy a bone. I love a bone, love to gnaw it until it gives up that marrow. It gets lonely out here, you know?” the radio crooned.

They liked cooking, even if it was something they never remembered enjoying when they weren’t actually in the act of cooking. They liked food fine, but didn’t tend to experience hunger. It was hard for them to get three square meals a day; they ate lunch, usually, albeit at the wrong time, and dinner by rote but not particularly good rote, and they hated the concept of breakfast enough that they usually skipped it. Meals often seemed like a chore rather than part of the pleasure of living, something only as vital as—oh, as doing the dishes to keep them from rotting. They were trying to recreate a self who both took pleasure in eating like a treat, but it was still something they were consciously attending to. Actually planning it as part of their day was herculean.

“What’s this? We’ve got a call on the line. Now, who could be creeping into my parlour? If I had to guess—”

“Hello, Bannick.” This new voice was odd, accompanied by a rustling like the line was bad or the caller was taking the call from someplace strange. Their tone was fully androgynous, and the emphasis even on those two words was odd, putting a strong stress on Bannick—the host’s name, presumably.

Still, even if cooking was hard to get started, Fern deeply enjoyed the experience of creating something. Even better to get to enjoy it immediately. That certainly wasn’t something they got to experience in their part-time job of writing articles for a travel company, not with the six to eight months turnaround in publication. It was a bit faster a turnaround for their personal writing for the podcast exploring history’s mysteries, since that was really just based on how many episodes ahead they wanted to work.

“Aris.” Bannick said it Ah-riss, not Eris. “My personal little friend, my favorite little enemy. Thought it was you. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we? It’s always you.”

Fern had been intending to do both professional and personal work while they were out here.  Their scheduled travel article was on cottage country and had inspired this trip; the personal one had nothing to do with it, but they had a million articles downloaded to their laptop and a bunch of photocopies in a folder in their suitcase to work on their script for the Dionysian Mysteries episode. 

“Oh! Oh, is it always I? But I’m your friend, then, Bannick? How lovely, how droll,” Aris hummed. “Two peas in a pod, two pods on a vine, two vines in a garden, that’s us. Tiny, insignificant, but growing, regardless of oversight.”

“You could come over, you know, instead of just calling,” Bannick responded, laughing. “I think you know where I live.”

The pasta was boiling away nicely and the sauce was reducing; Fern began wandering the kitchen, pulling open drawers. One had various parchment paper and aluminum foil rolls, another had dishcloths, and the third was the junk drawer. This last seemed to be 90% pens by volume, but there were a few additional pads of paper, all designed to fit into the magnetized holder on the fridge, and several packages of batteries. They popped open the back of the flashlight to confirm that it took AAs, then grabbed one of those packages to carry with them. Just in case.

That reminded them that even if their phone was mostly charged, it was better to keep topped up in case of any outages. They hooked their charger up in the kitchen and plugged it in.

“I could not! You know that well, Bannick. I’ve no more freedom than a dog.”

“I’ve known some pretty free dogs, Aris.”

“That I’m sure you have. You’re much like a hound yourself.”

Nothing to do but wait for dinner. They grabbed the radio to bring with them, and wandered into the sitting room. The back wall had a display cabinet with various ceramic figurines, a ship in a bottle, and what looked like a music box; the central area had a low coffee table with several chairs facing it and the fireplace beyond. Said fireplace had the weird photos on the mantel they’d noticed earlier.

On closer inspection, the photos mostly looked like stock images printed out on photo paper, not even the images that came with frames. That was even stranger—it’d mean that someone had added them deliberately. The remainder… those were real, though who they were, Fern couldn’t guess. Maybe previous tenants, or the owner’s friends and family?

“Should I be taking that as compliment or insult, Aris?” Another low laugh there, the host clearly amused.

“One wouldn’t want to add insult to injury, and surely you have had injury done.”

Fern began unscrewing the back of one of the photo frames for the stock photos, tugging it out. Behind the photo was, in fact, another photo. This one was much older, yellowed, a young woman with curly hair under a bonnet, her eyes too wide and bright, wearing an outfit that Fern would guess as Victorian or Edwardian, though they weren’t too sure of the fashion differences between the eras.

A considering hum. “Haven’t we all, you, me, our listeners? It’s impossible to get out of this world without injury.”

“Are you out of this world, then, or within it?”

“I’m in it as much as you are.”

“Nor are you out of it,” Aris agreed.

What the hell was with these two? Fern wondered absently as they examined the photo, then carefully put it back the way it was before and began to open several others. They couldn’t tell if the host and the caller liked or hated each other. One way or another, Fern had clearly come in deep into some well-established comedy routine between the two of them.

The other stock photos hid similar secrets; there was another of the young woman, then one of her with an older man with equally intense eyes who appeared to be her father, though his hair was white and his mutton chops severe. She looked almost afraid of him. The ones that didn’t look like stock didn’t have anything behind them.

Absolutely bizarre choice on the part of the owner. Fern didn’t know what to make of it.

“I’m getting a bit tired of that particular line of thought,” Bannick was warning Aris. “Let’s talk sweeter things, dear. Anyone new in your life?”

“Is that a sweet thing to ask, or also tired? Nobody new yet,” Aris said, with a soft sigh. “One hopes, though. There’s a potential. A promise. Someone who might yet make steps with me. We can but dream, can’t we? Dreamers, aren’t we?”

Fern heard the beep of the timer they’d set for the pasta and returned to the kitchen to drain it and toss it in the sauce. Next to the stove, their phone finally buzzed; they picked it up to see a reply from Trev: Glad you’re safe. Keep me updated, bud. If you need to get outta there, lmk, I don’t want you stuck anywhere you don’t wanna be. I can probs come in a day or two to get you, then bring you back b4 they’d pick you up. Your folks don’t need to know shit.👍🏾

Not bothering to hide a grin, Fern slopped their food into a bowl. They’d been terrible lovers, but remained fantastic friends, where their little idiosyncrasies had resolved back into quirky traits instead of something to need to endure. Mostly, anyway. Nice to have the offer. Hopefully it wouldn’t have to come to that. 

“Oh, I’m no dreamer,” Bannick said. “But there’s someone I’ve got hopes for as well.”

“How lucky for you, beast.” 

It was clear that Aris had disconnected right after saying that—or that Bannick had cut them off. There was a moment of dead air before Bannick laughed again. “And that was Aris. Good ol’ Aris. Well, anyone else want to call in? Any calls at all? I don’t have anyone waiting.”

Fern took a few bites of food and let out a pleased sigh. It was good. Worth the effort. If only they could remember this even five minutes after eating it.

“Anyone? Give me a call, friends and neighbours. Sometimes it feels so lonely out here, you know? Like I’m calling out into the void but exist alone in my own private world. Maybe we’re all in our private worlds, hm? Last chance, give me a call, or we’ll go on to some sweet night melodies…”

It seemed to be their last chance to call in to tonight’s show—if they waited until they were done eating, they’d miss the opportunity. But maybe that would be fine. What would they even say if they did call in? The show seemed so weird, surreal and chatty, though maybe that had been the fault of the previous caller. If they let this chance  go by… at least there was supposed to be music after, not more weirdo number stations. Whatever secret codes were buried in those was deeply none of Fern’s business, or so they hoped. 

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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