A Dreadful Nothing

Michael Rowland
Fiction Writing
March 08, 2010

These are the final entries on Steven Mcnowitz's blog. The blog was started as a vehicle to chronicle Steven's adventures in searching for other people's junk to find prized collectables. “One man's trash is another man's ironic gimmicky trash.” These entries were written in 2007 and are the last ones he wrote.

Day 1
I took a wrong turn there. I was supposed to turn right at the corner of Glenn Road but for some reason, I went left instead. I didn't feel like I was going the wrong way though. I was trying to find something but I didn't know what. The snow was melting under the pale black sky and I really wished that I was at home. Glenn Road became a dead end before I knew it and just as I was turning around to backtrack out of here, I saw a bag. It was lying vacant by a wooden stump which, by the looks of it, used to hold a mailbox. Behind that was a gray house with a light on at the top of the stairs. I slowed down and parked my car against the sidewalk and crept up to the bag, not wanting to be heard.
It felt peculiar to me. I stood in front of what was surely a black compost heap for what felt like an entire wind ensemble performance. My heart raced as I felt my legs tense up and my temples thump. They began to thump at an alarmingly rhythmic pace. One and two and three and four and one and two and three and four...
“You okay?” A gravelly voice called out nervously, jostling me out of my trance.
“Oh- yeah, yeah I'm fine.”
I turned around to catch a look at whoever it was that had knocked me out of my paralysis. I expected, judging from his voice, a chain-smoking old man. I got a guy who looked as if he was younger than me. His voice did not match his bright-orange hair, blue eyes and all-American good looks. He had a strange look about him too, though. His skin looked bleached and faded. A few hues away from being albino. And the rings under his eyes defied his otherwise youthful appearance.
“You shouldn't take that bag, man.” He warned out of nowhere.
“What? I wasn't-”
But he drove off before I could finish my sentence. I stalled on that last 't' before turning back around at the bag. I sighed. Why would I want to talk that bag? And what happened a few minutes ago. Who was that guy? I looked back at the house to see that the light at the top of the room had gone out. They must be calling it a night, I presumed. And I, too, needed sleep. But just as I was about to head home and maybe grab a nightcap, I noticed a piece of paper on the bottom of the bag, in danger of fluttering away into the chilled breeze. Before I could take a breath, my thumb and pointer finger clasped onto the paper. I tugged it away from the bag gently and slowly brought it to my eyesight. Written with practically bulging magic marker, it said: TAKE ME.
I laughed. How ironic. It says the exact opposite of what that guy told me to do. It must be a bunch of old stuff the people in this house don't want anymore. It's practically garbage, I bet. I grab the bag and lug it over to my car. Somehow this feels much heavier than I expected it to. But as I click open the trunk, I tell myself that it'll be worth it. I'll find some hilarious old knick-knacks and junk to spread around the new apartment. Yes, this could be legendary.
Curiously, the items in this bag don't feel all that solid. I expected them to. Not sure why.
- - -
Day 2
Jake's a great guy, one of my best friends. He's oddly tall, has a shaved head of brown hair and has an unhealthy obsession with keeping our apartment as clean as possible. I shouldn't have been surprised at his reaction to the bag.
“Man why are you grabbing shit like that?” He moaned after I shared the big news.
“It's hilarious.” I replied, lacking any conviction.
“It's gross.” He said.
“You don't even know what's inside!”
“Do you?”
Okay, he's brought up a good point. I haven't looked in the bag yet. I feel like I'm waiting for some sign from above. I'm not a deeply religious person or anything, but I believe that I had had a spiritual awakening as I glanced at the bag last night. It held all the telltale signs of one: loss of recognition, shakiness and, of course, perception loss. It was either a spiritual awakening or I blacked out. And I hadn't had a drop of alcohol last night.
I really don't drink at all, actually. I'm not exactly straight-edge, but I read about the things that shit does to your body and I just can't see why anyone would wanna subject themselves to that. Granted, being drunk is pretty awesome but I like to feel like I'm in control of my life and that I'm not pummeling my kidneys.
So yeah, call me silly but I'm waiting on a sign that I need to open up the bag. I know nothing special is in it, but I want to make the experience as memorable as possible. And it'll stay here. Jake's O.C.D-having-ass is gonna have to deal with it.
Here's a funny anecdote, even though I didn't have a window open or have my fan on or anything, the bag was still prone to the quietest of settlings and rustlings last night. Plastic garbage bags are the worst.
- - -
So I'm not sure if this counts as a sign or not but I found another piece of paper attached to the bag. It read 'open me...'. I'm not sure if this counts as a sign from above or as a sign that I am not very observant. I'm putting it in the latter camp. I chuckled and threw the slip of paper in the trash.
Couldn't get any sleep last night. I can't keep this bag in my room anymore. I'm gonna have to put it in the hallway closet for now, until I feel like it's time for me to open it.
- - -
Day 4
So after a night of sleep without the bag in my room, I wake up to find that it's propped up beside my open door with a note pinned onto it. Or should I say pasted. The glue or wet cement or whatever was still visibly fresh as I tugged it off the bag and it reeked. The note read 'Don't you want to see?'
I know Jake thinks my obsession with this bag is ridiculous but he's the one being weird right now. When I confronted him about it this morning, he acted as if he had not a single idea of what I was referring to. He even feigned concern.
- - -
Day 7
Haven't been able to sleep at all. It's been about 3 days since the Jake incident, I guess. Hard to keep track. I have kept the bag in the hall closet and it's stayed there. But I can still hear it shaking and rustling throughout the night. And when I don't, my body starts to get glimpses of how I felt a week ago. That rhythmic pulsing starts banging behind my eyeballs again and for a moment I feel like I'm about to descend and melt right through the floor and Earthly ground into a festering Hell. I am definitely experiencing something spiritually but not in a good way. My skin is burning up so much that my sweat dissolves upon secretion. I've decided that this is the sign I have been waiting for. This is not some holy spiritual quest. It's a nightmare. I feel sick. Jake decided to visit his parents for the weekend so I am stuck here by myself. Waiting and waiting and waiting and one two three four one two three four...
- - -
I just attempted to open the bag for the first time. I can't seem to bust the knot. It's all full of slime and residue and the outside of it feels rough and scaley. I couldn't get a grip on it.I became vexed with frustration. I threw the bag against the wall. It's gotten heavier and a lot more solid since I last checked up on it, so this took a lot of my energy. As it sat vacantly against the kitchen cupboard, I ran up to it and lunged the hardest kick I could into it.
And I swear to God I felt it kick back.
Do I want to open it? I don't even know anymore. I'm losing it. Why won't I let myself get rid of it?
- - -
I'm through lying awake, listening to my heartbeat fluctuate. It's 4:51 and now is as great a time as any to spring into action. I grab the biggest steak knife I can find. And I can't find the black garbage bag anywhere. I search the kitchen, I search the bathroom, trying to remember if I moved it after the incident I had with it earlier this evening. For a moment, I think it is gone. But then I go into my room.
And it is back in the same place it was after Jake moved it. And it's rustling. And it's swaying. And I can't take it anymore. Now I know I have lost it and do you know why? Because I heard it mimmicking my pulse. For a moment, in unison, we were both nothing but a pile of flesh creating a rhythm. One two three four. I lunged at the bag and stabbed it. One two three four. I scratched at it, I pummeled it with all my might and I cried out as I stabbed it more. I couldn't stop. Any semblance of humanity I had was lost in that moment. I stopped to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard the most horrific, ear-curdling scream I have ever heard in my life. It was as if someone had woken up a dead woman with millions upon millions of volts in a rainstorm. My heart exploded out of my chest and I scrambled to my window and thrusted it open. I gripped the slimy bag by its husk and threw it out the window into the outer world. It bellowed its deafening shriek as it fell several stories down. I feel safe for the moment. I think to myself that there is no way I will turn around and see that bag lying against my wallpaper like a prop. But as I sit here typing these words, I still find myself too afraid to turn around. And my heartbeat has been getting louder and louder. And I know that as soon as I hear it break into its familiar waltz that I must close my eyes and promise myself that I will never open them again.

Steven has been missing for the past two years. When his room was searched, all that was left of him were his clothes and an empty, unidentifiable black cocoon-looking specimen. Researchers are left baffled by its contours and scaling and are working hard to figure out what this is and how it could correlate to Daniel's final blog entries and his disappearance.