Read Online Dead Souls by J. Lincoln Fenn - Free Book Online Page A

hypothetically, there’s something to that conversation Scratch and I had about the invisibility thing. Access to closed-door meetings with the exec team, listening in on bathroom gossip, looking over people’s shoulders as they type in passwords and then accessing their files later. I could potentially know everything about everyone. That would be interesting. Interesting enough to sell one’s soul for, though? Even if I believed in souls, I’d need more convincing.
    Sam yawns, stretches, hands almost bumping right into me.
    â€œWhere’s the bathroom?”
    He pushes his chair back and just like that I’m—

    â€”BACK IN THE BATHROOM STALL. Only now I’m naked, sitting on a pile of my clothes and shivering with cold, like I’ve just stepped out of a walk-in freezer, or the temperature has dropped twenty degrees. All is quiet; the same church-like hush.
    I don’t remember taking off my clothes. That’s not good. God, I’m losing it . Unless this is a hallucination within a hallucination? How deep does this rabbit hole go?
    And then a more disturbing thought tickles my brain.
    What if this is real?
    Through the walls, I hear the gurgle of water rushing through pipes—Sam. In my hallucination, Sam was going to the bathroom—he must have just flushed the toilet in the men’s room next door. So there were a few minutes there before I came to.
    He put the waist belt in his pocket.
    In my hallucination. Anyone could be in the bathroom. Anyone.
    A significant part of me doesn’t want to know the truth, is afraid. Not knowing can sometimes be preferable to knowing—you can sketch in whatever version of the truth suits you.
    But I’m naked, cold and shivering. Fuck it . Quickly I throw my clothes back on—shirt’s backward, screw it, panties inside out, screw it—grab my cell, my coat, the damn card, shove my socks into my purse and then my feet into my Keds, squashing the backs of the sneakers, no time to lace. I unlock the stall door, race past the sinks, ignoring my reflection in five mirrors, and open the heavy oak women’s room door, then step into the darkened hallway, which seems to stretch, lengthen, pull away from me in both directions like someone is pulling taffy.
    I feel sweat bead my upper lip—why is it so hot all of a sudden? Another gurgle from inside the men’s room: the faucet.
    He’s washing his hands. I should’ve washed my own, I’ll probably get hep A on top of everything else the way my luck’s going. Christ, it’s taking so long. Tick, tick, tick, tick. I feel like a small, nuclear weapon has been detonated in my chest: What i f ? What i f ? What i f ? Finally I can’t stand another minute, another second, and open the men’s room door. Charge inside.
    The security guard is the one washing his hands, while Sam stands in front of a urinal, holding the turtlehead of his penis, mid shake-off. His head snaps in my direction, startled. “What the hell?”
    The security guard— his name, why don’t I know his name? —smirks, takes in my disheveled appearance, head to toe, making mental notes. Something to chat up Tracy about, I’m sure.
    I swallow but hold my ground, even though the men’s room is inherently intimidating, ten urinals total with those, whatever the hell they are, bars of something at the drain. Pedestal sinks and cracked mirrors that look like they haven’t been cleaned since Kennedy was president, puce tiles the color of split peas that line the floor and creep up the walls until they’re defeated by a band of black tiles.
    â€œDo you min d ?” says Sam.
    The stink of old piss is overwhelming. It would make for a good American Apparel shoot.
    The security guard is enjoying himself, takes his time grabbing a paper towel, drying off.
    I gather my courage, say nothing, and just stride past the guard toward Sam instead, grabbing the