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    Telecommuting
    Telecommuting
    Telecommuting
    Ebook104 pages1 hour

    Telecommuting

    By L. Marie Wood

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    About this ebook

    Working from home has its perks, being able to attend meetings in your pajamas chief among them. But when the house you occupy all day is empty - when the only voice you hear after work comes through television speakers, it can get a little old.

    Unless you like it that way.

    And Chris did like it that way

    … until the whispering started.

    Telecommuting is a modern psychological horror story set in what could be your town, your street, your house. The lyrical slow burn is subtle; the terror in this tale sneaks up on you before you know it.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMocha Memoirs Press
    Release dateMar 29, 2022
    ISBN9798201961404
    Telecommuting

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      Book preview

      Telecommuting - L. Marie Wood

      One

      Camera working? Check.

      Hair is combed.

      Tie is straight.

      No sleep in my eyes, boogers in my nose, or general shit on my face.

      What is sleep anyway? Or that white shit that gathers in the corners of your mouth when you’re talking, stretching and pulling each time you open your lips wide, blowing in the breeze that is your breath, just enough for the other person to see…

      Headset? Check, though damn if it doesn’t make me look like a DJ from the 80s. Or an air traffic controller with those huge, padded ear cushions and the stick microphone in front of my mouth.

      Pen and paper on the desk in front of me to make it look like I truly give a shit about what the guy on the other side says about reporting structure, responsibilities, customer satisfaction, yadda yadda? You bet, sir. Right you are. Absolutely. Yeah, suck my dick.

      Is the camera on?

      Check.

      My sigh was loud in the quiet room. Every damned thing is loud now because the house is so fucking empty. Four bedrooms, 2.5 baths, carpet and hardwood floors, three levels; rooms that will stay empty because it’s just me in here now… me, myself, and I.

      This is too much space for one person. There are too many places that will go unused, unvisited, uninhabited. But now’s not the time to think about that, is it? Now isn’t the time to think about how she walked out nearly a week ago taking most of her shit with her - that was easy to do since almost all of it was still packed in boxes anyway because we just fucking moved in here - taking all the sun and the light and the goddamned air with her.

      No, now is the time to think about the interview, not that shit. That shit will be there waiting for me once the interview is over. I’m sure of that.

      The interview that would start in about 2 minutes.

      The interview I set up a month ago when everything was peachy. The one that had gotten pushed because some bigwig had business overseas and it was all hands on deck or some shit.

      The one for the job that I really need.

      Yeah, I need this job and its sizeable paycheck because I have to pay this big-assed mortgage by myself now… at least until I can sell it. I need this job because I’m too tired of looking to stay out in the job market if I don’t have to. I need this job, even though the perk of working from home, the one where I thought I might be able to go upstairs and sleep with my fiancée before my 10 o’clock meeting every day, didn’t matter much anymore because she was gone, ancient history, ghost, Audi 5000 – maybe I’m a 1980s DJ stuck in a future I don’t like the look of.

      Back to the future.

      Can I go back? Not too far. Maybe just a few months. Shit, I’ll take a couple days. Maybe I could kiss her before she says she’s done, apologize before she packs her bags.

      Maybe.

      Microphone? Microphone check? A one, two… a one, two.

      DJ, rapper… it’s all the same thing.

      I smile my best fake smile and stop as quickly as I started. My teeth looked too long reflected on my computer monitor (again, yes, the camera is on and working – stop worrying about that!). Too predatory. Like a wolf.

      I laugh because didn’t she say I was like a chameleon? Always changing, so much so that she never knew who she was going to get from day to day? Didn’t werewolves change with the full moon? Didn’t werewolves have sharp teeth?

      Werewolves. I’m a werewolf. Not a fucking lizard.

      I laugh again, then cringe.

      Some laugh. More like a bark.

      I clear my throat, trying to break up the phlegm that has gathered there from disuse.

      I haven’t spoken a word since she walked out that door.

      Hello, my name is… I practiced.

      There had been no yelling, no begging, no leaving 50 voicemails so she and her friends could call me a stalker. After the door to our new, too dammed big for one person house shut, my mouth shut. There was nothing left to say anyway.

      I cleared my throat again. So scratchy… hardly sound like myself at all.

      Thanks for the opportunity to speak with you about…

      Jacket…? Damn it, where’s my suit jacket?

      One minute left.

      Fuck.

      Do I really need the jacket?

      Where the fuck is the jacket?

      I look too plain.

      Plain, blending in with the taupe (tan, beige, khaki, fucking wheat… whatever) wall behind me.

      Indistinguishably lighter version of brown wall.

      Off-white shirt.

      Forgettable tie.

      Skin in need of sun.

      Hollow eyes.

      Shit, I need that jacket.

      Is it still packed away in a box?

      Is my midnight blue jacket still in an unpacked box upstairs, balled up and wrinkled because that’s how I packed my clothes because some parts of adulting still allude me? No. I remember navigating the boxes of crap strewn around the bedroom to find it. I slept against the one labeled ‘Closet’ last night, so I should know.

      Some of her dresses are still in there.

      We hadn’t even really unpacked all the way. We just fucking got here a few weeks ago and she was gone already, gone to greener pastures, gone to somewhere, maybe even someone else.

      That bitch.

      Nah, I know better.

      If I was gonna go back in time, a couple days wouldn’t cut it.

      Not by a long shot.

      I stood to scan the foyer for my jacket. Fucking house is big enough to have a real foyer, not just a landing between two stairwells, some rectangular space barely big enough to hold three full grown adults unless one of them didn’t mind ducking into the closet bordering it. A real fucking foyer. And she was already gone.

      There. On the floor. In the foyer.

      The jacket.

      Computer ringing… ha, I’m gonna love this. Fucking obnoxious already.

      I run to grab my jacket because why not.

      My sweatpants were old. They’re not those new type of ones that grip at the ankle – joggers, or whatever. They’re old fashioned, loose-fitting sweats that nobody looks cool in… and they have a hole in them right where the knee bends, making the hole spread wide when I sit, and gape like a mouth when I stand. I hope I don’t forget about it and stand up during the interview, play an impromptu game of ‘Peek-A-Boo’ with the interviewing committee – yeah, that’ll really score me some points. Note to self – keep your ass in the seat.

      Why the hell did it have to be a video interview anyway?

      Deep breath.

      Calm the fuck down.

      The jacket’s a bit snug but it’ll do. It’ll have to.

      Second ring…

      I look better this way – a little color, a little style. She always said so… and she was right.

      Third ring…

      Funny that the ringer on the computer sounds like the one that cordless landlines used to use… but not quite.

      Fourth ring…

      Smooth my hair, practice that fake smile once more, this time

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