Two Sits at a Table
Max Morsan, an office worker, had just arrived in Wespin. His car was nearly out of gas, the little meter sitting between empty and the bar just before. He looked up at the neon sign of a restaurant while clutching a piece of paper with both hands. It was a note, a simple piece of white paper that any other person would consider garbage. But it wasn’t to Max.
This paper held a date, a time, and a location: Sven’s Restaurant, 8 p.m., October 5th. Max clutched the paper tighter as he reread the contents. He looked up at the neon sign (the N and the last S were unlit) with an Irish-looking man; he had a red beard, pasty-white skin like a ghost,was missing his two front teeth, and held a big wooden cup to his lips filled with what Max assumed was ale.
He got out of his car, the parking lot nearly empty. He heard whispers in the wind that made goosebumps cover his skin.
“Maxieeee.”
His instincts kicked in like a horse in a race. His heart beat faster, his eyes swished around the dim parking lot, and his mind was keen on danger. “Who-who’s there?” he managed from his lips, but it wasn’t spoken aloud; he asked it in his mind. The wind seemed to listen either way.
“Maxieee . . .come on down . . . . it’s a lot of funnnn, y’know.” A laugh croaked from the wind.
Max cupped his ears and repeated himself like a young kid would when they didn’t like what they were hearing. “It’s not real! It’s not real! It’s—”
“Max?”
A voice—a different, more calm voice— rang out along the breeze. Max turned to see who it was, only to have it hit him as he was halfway turned. It was Chris. Chris, wearing a brown leather jacket, a plain white T-shirt, and a pair of green sneakers that didn’t fit his outfit at all. He put a hand on Max’s shoulder as his eyes locked onto Chris’s. This close, Max could see more detail.
Chris’s face wore a look of horror and shock. His eyes were sunken, and he looked slightly drunk. Below his right knee, Max noticed padding beneath the dark blue jeans; a picture-perfect, three-hole slash running down to his ankle with white bandages covering a wound.
“Are you alright?” Chris asked. His tone was concerned, but his expression was one of terror. “What are you doing out here?”
Max gave Chris a confused look. Chris was a detective. Max had seen his face on the news before, but never thought he’d encounter the man himself in the wild like this. He flubbed his words as he spoke.
“Wh-what?”
“I asked what you were doing here.” Chris’s eyes followed his as Max gripped the note tighter and looked down at it. “Oh, you got one too?”
Too? Max thought. His mind, racing already from that awful voice, didn’t seem to catch up to the possibility of another person receiving a note.
“Wait, y-you got one t-too?” Max flubbed his speech like he was stuttering, though he really wasn’t. His mouth just hadn’t caught up to his thoughts yet.
“Why are you stuttering?” Chris asked. Now, his tone was compassionate.
“I’m n-not.”
“It sure sounds like you are. I’ve never heard you stutter before.”
“I was just talking too fast,” Max said . It seemed he’d gotten the stuttering under control. “My mouth hadn’t caught up to my mind yet, y’know?”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“You really got a note too?”
“Yep. It’s weird, isn’t it?” Chris reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper identical to the one clutched in Max’s hand. “No name of who sent it. Just a date, time, and location.”
“You think there’s some big event going on?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s got me spooked all the way.”
“It is October. Maybe something for Halloween?”
Chris looked away from Max and towards the building. “Didn’t hear about it from anyone else. Even so, I don’t think it’s something like that.”
“What makes you say that?”
“For one, the note. For two, I would have heard something—anything—from the people in town. And three? I just have a bad feeling.”
Max sat on his words for a moment.Quickly, it became clear that Max believed the same thing. He had the same feeling. It felt like something bad was gonna happen, something life-threatening, but he didn’t know what. Ever since he’d entered town, a fog had filled his mind, like something was purposely blocking his memories. He didn’t remember a single thing from his childhood, not even his parents. It was like he was born an adult and skipped childhood entirely.
“Wanna head inside? Get some grub? Wait on the others?”
“Others?” Max questioned, but it made sense that if it was an event, more would be coming. He had to believe it was an event because anything else would tear his mind apart like a paper shredder. He was already on edge, but this . . . this was something that could push him over it.
“Sure,” Max finally answered, after a long and distilled silence. They walked up the marble steps, only three in all, and Chris held the door for Max. They both entered the restaurant.
2
The decor wasn’t anything special. One wall was bright pink with flowers displayed all across it. “Dasies,” Max assumed. The room was big, covered with tables pretty much everywhere and a few private dinner rooms across the opposite wall. Waiters walked around speedily to fulfil someone’s order, likely a rich couple or someone famous. In the center of the room sat a big circular booth, like a teller’s booth at a parking lot. A man stood inside it, with broad shoulders, a beard that extended beyond his chin, and a waiter’s outfit.
Chris and Max must have been looking at the same guy because Chris spoke jokingly. “That guy should be a bodybuilder, not a waiter.” Max covered a chuckle underneath a cough. He didn’t do it too well since the booth guy turned in their direction.
“May I help you?” he asked coldly. He sounded British, but mixed with a Bronx accent. Chris took the note out of the same pocket and handed it to the teller. “Hmm,” he remarked as he looked over the paper several times. “Wespin reunion?”
Chris shrugged. “I guess so, big man.” The booth guy didn’t take too kindly to that nickname.
“Right this way.” The booth guy, who was as tall as he was bulky, dipped underneath the ceiling of the teller door with several menus in his right hand. Chris and Max followed him to a room—Room 7, the gold-plated letters read. The colors, not the words themselves, sparked something in Max’s mind like a lightbulb flashing on.
A voice came out of the letters. The number seven seemed to dance before Max’s eyes. The words spoke icily. “Maxie, Maxie, took a taxi. He arrived home, only to find he was all alone.” Max’s eyes widened as the number and the letters started to rot away rapidly. The words repeated themselves over and over, each time getting more and more scraggly, as if he was underwater. The last time, the words sounded forced, and the number and letters both let out a drowning cry at Max.
Max felt a hand on his shoulder. He yelped before meeting Chris’s eyes. “You sure you’re alright?”
Max nodded at Chris. “I-I’m fine.”
Chris shook his head like he already knew what they needed to do. “Let’s get to the table.”
They both pressed onwards. It was a large room, fit for parties or some kind of celebration (Max, for some reason, instantly thought of a funeral). A funeral for a celebration? Must be one bad guy. Max thought with a childlike wonder. In his mind, he had completely forgotten what death was. I must be going crazy. His thoughts circulated around his mind, leaving his body in reality to stand still, unmoving.
He felt a nudge from Chris on his right shoulder, waking him from his thoughts. “I need you here, man, can’t go anywhere else, you agree?”
Max nodded his head and finally, the room took shape in Max’s eyes. He already deduced the room was large, but at that same time, he’d retreated into his mind so he never got a full scope of the actual size. It was big. It looked like two wrestlers could fit in a steel cage with no issues besides the ceiling.
The walls were outfitted with wood panels like on an old station wagon. They had some photos and paintings hung up, but mostly it was just a wooden wall, corner to corner. Max looked a little closer at the painting, squinting his eyes to see more closely, but it looked normal. No dancing or name-calling from the painting. He did notice it was a Vincent van Gogh painting, The Scream. Max’s body tensed as he waited for the inevitable, but it never came. Instead, Chris looked at Max with a ‘what the fuck is wrong with you?’ look. Max could feel Chris’s stare, so he turned from the painting, but kept it in his peripheral vision to never let it out of his sight.
The table with seven chairs was made with exquisite wooden parts. They seemed to be made from heaven itself. When Max caressed the wood and the softness of it shocked him. It felt like a pillow. On top of the table sat seven empty wine glasses. Seven pristine white plates sat in front of each chair; the plates themselves seemed to be made of glass as well, since they were transparent. You could see the table under them. The silverware, a fork and a knife (no spoon), lay on each side of the plates.
Max took his seat; even the chair itself was fancy. There was a mat hanging off the top, leaning down towards the sitter’s back, providing comfort. The decor on it was strange. A dinner table with several people eating, they were eating pork and some kind of beef. There was a window next to the table, and the sun was setting, casting a cool orange over the dinner table.
Max sat on the cushion and even that felt nice. Nothing about the decor was uncomfortable.
“So, Max,” Chris said abruptly as he sat down on Max’s left. “Any idea on who might have given you that letter?”
Max grabbed his coat pocket, where he felt and heard the crinkling of the paper.
“None, Chris. You?”
“Nah, it was on my doorstep a few days ago when I left for work.” Chris reached over to his back pocket and revealed his paper, looking at it more closely. After a few moments, he hid it back in his back pocket. “The only thing I can figure out is that if you and I got this note and we’re in the same town, then that must mean—”
“That others in the town got one too!” Max interjected loudly. His face flushed red for a bit before Chris snapped his fingers at Max.
“Exactly. And since there are already two of us, and there are seven seats, then there are five more people to come.”
“H-how can you be so sure?”
“It’s pretty obvious, Maxie.” Chris’s face changed suddenly. The word ‘Maxie’ seemed to have lit a lightbulb that had dimmed many years ago, and his face became one of a dead man. It froze in time with a look of horror plastered over it. His mouth agape, he let out a silent scream. His breathing became rapid and his eyes wandered everywhere.
“Chris! Are you alright?” Max sat next to Chris on his left side, so he reached over and shook his shoulders. “Speak to me, Chris!”
Chris blinked rapidly before his mouth closed. He looked at Max with a fearful gaze, then he turned away from Max; he heard him . . . sobbing. Chris wiped the tears from his face before turning back to Max.
“I’m sorry. I-I don’t know what happened. I was here—” He put his hands on the table, and Max couldn’t figure out if it was to emphasize his point or to convince himself he was really here in the restaurant. “Then I was . . . somewhere else.”
“Wh-where?” Max asked, his own breathing quickened.
“I . . . don’t know. I-It was like I was a kid again.” Chris felt his side. “I was small, so I had to be, but . . . .”
“But what?”
“It’s not possible.” His eyes began to water up again. “I don’t remember anything from my childhood, so how was I there? What’s happening?”
“Is this the right room?” A feminine voice cut the air like a razor-sharp knife. The two men turned to the doorway to see a woman. She was dressed in all black, her skirt reaching her knees. She wore leggings that covered most of her legs except for the point right above where the skirt stretched. She looked at the two men sitting at the dining table. “I got a note for room seven.”