The Ghost in the Machine

approximately 4000 words

         
Sam falls into a destructive cyber addiction.  A seductive stranger he met online now stalks him in real life.  Will Sam succumb or surrender?

  Caution! Indirect references to graphic content.  Appropriate for adults only.

The Word and PDF versions of this story didn't seem to be getting much traffic, so I formatted a text version.

Woo-Hoo!  This story won 2nd place in the August 2007 Addiction Alley contest!!!

ID: 1163673 Title: Invalid Item  Description: This item number is not valid. By: Not Available.

Thanks to the judges and all who read the story!

Bill, the MathGuy
I'm not evil, I just write that way...



If the dark side has an appeal for you, please visit my port and leave me a critique or two.  I thrive on contact!

         

The Ghost in the Machine

         I sit here in my room and I listen. I can hear him approach. One foot drags on the tile floor in the hall, the other thumps in a dull alternation. The shuffle and thud of the footfalls grow ever closer to my room, ever closer to my waiting flesh. Soon he will rap on my closed door. When I do not answer, he will call my name. Then he will test the latch. The mechanism will rattle with his insistence. I know all this because it has happened before.

         But tonight, tonight I have added something new, something different.

         Months ago my life had been simpler, safer, saner. I remember the day that Martha had suggested that I buy a computer. Martha and I worked together in the phone room at Old Gooseberry Associates. Old Gooseberry is a hard sell telemarketing firm. We get them on the phone and don't let up until we've sold them at least ten magazine subscriptions on the installment plan. The collections department is in the basement and nearly as large as the sales department where Martha and I work.

         "Sam," she said to me, "you need to buy a computer. You could meet lots of guys on the computer." Martha was always worried about my social life. When she wasn't telling me about the cute new guy in collections she was inviting me to dinner where her gay "cousin" just happened to drop in.

         I nodded. When Martha gets on these kicks, there is no point arguing with her. "Uh huh. What kind should I get?"

         "Well, Sue says you should get a PC for sure." Sue worked in payroll and was the local computer guru. "She says that Macs are expensive and are probably going out of business anyway."

         "Well that narrows it down for sure."

         "You bet!" Martha didn't notice my sarcasm.

         And so it went. Martha kept after me for days. She brought computer ads to work and dragged me to computer stores on our lunch hour. She talked incessantly about how a computer would make my life different, better. She got Sue to invite us to her house for dinner and to show me how to talk to people online. I feigned interest in the lesbian "chat rooms" Sue frequented, but still didn't see why I would do this.

         I had to admit that my social life was, well, nonexistent. The bars no longer held any appeal for me. Besides, my AA sponsor might be a tad displeased if I started hanging out in bars again. That last time I had gone on a six month drunk. I had gotten my three year sobriety coin my last "birthday" and now I was determined to stay sober forever.

         But gay people have almost nowhere to go to meet one another. Where do straight people meet potential dates? Work? Well, I was the only male over twenty in the phone room, and I was well over twenty. To be honest, I was well over thirty. Besides being so very young, I'm not sure any of my male coworkers were gay; certainly none were out. Martha had met her ex-husband at her church. I'm sure the local Baptist church would love to form a gay singles group. Not! There were a few HIV community service groups, but I knew I'd meet my ex-lover there and Ron wasn't sober, at least not any more. There was too much danger I would fall in with him and start drinking again. So at night I went home, read books, watched television, and went to an occasional dinner or movie with Martha. Maybe I did need to find something else to do. I had to admit I was lonely.

         I hear him now, he is just outside my door. He always stops there, to catch his breath. My flesh glows in the surreal light of my computer screen as I sit and wait, listening. He wheezes, as though the effort of materializing here outside my room has exhausted him. Soon, soon the knocking will begin. After the knocking he will test my door.

         My heart pounds in my chest and my breath catches in my throat. What discovery awaits tonight?

         "Sam, what is wrong with you anyway?" We were on our lunch hour, shopping for a new pair of slacks for me. I didn't really need new pants, but I was weary of the endless stream of computer catalogs and technobabble.

         Martha looked at me in the mirror. She reached out and pushed my blond hair back from my forehead and grasped my shoulders. "Stand up straight, Sam. Be proud of yourself."

         "Now Martha, you know I can't do anything straight."

         "Don't joke with me, Sam. You are really good looking, you know that?" Martha stood at my side and stared into the mirror with me. "Look at yourself. Look at that handsome strong face" -- she held my jaw -- "and that trim waistline. And your hair is so thick and beautiful, and still so blond!"

         I decided not to tell her that I dyed my hair. "I guess I look OK." Ron had always berated my appearance, reminding me that he had been a model.

         "You look great!" Martha leaned closer and whispered in my ear, "And that salesman is cute too! Why don't you ask him for a date. His name is Fred. I asked him."

         "Martha, please! He's probably not even gay!"

         That had been the day my life had changed. I didn't know it then, but events conspired that very day to lead me to where I am tonight, waiting for the stranger in the hall to call my name and to knock at my door.

         When Martha and I got back to work Sue was there, waiting for us. "Sam, guess what!"

         "I give up."

         "Sam, don't be obtuse. Old Gooseberry is going to upgrade my computer to a new one!"

         "Good for you." I was truly sick of computers. If she started to tell me about all the RAM and ROM and chips and mega-giga-bytes I'd swoon right there on the spot.

         "Sam, you don't understand. They are going to surplus my old one and Mr. Standish said you could have it for three hundred dollars! Isn't that great, Sam?"

         "Ooh, Sue! That is wonderful!" Martha grabbed Sue's hands and danced around the phone room with her. One of our high school dropout coworkers looked on vacantly and popped her bubble gum. "Sam, isn't that just the best news!"

         "Yeah. Where am I going to get three hundred dollars?" Telemarketers make big bucks. The people like Martha and me who did the dirty work, the hard phone sell, make small bucks. Tiny bucks. My checking account had $66.42 left in it until the next pay day.

         "Well, Mr. Standish said that you could pay for it over the next six weeks, sixty dollars a pay check." Sue seemed pleased to have also arranged financing for me.

         I did a quick calculation. I was being charged 17% interest in six weeks. "What a deal."

         "I just knew we'd find you a computer, Sam!" Martha was ecstatic. Maybe it was worth sixty dollars a week and 17% interest to have Martha lay off me.

         "OK, where do I sign?"

         That night Sue had come to my room and helped me set up this technological demon. Actually, she set it up for me, muttering to herself an endless incantation of meaningless jargon.

         "OK, Sam. Now Martha has paid for your online service for you for three months while you buy your system. I left all of Gooseberry’s software on here, so you’ve got lots of good stuff." Sue munched on cookies and milk while working her spells on my new machine. Windows cascaded across the screen in a bewildering array of mouse clicks: dialers, email, IRC, web browser, word processor, spreadsheets, online checkbooks, games, much more than I could truly follow.

         "OK, Sam, do you think you can do this now?"

         "Sure." I doubted I could turn it on after she left.

         "Good." Sue shut the system down and turned it off. "OK, now you do it. Turn it on, dial up, read your email and join an IRC chat room."

         Fifteen minutes later Sue had patiently led me once more through the steps. I actually thought I could repeat them this time after she left.

         "Here are all the chat rooms containing the word ‘gay’ on efnet." Sue clicked and waved the mouse across its pad like a magic wand. A long list of chat room names came up.

         "This one is nice." Sue clicked on #GayDecentGuys and I saw a new window pop up. I remembered that the right pane was a list of all the people "in" the chat room. Most of the names were either cryptic – RC1138 – or silly – CuTeGaY. This would be one chat room I was sure I wouldn’t frequent.

         "Well, Sam, have fun. If you have any questions give me a call!"

         After Sue left I left the machine on and stared at it. Some silly conversation was going on in #GayDecentGuys.

         CuTeGaY: Why is a viola better than a violin?

         RC1138: I give up.

         CuTeGaY: because it holds more beer.

         Sweet Jesus! Give me a break! I clicked on the X and exited the chat room. I needed to take a shower anyway.

         After my shower I stood toweling my hair and stared at the computer. It cast a soft pearly glow in my room, infinitely cool and aloof. I sat in front of the monitor, wrapping the towel about my waist. I scrolled through the list of chat rooms. There were some local chat rooms: I saw #GayDallas and #GayTexas. I’d check those out later. Hmmm. #GaySM sounded interesting.

         I squinted at the tiny type. I clicked on "#GaySM" and I saw the name Sue had given me, TXGayGuy, appear in the window. None of the other names in the chat room seemed to make much sense. There was no conversation. I stared at the screen and ran a brush through my hair.

         The computer beeped and I started. A new window appeared.

         TotalTop: hey

         OK, that meant someone named TotalTop wanted to talk to me.

         TXGayGuy: hey back.

         TotalTop: ur new here

         TXGayGuy: yes

         TotalTop: stats

         OK, I was now actually talking to someone. But what could "stats" mean? Clearly Sue’s introduction was missing some of the jargon.

         TXGayGuy: I’m brand new to this. I don’t know what you are asking for.

         TotalTop: Stats means tell me what you look like

         TotalTop: my stats are 6’, 32, 170#, brn, blu, stache. urs?

         TXGayGuy: OK, like a hanky code. I get it.

         TXGayGuy: 5’10, 36, 155#, blnd, blu, clean shaved

         TotalTop: hot. top or bottom?

         TXGayGuy: bottom.

         I was beginning to understand things better.

         TotalTop: cool. ur name should be all lowercase then

         TotalTop: u do cyber?

         I changed my nickname to txgay, amazed that that part of Sue’s lecture had sunk in.

         txgay: cyber?

         TotalTop: chat about sex, online, fantasy, u know

         This was, well, different. This guy, TotalTop, wanted to talk about sex.  I’d never really considered anything like that before. Hell, this promised a mutual and interactive fantasy. Plus it was perfectly safe. I could turn off the machine anytime I wanted.  It might be interesting.

         That first night was astonishing. I sat there typing back and forth with TotalTop. I never saw him again online, but his introduction to IRC and cybersex left me immediately addicted. His imagination was an amazing combination of the erotic and the violent. As he led me through the dark chambers of his fantasies, I imagined myself as his victim, helplessly bound and mercilessly used. I sat and read and typed in an erotic haze.  Over three hours passed in a flash, so intense was our shared fantasy.

         At the end, when we were both sated, TotalTop thanked me politely and disappeared. I trembled.

         By purest chance I had fallen into this chat room and talked to this man. Thus began my descent to where I am tonight, sitting here listening and waiting. Waiting for the silence.

         I hear him now, tonight, scratching at my door. He always starts by scratching with his knife. His breath is still rasping in his throat, but more softly now, as though from lust rather than from exertion. There, now he is knocking, quietly, ever so quietly. The knocks will become more and more insistent when I do not answer. Then, then who knows what might follow. For tonight I know it will be different. Tonight I have changed things to be sure it will be different.

         Weeks passed. I found myself drawn night after night to the computer, to the fantasy world of sex and virtual submission and fantasy. I would sit there typing messages onto the screen, reading responses redolent with lust and dominance.

         Then one night he showed up. His name was Banquo. Almost immediately we went through the ritual.

         Banquo: stats

         txgay: 5’10, 36, 155#, blnd, blu, smooth

         Banquo: what ru into?

         txgay: total sub sir

         Banquo: sounds hot...for real or cyber?

         txgay: either

         Of course, I was only interested in cyber. But it gave an added edge to the fantasy to suggest that it might be a prelude to the real thing. The monitor cast a ghostly glow across my body, my small room shadowed in its eerie sheen. I thought, momentarily, that I heard a shuffle of footsteps in the hall outside my room, but then Banquo was typing again.

         Banquo: I'm game for either too. tonight?

         txgay: sure

         Our shared fantasy began and we exchanged complementary desires, each focused on ourselves and the simulacrum of the Other's words shimmering there on the screen.

         There it was again, that sound! This time I was sure I heard footsteps in the hall. Someone with a limp, perhaps. A shuffle followed by a more definite footfall. And I could hear him breathing, wheezing.

         Banquo was typing again.  So far our mutual fantasy held the familiar rhythm of sex and violence. Banquo was more direct, less subtle, than I liked, but we were bound down the familiar virtual path of the Other's sadism and my submission.

         But wait! I heard the footsteps yet again! The stranger in the hall had stopped at my door! I heard the harsh rasp of breath escaping from tortured lungs just outside my room. No one ever came here but me. Who could this be?

         Banquo: open the door and let me in

         Banquo: I'll give you what you want

         What? What was Banquo typing? What door? His words glowed in chill shades of white and charcoal on my screen, casting a phantom effulgence upon my flesh. Then there came a scratching at my door, quiet but insistent, a metallic abrasion against the faded paint.

         Banquo: let me in. I've got the knife.

         Banquo: I'll give you what you seek.

         txgay: wait one, there's someone at my door

         Banquo: it is me come to destroy you. let me in

         txgay: no for real. there is someone at my door for real

         Banquo: it is me. you said for real and I am here

         I was shaking now. Outside my door the scraping was replaced by a tender beat, as though soft knuckles were stroking against the cheap door. I still could hear the rasp of his breath, lustful and longing now. What was happening?

         Banquo: open the door Sam. let me in.

         Banquo: I’ll give you what you want

         No! This could not be happening! How could he know my real name? How could he both be at my door and be online? What was happening?

         The knocks were firmer now. Thud, pause. Thud, pause. The sound of his breath grated relentlessly against my ears. My heart quickened in fear and in anticipation. Thud, pause. Thud, pause.

         Banquo: Let me in, Sam.

         Banquo: I’ll give you what you want.

         "Stop!" I shouted at the chimera on the screen. "Go away!" I shouted to the stranger in the hall.

         "Sam." The stranger in the hall spoke in a harsh whisper, as though his voice bubbled up from an inhuman throat. "Let me in Sam. I’ll give you what you want."

         Banquo: Let me in, Sam.

         Banquo: You know you want it, Sam.

         "No!" My body convulsed with fear. Strangely, terrifyingly, I was aroused too. Could it be that this was what I wanted? The promise of Banquo, the promise of the stranger in the hall, held a compelling allure.

         "Go away!" I felt my soul shredded by a horrifying duality of dread and desire.

         Banquo: Let me in Sam

         "I’ll give you what you want, Sam." The harsh whisper penetrated my door, my ears, my heart, my soul! A prayer bubbled to the surface of my mind, a prayer for redemption and communion. My fragmented soul did not know if it was praying to God for release from the stranger or praying to the stranger for release from...what?

         The door rattled. It was locked and bolted. He could not get in. Not that night.

         "Sam. Let me in, Sam. I’ll give you what you want." The breathy voice oozed insistently through the door, it foamed mercilessly within my heart. "Sam, let me in, Sam."

         Banquo: Let me in, Sam.

         Banquo: I’ve come to destroy you, Sam.

         The locked door rattled. I was desperate. I stabbed at the off button on the computer and missed.

         Banquo: I’ll give you what you want, Sam.

         The door shook insistently. I sat frozen in the ghostly light from the computer. I stabbed again and struck the off button.

         Darkness. Silence. The rasp of the stranger’s breath vanished. His flesh no longer stroked my door. His words no longer lashed at my soul. Silence. Darkness.

         Tonight I hear his knock again, calling to me with relentless desire.  Thud, pause. Thud, pause.  The stranger’s flesh buffets my door with a delicate yet deadly tenacity. His breath harasses the silence, the sound frothing with the promise of destruction and release.

         "Sam, let me in, Sam." His whisper, loose with flem, lashes at my ears.

         Banquo: Sam, I’ll give you what you want.

         Tonight, yes, tonight in the darkness it will be different.

         The morning after the stranger's first visit I woke weary and sore. I felt bruised and beaten, as though the stranger had in reality entered my room, as though I had truly been beaten the night before. I sipped my coffee and stared at my computer. In the cold light of morning the previous night seemed a dream, a fantasy conjured from my loneliness and despair.

         I opened the door to my room. The pale green paint was chipped and faded. But wait!  There, there near the doorknob, I saw faint scratches. I knelt and looked more closely. They were fresh, with yellowish slivers of wood protruding from the stained paint. Had they been there yesterday? Or were they the mark of Banquo’s ghost?

         At work that day I was distracted and tired. More and more work had become place of dismal boredom, the sales pitch an incantation of failure. My sales figures and income were down but it didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered were my nights and my computer. I lived for those nights, for those fantasies of abuse and release.

         "Sam, I’m worried about you." Martha sat down next to me and stroked my hair. It was greasy and brown, laced with gray. I had stopped dying it.

         I stared ahead at my desk, recording my last sale. "I’m fine."

         "Sam, we never go out any more. And you are so thin, with such circles under your eyes."

         I knew tears were welling in Martha's eyes. "I'm fine. Trust me." I kept my eyes on my desk, and dialed a new customer.

         "Sam, listen to me!" Martha disconnected me. "Sam, what is wrong with you?"

         I turned. I evaded her gaze.  I looked at the space behind her left ear. "Martha. I. Am. Fine." I turned back to my phone. "But I won't be if I get further behind on my quota, OK?" I reconnected.

         "Sam, where have you gone? You are a stranger to me. I want my friend back."

         I ignored her and started on the sales pitch. Eventually she left.

         I lived for the virtual world Martha and Sue had given to me. I had come to begrudge work, shopping, friends, everything but sitting there in front of my computer. I became captive to my nightly rituals of dissolution. Nothing else mattered, only the merciless stream of words across the screen and the endlessly repeated fantasies.

         That night, as with all the other recent nights, I rushed to my room after work and started my computer. While it was powering up, I slipped a cheap frozen dinner in the microwave and showered. I would eat, a towel about my waist, exposed to the unblinking cyclopean eye of my one faithful companion. There I found a surcease from the tedium of my life. Virtual reality had become my only reality.

         I logged on, then pulled my dinner from the microwave. When I returned, I found email waiting for me. From Banquo. Trembling, I opened it.

         I'll be back. I'll give you what you want.

         That night I resolved to avoid the sex chat rooms. I signed on as TXGayGuy, an ID I had not used since that first night. I even went to #GayDecentGuys and endured the cheery chatter there.

         Later, much later, I was weary and about to sign off. My machine beeped and a message window opened.

         Banquo: Where have you been?

         Banquo: I've been waiting for you.

         TXGayGuy: go away

         Banquo: You can't hide from me. I know what you want.

         Angrily I closed the window and changed my nickname to LonliGay. My machine beeped and again a message window opened.

         Banquo: I am always with you. Sam. You can't escape me.

         Then I heard it for the second time. The shuffle and thump of his steps approached down my hallway. They stopped at my door and the sound of his breath, unclean and clogged, probed my room.

         Banquo: Let me in. Only I can give you what you want.

         LonliGay: why are you doing this to me?

         Banquo: I do only that which you desire

         The scratching started again, then the slow crescendo of beats against my door. Thud. Pause. Thud. Pause. I sat in the soft glow of my computer and waited, helpless.

         Banquo: Let me in. You know what you want.

         Fear and desire again gripped my heart. I sat and waited, passive, an empty canvas yet to be painted. I knew that I was safe here in my room, secure behind my locked door.

         "Let me in, Sam." The hoarse whisper came once again, just as eerily inhuman as before.

         Banquo: Open the door, Sam. You know what you want.

         LonliGay: I want to be left alone

         Banquo: I can give you that, Sam.

         Banquo: I can make your solitude eternal, Sam.

         "Let me in, Sam."

         I shuddered. I could flip the switch. It would be so easy, just like last night. I could send Banquo and the stranger in the hall to the wasteland where nightmares go. Instead I waited. The door clattered at me as the stranger in the hall tried the latch. His corrupt flesh still stroked my locked door, the hinges rattled as he tested the lock. Thud. Pause. Thud. Pause.

         Banquo: I've come to destroy you, Sam. You know you want it.

         My arm trembled above the off switch. Why was I uncertain? Why did I hesitate? Click! There!

         Darkness. Silence. He was gone once again. I crouched alone in my room shrouded in solitude and despair. Silence. Darkness.

         That was two weeks ago. The stranger in the hall has come every night since, testing my door. His promise is relentless, his desire overwhelming. At last I do know what I want. I sit here in the serene glow of my computer and await my lover, myself.

         "Sam, I am here for you."

         Banquo: You know what you want, Sam.

         Soon, so soon, he will test my latch. And tonight it will be different. Tonight I will embrace the darkness and the silence.

         Tonight my door is unlocked.