Chapter 2: The Keeper's Incitement
"I'd say we're 'bout to get a storm real soon."
The man looked out into the dim sunset, eyes tracing the sky's colours from its thin border of red, to yellow, and finally the large expanse of grey that was sure to fade to black in mere minutes. It was actually a somewhat ugly for a sunset, especially against the dead field below it, long abandoned by farmers after one too many failed crops. But he appreciated the view. At least it was wide and expansive. Besides, he was never personally one to strive for beauty and glamour. All that was really needed was a simple world to please such simple man.
Next to him, another man slouched into a flimsy lawn chair, black-circled eyes staring widely at the tiny rectangle in his hands. His bulky fingers stroked the glowing screen, almost delicately, as if the glass would shatter if he applied any real pressure. He sat there, muscles tense and teeth clenched, not acknowledging his acquaintance at all.
The first man cleared his throat loudly. "'Why Amos, Ah reckon there's not one cloud in our good Lord's sky,'" he said in an offensively mocking southern accent. He glanced again to the left, where the other man continued to give full attention to his sleek new phone instead of Amos' offensive impersonation. "Well, Robert," he then replied to himself, "That sun's been shining for a long time now. The rain's gonna come down soon, and it's gonna come down hard." Still no reaction. "Why, Ah'll just swaney! Ah do believe ya'll might just be the brightest fellah in these proud American lands," he mocked again, this time with a more ridiculously comical accent.
Robert suddenly began to tap furiously yet on his phone, as if the fate of the world literally rested in his hands. Amos slouched deep into his chair, grumbling some harsh obscenities. "There's a reason I don't bring you people over here. You're all assholes. All of you." The people he referred to were likely his coworkers, a group of men who Amos formed a resentful sort of friendship with. He tolerated them for the sake of making life easier for himself, though no matter how hard he tried he felt no strong fondness for any of them. But they were usually at least entertaining.
Amos rested his head in his hands. "You can leave any time." The other man still didn't look up, let alone move. "Rob!" he finally raised his voice.
"Yeah, I heard you," the other man finally spoke in a faint southern drawl, though he still looked down at the glowing screen. He tapped it a few more times, and then a few more, before finally slipping it into his coat pocket. "And we're not assholes. You're just a bitter old man."
Amos glowered. "I'm forty-four. What are you, forty? Thirty-eight? Don't give me that bullshit. I've heard too much of it."
Robert gave him a strange look, one that appeared almost sad, but not quite. "You've always been old. When I met you, you were old. Bet you were still in your twenties. And I'm getting real sick of it. I've got enough going on right now. I don't need to spend the time I've got left entertaining a man with no sense of humour."
Amos gritted his teeth, holding back the many bitter swears that appeared in his mind. He wanted to yell. He really did. It was not often at all he invited people to his home, especially on a Friday night. But Rob had been insistent only a few hours ago. He had said he needed a distraction, but wouldn't say from what. Amos didn't pry. Instead, he invited the man into his home, even when he wasn't necessarily friends with him at all. But when he tried to start a conversation, the other would be focused on his electronics, worrying on and on about some trivial thing hat was far away from both of them. It was just a frustrating waste of time for them both.
"I thought I told you to leave," Amos said, his voice too level to come from a calm man.
Robert frowned, shaking his head, but then stood up anyways.
"You know, Amos," he said as he walked towards his slightly muddied truck, "I do think you're a good person. I know how much you try not to be. But you-"
Amos swore at him.
Robert nodded simply, opening the door of his truck. "Alright then. Have fun with that storm of yours, Amos," he said half bitterly, but also half sincerely, as if he was just too tired to be mad. Then he stepped in and slammed the door behind him. He was invisible now, the ugly twilight sky darkening the already tinted windows. The truck idled there for a moment, then began to move without stop, and then was gone. Amos was alone.
He reclined into his lawn chair, letting out a deep sigh. That man was wrong about him. He wasn't pretending to not be a good person. He just had no idea what Amos was truly capable of. He considered rude and uncaring by nature, and tried so hard to go against it. Even when selflessness, he found, was incredibly unrewarding and thankless.
It was dark now. The sorry excuse of a sunset had passed even faster than he expected, leaving the sky black and lifeless. The only light was from his home's front porch, which flickered slightly in a golden-yellow hue, almost like a lantern. Amos stretched his legs and then stood up, ready to go inside before he had to admit that night had fallen without him noticing.
And then something caught his eye. Something glowing.
He turned, facing the source of the curious light, but there was nothing. He could see the gravel road leading up to his home, and where it formed into an occasionally driven road leading into the city, and he could see the abandoned field where only weeds and dirt stood. But nothing else. He walked towards the general direction on the light, though he really had no idea where it could have come from. With only a slight glance to steer him, he had no way of knowing if it had been near or far, high or low, real or imaginary. After a few moments, he settled on the latter-most.
But then he saw it. Not the glow, but a small object on the ground, its polished surface standing out against the rough gravel. Amos bent down and picked it up.
Even with the light retreating, he could tell that the phone now had a long hairline crack stretching diagonally from corner to corner. Amos pressed the circular button below the screen, making it grow once more. An image of Robert and his wife appeared, with a thin yet pronounced gash striking across the man's smiling face. The phone told Amos to slide an arrow from left to right to unlock it. He didn't, and the image of the happy couple returned to darkness.
You deserved that, Amos thought as he slipped the phone into his own pocket. The man had been staring at the thing nonstop for the past two or so weeks, or at least during work. And also after work, as Amos had just witnessed. He seemed almost obsessed with it, maybe even dependant on it. What he could have possibly been doing on it was completely beyond Amos. But whatever he was doing, he could survive without for one weekend. Give him a chance to act like a normal, more sociable human being for a change, not that Amos himself admitted to be an expert on the matter. But excuses aside, he wasn't going to hunt Robert down just to deliver his phone to him. He had many better thing to do with his time than deal with himagain.
Amos stepped into his house. Robert could wait until Monday. And that crack was his own fault, no matter what he might insist.
X
Everyone knew by Sunday morning. Or at least everyone who cared to know. Maybe it was on the news, or in the paper, but Amos didn't bother watching or reading it. For him, all he needed was the grapevine; the few people who thought to contact him. He supposed he was grateful, if for no other reason than to not be out of the loop once the weekend was over and everyone would still be buzzing about it.
He took a sip of his steaming coffee, which had been freshly poured by himself. It tasted earthy, but also very, very bitter. He never bothered mixing it with cream or sugar, he could never really be bothered. He didn't like the taste of it, he never did, but part of him enjoyed the routine of drinking it throughout the day. It was oddly satisfying, in a strange way, like he had something to look forward to even when he could never actually enjoy it. If he were younger, he would probably try to find some deep psychological reasoning behind this. Now, he just drank his coffee.
He leaned his back against the kitchen counter. Across from him was the table, sparsely decorated with useless clutter but still bare enough to avoid cleaning it. His eyes immediately landed on Robert's phone, which still hadn't moved since he last saw it's owner. On that night, he really thought nothing of holding onto it throughout the weekend - at least it was him and some stranger - but now, thirty-six hours later, he felt just a little bit sick about it. Not that he actually needed the phone anymore.
Suicide. Gunshot in the head, apparently. Just that Friday night, maybe a few hours after he and Amos spoke. Luckily it was the man's wife who found him and not their teenage daughter. But that didn't make it any less tragic.
Amos took another sip of his coffee. He wasn't exactly mourning over it. He was not happy, not at all, but not quite as miserable as many others probably were. The man wasn't a friend. But he was a coworker, and he got to know him well enough to know that he was a decent human being. A good husband and a good father, from what he could tell. So he was a better human being than Amos, in many ways. But still, they weren't close. Not close enough to weep, and not close enough to really catch on to warning signs of depression. Not that he was very good at either of those to begin with.
But he really shouldn't be holding onto his phone anymore. He really should give it to Robert's wife, or maybe even the police. For all he knew, that phone held a suicide message. For all he knew, the man could have been typing it out while at his own house. Something about that seemed incredibly disturbing. Unlikely, but still disturbing.
But was it really that unlikely?
Robert had been doing something on his phone the entire short time he was at Amos' house. He had assumed the man was simply texting somebody more interesting than himself, like a friend or family member. But thinking back, he had seemed very, very focused on what he was doing. And extremely tense, as if the gun was already being held against his head. But Amos had been too angry, or maybe too disinterested, to give it much thought at all. But in hindsight, Robert was probably doing something much more interesting than he had assumed.
Yes, he would probably be giving it to the police.
After he looked at the phone himself, of course. Just to make sure.
Amos sat down at the kitchen table, setting down his half-empty cup of coffee beside him as he dragged the shiny black phone in front of him. He pressed the little round button below the screen, and again the image of Robert and his wife appeared, the single hairline crack just as noticeable as when it first appeared. He swiped the arrow to the right, and he was allowed into the home screen.
Not even password protected, Amos mused as he searched through the device, tapping on the different icons in search of something bleak enough to warrant a drive to the police station. He struggled for a while, unaccustomed to phone's layout, looking at everything that Robert could have written something in. What he found did not spark his interests at all.
Oh, and for those of you just skimming through this story while wondering why I'm talking about these random people instead of Ben Drowned, now's the part where you should start paying attention. But don't expect a heads up every time I mention him. Warnings like this are really distracting for the people who actually read for the story.
Eventually Amos stumbled upon the text messages. From what he could tell, Rob had been receiving texts from an unsaved number. And apparently he had been communicating to this person on that Friday night. Amos was half-tempted at this point to turn the phone back off and move on with his life, but he ultimately decided to read the texts. They were the last ones he ever sent. And since he was not communicating with a saved contact, the recipient may not have been close enough to have received police questioning. Or so he told himself.
The oldest texts seemed to be from the previous Monday. He started reading from there, since there were not too many texts overall.
?: Hello.
Robert: Who is this
?: Guess.
Robert: I'm really not in the mood for guessing
?: But you already know.
There was a short break after this. The other person texted again later in the day.
?: Do you hear it?
?: Answer me.
?: Answer me.
Robert: How the fuck did you get my phone number
?: I am your phone.
Robert: I thought you were in my computer.
?: I am everything.
Amos leaned in closer to the screen. It was starting to seem like these texts were unsolicited. Maybe some computer-obsessed kid with more skill than he has friends, deciding to randomly harass people by hacking phones and computers.
?: Do you hear it?
Robert: Hear what
?: The music.
Robert: What music
Robert: How the fuck did you do that
?: Practicality.
?: It's entertaining.
?: Try to ignore me.
The next bundle of texts didn't happen until Wednesday. Whatever happened on Tuesday was a mystery, but the fact that this mystery hacker was also in the man's computer made him think that something was missed.
?: Have you figured out the secret?
Robert: You knew that, you re in my computer
Robert: Stop showing me that statue
?: You don't know.
Robert: Just give me a straight answer already I'm tired of this
Robert: Just tell me already
Robert: Tell me
Robert: BEN!
Robert: Fuck you
So he knew the name of the one who was texting him. Maybe they knew each other personally? Or maybe this 'Ben' person told him on his computer at some point. Amos couldn't think of a solid reason why, though. Saying his name, even only his first one, made it easier for him to be tracked down. Which was a big deal, considering this was unquestionably harassment and very much illegal.
The next texts occurred a few hours later.
Ben: You're interesting. The last few have been boring. Glad you've lasted this long.
Ben: You're ignoring me.
Ben: I know you're on your computer.
Ben: I won't stop until you answer.
Robert: I'm not going on that website
Ben: Cleverbot keeps it simple. Structured. You like it.
Cleverbot? Amos had heard of that somewhere, he was certain. He made a mental note to Google it later.
Robert: Don't tell me what I like or don't
Ben: But you do.
Ben: If only you could play.
Robert: What,
Ben: This is only part of the game. The real one is more entertaining.
Robert: You think this is a game
Ben: Yes. Very fun. Especially you.
Ben: But it's not the real game. It's better with the real game.
Robert: Zelda?
Ben: Yes.
Robert: But what does his have to do with any of this ice never played a video game in my life
Ben: Hmm...
Robert: WHAT
Ben never gave a reply, or at least not via text message. They started texting again on Thursday night - though technically it was Friday morning.
Robert: You killed him, didn't you
Ben: Many people. Which one?
Robert: Ben. You killed him. Took his name
Ben: Maybe. Won't tell that information to you.
Robert: Why not
Ben: Because.
Robert: Very mature
Robert: So how did Ben die
Ben: He drowned.
Robert: How
Ben: Won't tell that to you.
Robert: Why
Ben: It is reserved for another.
Robert: Who
Ben: Another who asks.
Robert: How many have asked before
Ben: All.
Robert: How many of those people are still alive
Ben: You're getting scared. How cute.
Ben: Get some sleep, Robert.
Robert may or may not have actually gone to sleep that night. Amos had no way of knowing. But the following texts from Friday morning seemed to suggest that maybe he did, and immediately regretted it.
Robert: Stop controlling m dreams
Ben: Am I?
Robert: I never have nightmare s especially about your stupid fucking cult
Ben: Careful.
Robert: Or what
Ben: It could be real.
Robert: Why are you doing this to me
Ben: You know why.
After that, all that was left was his final string of texts - the last ones he would ever send. The ones he had sent while visiting Amos only two days ago. His last legacy.
Ben: Don't try to hide.
Ben: You know you can't.
Ben: The Moon Children will always watch you.
Ben: Always.
Ben: Always.
Ben: Always.
Ben: Always.
Robert: How are you doing that
Ben: You know how.
Robert: Why
Ben: I thought we finished that part of the game.
Robert: This is not a game
Ben: Yes it is.
Robert: You're ruining my life
Ben: I know.
Robert: Please stop this
Ben: No.
Robert: I have a wife and daughter. They need me.
Ben: You made this happen.
Robert: How
Ben: You know how.
Robert: But I don't.
Ben: Then it will continue.
The final text was sent only a few minutes later.
Ben: Goodbye, Robert.
And then Robert died, and the conversation ceased.
Amos turned the phone off, erasing the images on the screen from his vision but certainly not from his mind. Truly, he had understood very little of what he had just read. But clearly there was more going on in the man's life than the messages on his phone. He had been plagued by an incredibly disturbed person who went by the name 'Ben', who had been constantly tormenting him for at least five days. There was vague mention of a statue, a murder, a cult, a video game, and so much more that did not relate at all. It was like trying to solve a whole puzzle when only given pieces that don't fit together.
But it was clear this Ben person, whoever he was, had something to do with Robert's suicide. Amos needed to give the phone to the police. This added an entirely new layer to a seemingly mundane suicide.
But he knew he wasn't going to tell the police.
Amos reached out and grabbed a small notepad and pen from the table's sparse clutter. The top piece of paper was a half-empty grocery list. He ripped it off without any hesitation and started on a new, blank sheet. He wasn't sure exactly what he was writing down, but he knew he needed a list of some sort to keep him focused. He wrote down the first thing that popped into his head, something he had found strangely familiar.
- Cleverbot
It would probably be easy enough to find out what that is. But the next topic of research he thought of would certainly be much harder, mainly because of its vagueness. But he wrote it down anyways, because he he was already grasping at straws.
- Moon Children
He tapped the back of the pen on the notepad. What else was mentioned in those texts that could possibly lead to answers? Ben was being incredibly vague, to the point where even Robert, who was given the firsthand experience of whatever it was that happened, seemed perplexed. He had nothing to go off of.
Except maybe one thing.
Amos hated it, though. He didn't want to write it down, or acknowledge it. But it was the closest thing he had to another piece of the puzzle. So he forced himself to write down the only clue as to who this Ben person could be.
- Ben (drowned)
Three things. Three possible leads to help him discover whatever chaos he was getting himself wrapped up in. Three reasons a good man had to die. Three things that could possibly take him to Ben. Or, more likely, three ginormous wastes of time.
Amos took another sip of his coffee, and then dumped it into the sink. It had gone cold.