How long had it been? Legs clutched so tightly; knees underneath his chin, hunched up and cramping. Precariously perched on the sodden pink tasseled toilet-seat cover -he must look absurd, and maybe that was the point. Like a horrified, naked gnome who had lost first his fishing rod and now his sanity. He started shivering uncontrollably again; the weight of the last few days crushing him. He tried crying but the steam had boiled his tears away. His tremors and the sweat which now coated his entire vulnerability made it difficult to stay in one position. He lost the grip on his legs and they suddenly dropped to the wet-room floor. A jolt of electricity coursed through him and he jerked his legs back underneath him and sobbed. What was happening to him? Why?
It had all been so innocent at first. 1313 Birch Drive the piece of paper had said. The tourist Information Centre had spent a while finding the best place for Jon to stay and had finally written it down for him. Jon was embarrassed but didn’t want to say anything as they had been so understanding, so he asked to be shown where it was on a map, which was happily responded to. He was also shown photos of the B&B on the website and it looked perfect.
Jon was only staying for a couple of days in Torquay before moving on. He didn’t know where yet, but that was part of the fun; part of the adventure. He liked his holidays totally unplanned; took the train and arranged his B&B upon arrival. The Tourist Information places were brilliant.
It was only a twenty minute walk to the B&B and he checked the address on the piece of paper before walking in through the front gate. It looked perfect from the outside; homely. Even down to the climbing ivy and well kept front garden. There were a few cheeky seaside gnomes hidden in the undergrowth which made him chuckle.
The rang the doorbell and noticed that it had a flashing blue light around the button -it was one of those Ring-Cams. He introduced himself, explained about the Tourist Information place and was overjoyed when the door opened of its own free will. Impressed, he walked in and put his
rucksack down before looking around. Everywhere felt odd; homely but clinical. Artificial sunlight portrayed a subtle clean light but without the warmth, The wallpaper was a creamy grey with a creamy orange ceiling. The staircase had the same greyish hue with the creamy orange carpet; just lighter; more gradual. There was a touch screen monitor on the wall to his left, just over a dressing table. It was flashing with white letters on a red background, it read: “Turn me on”. He chuckled and pressed the screen. Suddenly it filled with writing; green on a red background -it looked like a welcome package and safety briefing all rolled into one.
“I’m sorry.” Jon found himself saying. “I’m somewhat dyslexic. I’m going to have a hard time reading this.” He then heard an auditory click as if a microphone had been turned on. The voice was calming but artificial, carefully modulated to sound less than human.
"Welcome, stranger.. You are very welcome to stay for as long as you like. Everything will be catered for. This is the latest Smart House design so let it do the thinking for you." Jon grinned at this. "Place your hand on the monitor screen and it will take an imprint of your palm. All the doors and fridges, freezers and ovens will recognise your print." Jon was skeptical at first but did as he was bidden, placed his hand on the cool surface of the tablet and watched a fluorescent line run underneath his hand like a photocopier. "Now place your hand on the door and it will open for you; the locks are electric so no need for handles!"
"What if there's a power cut?" Jon asked.
"It depends on which side of the door you're on." The voice replied as the door opened to Jon's hand-print. This was amazing but more than a little unnerving. Jon tried not to be a Luddite; technology was neither good nor bad; it depended on the intent. Technology just sped things up without checking the braking procedure -who would recognise the failure signals before it was too late?
"Your bedroom is on the first floor; third door to your left. The door will be open; the other doors are for the other residents who aren't in at the moment. Maybe you will meet them later. Enjoy your stay."
Jon acknowledged the voice, picked up his bags and walked up the stairs. Everything had an antiseptic smell; a faint mix of pine and lemon, with a touch of peppermint. The peppermint gave it a fresh smell and worked well with the pine. He found his bedroom with no problem, it was the only door open as he had been told, and he was amazed at the size and comfort of it. The bedroom seemed bigger than his entire studio flat at home; and the bed was a King size, There was even a wet-room: a combined toilet and shower combo, with a wash-basin as well. It took Jon a few minutes to work it out, but it was the recessed drain-hole near the centre of the room that made everything click; that and the rubber seal to the main door. Everything had to be water tight otherwise he'd be sleeping in a water bed! The wet-room was a pale cream colour and his bedroom was a creamy green. There was a dresser; a canvas easy chair which looked really comfortable and a flat screen television opposite his bed. He put his bags down on the floor and put the piece of paper with his directions on the dresser top. He made a mental note to thank the Tourist Information Centre on his return journey: this had been an amazing recommendation!
There wasn't much of a view out of his bedroom window, and the window itself didn't actually open, but he did notice that there was a temperature control on the wall which reminded him of the air-conditioning wars at the office. Luckily he could regulate his body temperature pretty well and rarely needed the air-con or the heater on; and the weather was just right for April. Not too cold at all.
He was tired after his journey and it was nearly ten. He'd had the foresight to bring some food along with him; a cooked chicken, some salad; some milk and cereal but he wasn't hungry... so he lay in bed watching television for a while before falling asleep.
It was gradual at first. There wasn't anything that he could point to; he awoke slowly and felt listless. He tried licking his lips but his mouth was dry, and noticed that most of his body was actually damp with sweat. It was really hot for some reason. He got out of bed and walked over to the air conditioning and was shocked when it read thirty four degrees. He didn't remember touching the system, so turned it down. He was thirsty so managed to find the bottle of water he had kept in his backpack but banged his toe on the way back.
He went back to bed again and it wasn't long before he fell asleep once more... Only to wake up an hour later shivering. The damn air conditioning was now billowing our arctic air! He switched it off and was bemused. He couldn't believe that he had set it at that temperature, but something must have gone wrong; it wasn't a model he had seen before so there was every chance he had touched a timer button, or something similar.
This ended up happening twice more, at three hour intervals: first really cold and then really hot. There was a definite glitch in the system that the owner had to be told about.
The next morning Jon left a note on the tablet to explain what had happened. He didn't feel like talking as he was too tired and crabby. It was probably just a glitch in the system but there was no reply forthcoming.
After breakfast Jon felt like getting some oven-chips and a few beers to go with the chicken and salad and walked down to the local shop. It felt odd not having a front door key; he was used to having that fear of either leaving it behind or losing it somewhere. It was an irrational fear because he'd never lost or mislaid his own keys. Luckily the shop had everything he wanted and he was looking forward to an evening in front of the television. It had been raining for most of the day and didn't really feel like investigating Torquay's delights. He could spare an extra day to explore; it wasn't as if he had a schedule!
He was so used to the smart technology that he was expecting the door to start opening as soon as he placed his hand upon the door handle and actually ended up walking into it when it didn't budge. Initially he thought it was down to his hands being damp so he wiped them on his trousers and tried again. Nothing happened. He rang the doorbell, hoping that it might activate the camera so he could talk to the owner, but again nothing happened. No chime, no light, no noise. Jon tried gripping the handle really hard; tried pushing it; tried tugging on it; tried banging on the door, banging on the window but none of the other residents were home yet it seemed. There was no other way in so Jon had a couple of options -wait in the cold and wet for the door to suddenly open or find a cafe somewhere and hold out until something changed. But what? The nearest cafe was about twenty minutes away, he was already soaked through and at least the porch offered him some kind of protection from the elements.
Huddled in the enclosed porch he pondered what was happening. The only thing he could think of was whatever systems glitch that happened last night with the thermostat had also affected the hand recognition so his palm print was no longer in the data banks. Well, that had to be it... He just hoped that the system would reset before he either froze or caught a chill.
Twenty sodden minutes later the door opened of its own will and Jon made a dash for it. It then took a further ten minutes for it to close again, making a damp patch in the hallway where the elements had seeped in. Jon was more concerned about getting changed and eating; he was seriously hungry before he left for the shops so was now ravenous and cranky; like a miserly lion.
He unpacked his groceries and opened the fridge to put the beers in there for later. He should have been surprised to find another calamity but he was getting used to the idea now. So it was of no surprise that the fridge was off; probably at the same time as the thermostat went haywire the night before. He opened the freezer to find everything pretty much frozen solid. This house was really starting to piss him off and wondered whether it had suddenly gained sentience like that awful AI precursor novel Demon Seed, by Dean Koontz, which was late made into a film; but he was no Julie Christie and this wasn't Proteus, just a badly wired house that was more like a Frank Spencer than a mad despot scientist!
He took stock of what he had left to eat as the chicken smelt so bad and had pretty much tainted everything else in the fridge. That left dry cereal and oven chips. He went over to the air-fryer and was not surprised to find that it was no longer working either. So dry cereal and beer it was then! Or a takeout of some kind!
No charge on his phone either and his laptop battery was strangely empty as well, even though he had actually charged it on the train the day before. He found his phone charger in his knapsack and plugged it in to one of the many plug-sockets. He'd barely let the phone go when a sudden plume of acrid smoke came out of the phone and it just went PFHAP!! Disconnecting the charger from the mains he was very careful before he investigated what had happened. It must have been a power surge because the phone looked fried. He couldn't help but see the irony -his phone had been cooked but he had to eat his food raw.
It was still raining outside, although the front door had finally sibilantly shut and Jon resided to make the most out of the rest of his day. He didn't want to go back outside and no real destination in mind for the next leg of his exploring so he poured himself a beer and settled in the living room.
The living room was a dichotomy. Had it been of all of one homely colour scheme then it might have been inviting; but the walls were off yellow and a green-blue which made him feel disconcerted. The television was huge and was the latest in Smart technology again. It rested on what looked an entertainment unit -a sold cube with very shallow shelves and a handful of blu-ray titles such as the latest Pixar and Marvel films.There were prints of lonely, misty forests and foggy mountains on the wall and. the sofa look it might have been really comfy, with a soft pile cover but it was also coated in thick, transparent plastic -a body-bag for sofa cushions as if it had been the scene of too many crimes in the past.
It took a while for Jon to make himself at home, he kept sliding off the sofa but found he could wedge himself tightly. "I'd like to watch Sky Arts." He said to no one in particular, so no one heard him; even the TV was non-plussed by his choice of channel. "I want to watch Sky Arts." he said again but nothing. "SKY ARTS!" Disgruntled he pushed himself off the sofa and realised that it hadn't been plugged in to the wall socket. He laughed; it didn't matter how smart the damn tv was, it couldn't do much if it wasn't plugged in -much like humans! "Sky Arts!" he said again and it sprung into life and turned the channel over to CBBC -a children's television channel. "SKY ARTS!" He shouted and the channel flickered and moved to "Bravo". So maybe the television needed to be calibrated to his voice print as well?
He took a swig of beer and a mouthful of sugary sawdust cereal and resided that maybe there was possibly something worth watching, even on Bravo. Ten minutes later and he was just starting to get into the television programme when he felt his eyes go heavy; probably down to the beer. He blinked, put the can down on the ground and tried to sit up straight. His transition to falling asleep was only marked when the television suddenly swapped over to Film Four, which had just started re-running Jaws. The screams of Casey Becker shocked Jon back to wakefulness in one horrific moment. As soon as he eyes jolted open the television switched itself off.
Had it been on a timer? Quite possibly, he was too drunk to care. He wasn't much of a drinker any more, just the occasional beer, so it made it easier for the booze to affect him; making him the cheapest date imaginable. He staggered upstairs to have an early night. The alcohol made it easier for him to fall asleep again and he had a blissful night ahead....
...until the Rammstein song "Angst" suddenly blared out of his speakers like it was World War III. Not again; this couldn't be happening again... Were the other residents back and having a party? The music was so loud and this time it didn't stop when he woke up. It made him so disorientated that he actually fell over the bed when he tried making it over to the bedroom door. It opened with a hiss and luckily the hall light was still on. All the other doors were shut and there was no noise coming from any specific door; but it just seemed to come from everywhere else!
It stopped as sudden as it had started and the lights went out at the same time. Luckily he was close to his own bedroom and could make it back without tripping. However he banged his nose and head on the door as he walked into it; his bedroom door, which he had specifically left open, was now shut.
He was not going to get stressed about this. He was not going to get freaked out by this. There had to be a rational explanation but he didn't really care. There were only a few more hours until morning and then he would just leave and put it all behind him. He walked to the stairs to sleep on the sofa when his bedroom door opened slowly. Taking his chance he ran for it and leapt on to the bed. Just a few more hours... All he had to do was shut his eyes.
Had he been more aware of his surroundings he might have seen the faint red glow of a camera on top of the television, watching his every move.
A few hours later Jon felt his eyes open involuntarily, as it he had unwittingly overslept. He opened them completely and was shocked to find the television on; the screen showing a red background with blue letters with one word: "SUBMIT" before flicking back off again. How long had it been on without him being aware of it? Sleep took hold of him again before he could think anything more of it.
The next morning his head was like a bar full of brawling drunken louts. He stumbled downstairs to get some water and some paracetamol but the tap was dry, barely a drop. That was it, he'd finally had enough! It took him five minutes to get dressed and pack his bag and he stood at the door with incredulity. It would not open. Nothing worked. The door handle wouldn't budge, the door was locked, the windows now strangely blackened out, and upon walking into the living room he saw blinds down over the windows as well. He was trapped.
"No fucking way." Jon shouted; this was real life not a horror film. This was not one of those creepy escape-the-room games and nor could it be a glitch in the system! One of the other room mates, all of the fuckers, were playing a practical joke on him. Well, enough was enough! Storming up the stairs he bellowed out: "Little pigs! Little pigs! Let me come in! Not on the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin! Well I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your doors the fuck in!" It was inanely apt but he was trying to stop himself from getting hysterical.
He got to the first of the other bedrooms as he ended his tirade and kicked at the door. Surprisingly it opened without the least provocation. He was a little disappointed as he was spoiling for a fight; anything to alleviate this tension. There was no one in the room but it still had signs of life. The chest of drawers had clothes scattered within; there were toiletries in the wet-room and discarded and sodden clothes in the corner. Someone had been there and recently too. The bed even looked slept in and there was a faint aroma of aftershave, probably from the morning before. Jon visited the other three rooms and found the same sense of lived-in disarray. All three rooms abandoned and he felt like the only one left alive.
"SUBMIT" The voice boomed from everywhere. It was a soft, firm voice but resonated with such force that he felt it deep within his guts. It was strangely possessive and persuasive as each syllable felt stretched for maximum impact. He heard it again: "SUUUBMIITT." He felt his head go light with the almost concussive force and staggered downstairs again, clutching to the banister as it bellowed out a third time. The extra space in the hall and stairwell made it so much more impactful. He barely managed to sit down on the sofa again without slipping off and held his head in his hands, rocking slightly. Suddenly the television switched on and Jon was watching footage of himself. First in bed the previous night, just sleeping; then him trying to get in the front door, getting soaked. Then the last five minutes of him breaking in to the other rooms but from lots of different angles. The screen went blank with a puce background and then yellow letters flashed up: "You will submit." Then a single window appeared in the top right hand corner of the screen and it showed another young man sitting in a similar position to him. Then another in the top left; a different man. A third bottom left; a fourth, a fifth; a sixth.. ten in total, all in the space of 30 seconds before the screen went blank and the writing appeared again: "You will submit."
"noooo." Jon groaned and launched himself at the television. He had glimpsed the camera in the top mount and managed to smash it. He slumped back down again only for it to switch back on, slightly skewed by the interference patterns but the camera angle was coming from behind him. He lurched behind and found there was a statuette which he threw against the wall. The television went blank again. This time, when it switched itself back on the angle was at 90 degrees. This went on for almost ten minutes. Every time Jon thought he'd found all the camera's another took its place.
Finally Jon picked the television up and just threw it against the wall and found that he couldn't stop laughing. This turned into hysteria when he heard a click coming from the entertainment unit in front of him. Another television set suddenly rose, like a phoenix, showing his startled and haggard face in all its despair. on the screen Then the text: "This is the last shot.... honest." Jon couldn't stop shaking his head as he lent to touch the television, but as soon as he brushed its surface an electric jolt shocked him. Then the screen was a mass of frames within frames of him from every conceivable angle from the moment he walked in that fateful day.
Faintly at first, but with each second increasing in intensity, he could hear laughing. Like one of those old joke-boxes children get in Christmas crackers; canned laughter like the Laughing Clown; but this was different. As the volume increased Jon could make out a sound within sound; not an echo exactly but layers of depth and resonance. There was an intensity, as with the earlier SUBMIT, but this was deep pulsed within him. The pitches scraped together making his internal organs violently contract as if he were being poisoned by the laughter. The malevolence stacked up, bile coating his throat and it was if he was swallowing the sound like crude oil. His head was numb, his teeth hurt whilst his tongue turned to copper, pins and needles made him blind and all he could do was wretch and vomit.
Then silence.
Just the sound of his regurgitate; the dry heaving and a small part of his mind that clung on to sanity finally understood why the sofa's were covered in plastic. It took some minutes before Jon could walk up the stairs again; his clothes covered in vomit and his stomach cramped; and all he could still see was all a blur. Maybe that was a good thing.
He made it to the wet-room and piled his clothes in the corner. He shut the door and stood underneath the shower. He was relieved when the water cascaded down. It felt like a miracle. The water wasn't too hot, wasn't too cold -for once it felt marvelous. He spent twenty minutes just standing under the shower trying not to think about what had been happening to him. The outside world didn't exist for him at that moment. It was only when he heard a click from the wet-room door that he was jolted back to reality. He walked to the door and tried to open it. Nothing. The handle wouldn't even turn. He groaned and died a little more inside. Walking over to the shower controls he was more dismayed to find that the water couldn't be turned off either. Then he noticed his feet were making splashing noises when he walked but that shouldn't happen because of the recessed drain. He got down on his hands and knees and checked to see if it was blocked but the vents were closed. There was still a curtain of water emanating from the shower and it was showing no sign of abating. Unscrewing the shower head he picked his dirty socks from the corner of the room and stuffed them into the shower pipe. That seemed to work. No more water. All he had to do was find a way out now.
He walked around the room assessing every corner; checking every tile to see whether it was loose and could be used as a tool but there was nothing. Everything was water tight as possible; it had been impeccably made and, if it were any other set of circumstances Jon would have called the architect a genius.
CRASH! The over-head shower head suddenly exploded sending metal shrapnel across the room; cutting Jon in several places. Water now streamed into the wet room and what made it worse: it was fucking cold. He dashed over as quick as he could; the water up to his knees now and tried the door handle again but it wouldn't budge. The water stung the cuts on his legs and he remembered the shrapnel from the shower head. It could possibly be used as a way out; a tool! It took a few minutes for him to find some but even then his hands were too number to make use of it and he just ended up cutting his fingers instead of the door.
When the water got up to his shoulders he stood on the toilet seat. Its fluffy pink seat cover so incongruous to everything else around him it was almost monstrous. There was no point him shouting as there was no one else around; all he could do was stay alive for as long as possible. Part of him wondered why though, what was the point? He was being played with, that much was clear now; being whittled down piece by piece until he really did submit.
But people had been doing that to him all his life. From his parents who just didn't understand where he was coming from and most of the time didn't give a damn; to his work 'colleagues' who used him for everything they could and then discarded him at a moments notice when overheads got too tight. Well, not now; not again, He was NOT going to submit, he would stay alive. Whoever it was obviously wanted him alive otherwise he could have been killed at any time so he WOULD stay alive and bide his time until he could escape.
The water was up to his chin now and he was swimming with the internal current. There was still a pocket of air in the wet-room and he managed to maneuver his way there. As the water got higher and higher still he spied an air vent that hadn't closed -he could put his mouth over it and breathe, at least for a while. It was so uncomfortable but it worked.
"SUUBMIIIT" it was like an aquatic whisper; an echo from a historical sonar. "Subbbmitttt".
The room shook slightly and there was an audible rumble and the water suddenly started to drain away. Slowly at first but then more rapidly. Just a film of water stayed at the bottom of the room, like a paddling pool and despite himself Jon whooped with joy at having survived. He sat on the toilet again and put his head in his hands as he tried to figure out what to do next. He didn't notice at first it was so gradual. His body had been so numb from the cold that it wasn't until he saw some steam coming from the wall that he tried touching it. It was hot; almost too much to hold.
A few minutes later and he realised that this room also had underfloor heating and pretty soon he couldn't even stand on the floor it was so intense. He perched on the toilet seat, thankful finally for its cover. This was torture, plain and simple. First psychological warfare through the breaking down of his routine, lack of eating and sleeping, and then the attacks on his sanity through the surveillance. Now he was being pushed to his physical limits, but he hadn't broken yet and nor would he. He'd seen the movies; knew what the techniques were.
Pretty soon the entire room had become a sauna but, as hot as it was, Jon was resolute. He would not break. He found himself thinking that too many people paid the earth for treatments like this; he should think himself lucky, and he started to laugh. He had to physically restrain himself though; biting on his knuckle before he became too hysterical.
"SUBMIT!" The voice boomed through the steam.
"NO!" Jon shouted back.
"SUBMIT!" The voice commanded again.
"Fuck OFF!" Silence. Was it that easy he thought? Was it really that easy? The water then came from everywhere; vents at the top of the walls suddenly opened and hot water now cascaded from every direction. There was nowhere for him to go now and the water was too powerful for him to swim anywhere and it buffeted him; throwing him like a drowning puppet. It would have been so easy for him to just drift off, open his mouth for one last hurrah and succumb... but he wouldn't. Surely there couldn't be much more?
Again the water drained away, quicker this time -still a thin film underneath him. There was something different this time; no steam and he instinctively moved to the sodden toilet seat and sat on it. He pushed his knees underneath his chin and just squatted there and observed, his feet firmly on the sodden cloth. He tentatively put his toe on the ground and his worst fears were realised. A snap of electricity forced him to pull his foot back underneath him. There was a faint smell of ozone and he cursed himself for ever getting into this mess.
"Submit" the voice whispers, conspiratorially so now.
Jon shook his head, whimpering.
"You will submit." the voice affirmed as the water started again. This time a gradual trickle coming from all the corners. It wouldn't take long for the water level to reach that of the toilet and if there was still an electric current running through then he wouldn't last... he would surely die.
"Submit." But surely that's not what was supposed to happen. If he was supposed to die then why keep him alive for this long? His foot slipped again and the jolt coursed through him and he whimpered uncontrollably. The water is hot; too hot... But what if torture was the reason for all of this? What about the other people he had seen; what had happened to them? Had they been put
in similar situations? Had they all died because they wouldn't submit?
"SUBMIT!" The water was almost up to the top of the toilet now and Jon felt his head lighten. He was going to faint.
"SUBMIT!"
"YES.... I SUBMIT!!! I SUBMIT!!!" and then blackness.
Upon waking he realised he was still naked, lying on the dry floor of the wet-room, the door open and a cool breeze wafting through.
"Get up and get dressed." The voice is encouraging now, Jon's head feels full of cotton wool and it's difficult to think clearly. The voice makes sense, why was he lying on the floor like that. There are clean clothes next to him and upon dressing he feels much better. "Walk downstairs and wait at the stairwell." The voice is so friendly, it seems impossible it had ever been anything else. Each step he takes is slow and measured and the stairs, although initially difficult to circumnavigate, he copes by clinging to the banister. At the stairwell he's amazed to find a new opening; a new open door, leading down. The air sweet but acrid. There was nowhere else for him to go but down, and as the darkness slowly swallowed him he could make out the forms of the other people. The other men who had no choice but to submit.
"You're safe now." and then the door slides shut behind him.
The house is empty once again. No more surprise visitors. This one had been such an unexpected pleasure it would have been churlish NOT to entertain him. One thing still puzzled and a camera zoomed in on the piece of paper which was still where Jon had left it, on the dressing table a couple of days earlier. "1331 Beech Grove" Well, that explained everything...
