The Day I Went Crazy

My parents didn’t believe me about the mirror and the voice, but freaked out about the instant message. They thought we had a stalker or something.

“Becca, Sarah, I don’t want you going online anymore,” my mom ordered as she drove.

“What? No way!” I cried out.

“What ‘No way’? You’re not going online!” she repeated.

“Think about it Sarah,” Rebecca said, defending Mom. “It couldn’t have been anyone at school, but if it wasn’t that means there’s some creepy guy listening to our conversations. Maybe he has us being recorded? So it’s not safe to go on the internet, not if he’s contacting us online.”

“But it’s not even my account he hacked into!”

“Oh, just leave it, will ya?” Becca snapped. “You can stop reading manga online for a few days, can’tYou’re not going online!” she repeated.

“Think about it Sarah,” Rebecca said, defending Mom. “It couldn’t have been anyone at school, but if it wasn’t that means there’s some creepy guy listening to our conversations. Maybe he has us being recorded? So it’s not safe to go on the internet, not if he’s contacting us online.”

“But it’s not even my account he hacked into!”

“Oh, just leave it, will ya?” Becca snapped. “You can stop reading manga online for a few days, can’t you?”

I slumped in my seat and pouted. This was definitely a weird day.

Mom drove into a gas station. She flipped through her purse for a twenty bill. “Sarah, here go pay.” She looked outside for the pump number. “Number 3.”

“What? Why me? Make Becca go!”

Becca glared at me.

I took the bill and climbed out of the van.

It wasn’t particularly warm that day, but it was a million and two degrees in the gas station. I felt sorry for whatever poor sucker had to work all day in this oven. I stepped up to the counter. The cashier was a young guy, in his mid-twenties at the most, dressed in a gray long-sleeved shirt and jeans. He was (dare I say it?) pretty good-looking. I offered the twenty dollar bill, self-consciously mumbling “Twenty on number three… please.”

He said nothing, just took twenty from my hand.

And, although this may not be another “Freaky Event”, another “Weird Thing” happened: his hand was cold as ice.

He rang up the cashier and offered me the receipt. I stood there, staring at his hand.

Well? Aren’t you going to take it?

I looked up. He was staring at me with black unmoving eyes. Wasn’t he the one who just talked?

“Sorry,” I mumbled, taking the receipt, then heading for the door.

Aren’t you going to say anything?

I whisked around, recognizing the voice. It was the same as the one in Sociology class today!

“You. Are you the one talking?” I asked the cashier.

He shrugged. A customer in the chips aisle stared at me.

“You are!”

The customer came to register, placing her items on the counter and looking through her bag (for money, I presume). The cashier didn’t reply to me, just went back to work.

“Don’t ignore me! How are you talking to me?”

The customer shot me a weird look. The cashier didn’t look up.

Isn’t your mother waiting for you? he asked.

“There it is again!” I cried. “You’re talking to me, but your mouth isn’t moving!

The customer gathered her things, placed a bill on the counter, and muttered, “Keep the change.” She quickly walked out of the station.

I stood next to the door, waiting for him to reply, wondering if I should really be there. If he was the voice that spoke to me in Sociology class then—

Then do I have anything to do with the instant message I sent you during your Anthropology class? Or my backpack you saw hanging in the mirror? Or the fact that even though you marked thirteen questions incorrectly on your test in Sociology today, you will miraculously get an A+ because I changed your answers when your professor locked the paper in his car after class? Yes, I do.

I had backed out the door and ran to my mom’s van at “hanging in the mirror” and locked the door behind me, much to my mom’s and Becca’s bewilderment, but I could still hear him speaking.

“Sarah? What’s wrong?” Becca asked, worried.

“Shut—SHUTUP!” I screamed, pressing hands to ears.

How rude. Didn’t you want me to talk to you earlier? Now you’re just scaring other people unnecessarily.

“Don’t give me that crap! What—what ARE you?”

“Sarah! Oi, Dang!” Mom knocked on the window, calling me by my nickname. “What’s wrong with you?”

I shuddered. “Mom—that guy in there—he!”

I screamed in pain as the sound two scraps of metal scratching each other screeched in my ear.

That’s enough, Sarah. Anymore, and I’ll have to do something about them. Wasn’t the IM enough for you? Don’t get them involved.

I sniffed, realizing that tears were streaming down my cheeks. Becca and Mom were holding me, seriously alarmed. In comparison to the cashier’s voice in my head, I could faintly hear them shouting “Sarah! Sarah! What’s wrong?”

And then, I passed out.