A Matter of Routine

A Short Story from Morbid Ink Magazine

The silver moon shone through the leafless branches of trees, casting eerie shadows over the quiet neighborhood. Mr. Shaver stepped out of his apartment at precisely nine o’clock, feeling the chill of the October wind rush against his face. The scent of fall filled his nostrils, mixed with a faint hint of wood smoke in the distance. He strolled down the street, his hands pushed down inside his camouflage green coat. A knit cap kept his long hair out of his eyes and covered the bald spot spreading on top of his head.

As Shaver passed by 816 Elm Street, he grumbled to himself about having to step off the sidewalk. A section of newly laid concrete lay in his way and he maneuvered around the boarded-off area near the driveway. Then, the man noticed the streetlight at the corner was out; he frowned.

Typical of our growing mediocrity.

Automatically, he continued down Elm Street, his thoughts lost to a recent paper which caught his focus. His mind whirled around the work completed by Wheeler concerning space-time and what the renowned physicist called quantum foam. His short legs followed the familiar path as his mind delved into the complexities of the journal he read.

Eventually, he would stop at Walter’s Vape Shop. Every night, he would enter the shop and greet the man behind the counter with a nod before purchasing a replacement pod for his e-cigarette. With the black box in hand, Mr. Shaver would continue down Daytona Street until he reached Peach Street. Then he automatically turned left and made his way back to Elm Street via Lincoln Avenue. The entire route took him exactly 45 minutes, and he always arrived back at his front door at precisely 9:45 PM. Then, he would return to his work.

As he walked, Mr. Shaver would occasionally encounter people, but they rarely said anything to him. Known as the eccentric fixture of the neighborhood, most people simply avoided him. Even the man at Walter’s Vape Shop remained silent during their interactions, knowing that Mr. Shaver preferred it that way. With a tap of his fingers on the glass counter while holding the exact amount with tax in his hand, he would purchase what he needed. Ignoring the customary thanks, he would quietly leave the store, resuming his slow and deliberate pace around the block.

Those who took notice of Abraham Shaver could sense the need for seclusion. As he trudged along, his heavy army surplus coat and woolen cap pulled low over his long gray hair, many assumed him to be a destitute wanderer. But only a handful would realize that he was once a distinguished academic. With doctorates in both philosophy and physics, Shaver had been a renowned authority on Aristotle and Plato. His works inspired and guided younger colleagues with his ground-breaking ideas. His publications argued against the technology that lacked ethical safeguards. He held technology as an existential threat, becoming so ingrained in society as to destroy humanity.

However, that belief did not bring him down. No, his name sparked a wildfire of controversy for another reason. His beliefs ignited an inferno of scandal in academic circles at the small college. Not reflecting upon history, people whispered with horror and disdain, accusing him of dangerous thoughts. Mr. Shaver became a threat to their complacency, for he wanted students to think critically. He pushed Platonic rationalism and Aristotle’s deductive reasoning on students. He asked them to think critically instead of blindly accepting what their teachers and classmates said.

He dared to expose traditional ideas of academic rigor and rational discourse to students over secular theology, which brought about a revolt. As a result, he paid the price by losing his job because of the backlash from those administrators who deemed themselves “right thinking.” But even in exile, at first, he stood tall and unyielding, refusing to let their pettiness and obliviousness silence him. However, the fight turned his family into social outcasts, creating an unbearable tension between husband and wife. The event eventually broke him when he lost that one person who he deemed the most important to his world.

The solitary man took in his surroundings without dwelling on the past, since he remained fixated upon Wheeler’s paper. He could not help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for his long-lost tobacco habit. Still, the ex-professor occasionally liked to sniff an expensive cigar, even if he could not afford to buy one. His doctor’s order prompted Shaver to make the change for the sake of his health. So, each night he would take this route to pick up a refill for his vaping habit. This was one of the few major shifts in his life over the last few years; everything else seemed to remain stagnant and unchanging. Shaver liked it this way.

As Aristotle would say, quality is not an act, it is a habit.

When he reached the intersection of Jefferson Street, Shaver frowned to himself. Something felt off, like he missed something. He looked around, then shrugged, dismissing a feeling that made no logical sense. Over the years, he has lived his life like a clock. Every day, he did the same thing at the same time. Certainly, the number of footsteps remained the same.

His routine wasn’t a conscious decision. However, Shaver found comfort in the regular habits. It came naturally after losing his wife to the overwhelming social chaos she endured with him. Luckily, she didn’t divorce him. She still sent him checks each month to allow him the pleasure of researching ancient manuscripts and books inside his apartment. His timed existence became a way to refresh his mind while tackling complex philosophical and physics questions.

As he turned onto Peach Street and headed back towards Jefferson, the dog that always barked at him was waiting once again. As always, Mr. Shaver ignored the snarling animal that raced back and forth inside its fenced yard. The beast eventually gave up trying to chase him when he stepped in front of the next house.

Shaver came to an abrupt halt in front of the quaint house at 213 Peach, his progress impeded by several large boxes scattered across the sidewalk. He couldn’t help but notice the couple standing on the porch, their agitated voices carrying over the yard. Through an open front door, he caught snippets of the conversation as a disheveled man bolted past him, arms laden with hastily packed suitcases. The man flung the items into the waiting car’s open trunk before once again disappearing into the house.

Curiosity piqued, Shaver tilted his head and gazed up at the porch where the man’s distraught wife stood clutching their crying infant. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she urgently urged her husband to hurry.

For a moment, Shaver overheard the sound of a faint newscast drifting from the open living room door.

“… we have reports of buildings gone . . . missing people. . .Dr. Hardwick . . .” The wind whipped the muted words away and Mr. Shaver shrugged as he stepped through the obstacles and continued on his way.

Authorities are scaring the populace again!

He’d heard it before. Atomic weapons hidden in a Middle East desert to start a war to enrich the super wealthy. Terrorists flying planes into buildings, leaving the populace happy to give up their freedoms. Logic and rationality always fell by the wayside when people turned into blithering puppets driven by fear and emotions.

The Hardwick name came to his mind as he remembered the braggart loved to move everyone. A trained monkey who enjoyed sitting for interviews with intellectual inferiors like himself. Shaver’s objections to Hardwick’s experiments on quantum physics and braneworlds played a role in the ex-professor’s current state. He lost vital friendships when he pointed out the potential issues of pushing through the curtain separating dimensions.

Despite the nagging thoughts that crept into his mind, Shaver shook them off and vigorously rubbed his arms together as he breathed in the crisp, chilly air. He quickened his pace, taking in the familiar sights of the neighborhood that emerged from the dark fall night.

He reminded himself of the mantra he had adopted a decade ago to remain sane — nothing in the world would phase him. Isolation and resilience remained the keys. With a determined stride, he continued on his way, confident in his ability to stay calm and collected. In a way, he even went against the advice of the great one he knew well. Aristotle claimed those who enjoyed solitude were a beast or a god.

Well, I’m certainly no god.

When he reached the parking lot of the drugstore at the corner of Peach and Lincoln, he noticed an unusual gathering at the drugstore. Mr. Shaver noticed the people were upset, and he overheard brief statements among the milling crowd.

“It’s happening everywhere . . . this is getting crazy. . . when are the cops coming? I’m getting anything I need; no damn clerk is stopping . . .

Amid the growing commotion, Mr. Shaver trudged on with determination. He ignored the tension he felt in the crowd, seeking to get to his apartment, just three-quarters of a block away. As he drew closer to his home, he could have sworn he heard glass shattering and screams piercing through the air. But when he turned back to check, everything seemed eerily calm and still.

He made his way up the stairs and hesitated before unlocking the front door, glancing at his wrist out of habit. The watch was a gift from his wife, who was supposed to be in his life forever. It showed him the time: 9:30 PM.

He did a double-take and looked at the watch again. Shock filled him, unable to comprehend the difference in time. He always left at nine and returned by a quarter to ten. How could he have arrived fifteen minutes early? While puzzling over this strange occurrence, he checked his pocket.

No refill!

For the first time, he missed stopping at Walter’s Vape Shop. He realized he had forgotten to buy an e-cigarette refill today — a daily routine for him.

Muttering to himself, Mr. Shaver fumbled with his keys, the metal jingling as he let himself into his apartment. His eyes scanned the quiet street outside before finally locking the door behind him with an audible click. Letting out a sigh, he shrugged off his coat and stocking cap, hanging them on the rack that hung from the small closet door by the entrance.

The quiet living room welcomed him with its familiar warmth and comforting familiarity. He sank into his favorite chair, its plush cushions molding with his body. As he gazed at the empty e-cigarette device on the stand next to him. He put it to his lips. While he puffed on the tube, he smelled the menthol and found solace in its calming presence. The steady rhythm of the clock on the mantle provided a soothing soundtrack to his thoughts.

“Maybe I should check the news!” He told the quiet room.

The man eyed the piece of furniture that once held a television on top. His wife took the radio they had there. He replaced it with an old CD player he found on clearance at the drugstore. His limited collection of artists lay piled up next to it. The rest of the top now held a row of dusty books, along with a few rolled up celestial maps. He had long ago stopped reading newspapers and magazines. Instead, he went to the library on Peach Street to borrow those academic papers he needed. Mr. Shaver felt no need for anything else.

Each day he walked along the same streets, passing by the same buildings and people, never venturing beyond the invisible walls that confined him. He had cut himself off from the pulse of the city, living in a monotonous cycle of familiarity and routine. His existence remained in a confined world of just a few city blocks. A self-imposed isolation had slowly transformed into an insurmountable barrier enclosed within four blocks.

Still, despite his reclusive nature, he couldn’t completely avoid hearing about the outside world from time to time. He may have lost track of what day it was, but Shaver knew about the ongoing troubles that plagued the world. Wars certainly never stopped. Envy and resentments stoked by people clawing their way to power brought butchery and misfortunes upon everyone.

The once familiar newscasts, which he used to follow religiously, were now nothing but a distant memory. He removed the television years ago when he could no longer take listening to the talking heads. Inevitably, the beautiful people told their audience how to react to sudden death, violence, politics, even the weather with a certain mystical awe. Reports on the cause and effect went out the window for heart wrenching personal testimony or dramatic, if set up, encounters.

Everywhere he looked, emotions and passions were on full display. Any rationality, along with thoughtful discussion, quickly cast aside in favor of sensationalism. Even among mathematicians and scientists, he noticed systematic study fell out of fashion, replaced by a need to feel good about oneself at all costs.

The overheard snippets of conversations struck a chord with him when he replayed them in his mind. For a moment, Shaver considered using his old computer, sitting on a desk in his bedroom. Then he remembered he disconnected from the Internet after mobs targeted his wife with hateful comments. These mobs were angry with him but didn’t hesitate to harm others for their version of justice.

Most of those he saw on the street carried a so-called ‘smartphone’. The thought brought a smile to his face because Mr. Shaver wanted to pat himself on the back. He recognized a dreadful future coming when he first observed the young kids clued to the small screens on tiny telephones as they walked down the street. Many centuries before, a philosopher pointed out that the quality of life is determined by its activities. In his mind, the muddled intelligence of the coming generation directly resulted from such technology.

Still, it would be useful now.

However, only grudgingly conceded the idea, for Mr. Shaver ignored the troubles of the world. He convinced himself there was no need to bring such things into his daily concerns. If others wanted to talk about or stress about events beyond their control, that was on them. To Shaver, outside events held no significance. Only his study to uncover the deep and hidden connection between time and existence pulled him from the melancholy of his past. Examination and reasoning gave him the motive to exist, a future. Shaver retreated from humanity to research and learn from the brightest throughout history.

His mind engraved every detail of the room with clarity. It wasn’t much, a few pieces of furniture, including an old center leg table with its green felt-like covering and a lamp next to his comfortable recliner with it taped patches over worn leather.

His eyes traveled across the room as he looked over the dusty shelf, which held a couple of awards. Next to it was a quartz clock that told the time of day and the day of the week and month. It was the only item which he maintained with batteries. The rhythmic, steady beat from the clock overwrote the silence of the room. Above the shelf was the painting he enjoyed most.

An acrylic copy of “Parade de cirque” by Seurat fit the room according to his wife, who praised the muted colors. It was the last present his wife gave him. Aside from that, Shaver considered the masterpiece perfect for his world. It carried a certain mathematical quality with its close approximation to the divine proportion. The picture showed a row of cornet and trombone players in a somber arrangement dominated by a uniformity of horizontal and vertical lines.

“Yes, Aristotle was correct. Mathematics exhibit order, symmetry, and limitations, the greatest forms of the beautiful.” He stated with certainty.

Mr. Shaver smiled to himself as the weariness of the day wore upon him. Looking over at the table where Wheeler’s book rested, he got up from the chair and retrieved it. Laying on his bed, the man reread the essay, stopping now and then to consider the vague, strange feelings that swept over him. While he could neither define nor understand his uneasiness, Shaver decided the change during his walk must be the cause.

After hours of tossing and turning, he finally drifted into a restless slumber. However, instead of finding peace in the depths of his mind, a series of nightmares threw him into a state of unrest, disrupting his restless slumber.

In the most intense, Shaver walked alone in a type of cartoon. Dead trees and withered brush, vivid in their starkness, surrounded him while the surrounding air reeked of death. He stumbled along as the limbs brushed against him, yet he felt nothing. When he reached out to touch the vegetation, his hands became invisible until he pulled them back. But when he did, the skin was missing, leaving only blackened skeleton fingers.

As he stared at his hands, desperately trying to scream, no sound escaped his lips. Instead, a cold blanket of empty silence filled the space around him. The dead vegetation morphed into a spiraling vortex which dragged away any colors, leaving only a dull gray all around him. There was no ground or sky, not even a horizon. Just a lifeless infinity which pressed down on him with fear and despair.

When Mr. Shaver woke, he found himself covered in sweat. His initial energy quickly faded while he relived the pieces of the nightmares he remembered. Despite the weariness which went to his bones, he could not go back to sleep. He pulled himself out of bed and went into the small kitchen next to the living room. Looking out the window which overlooked the nearby daycare, Shaver noticed the nearly empty parking lot. He checked the calendar hanging from a magnet on the refrigerator and convinced himself it was a weekday. So why weren’t the children going to the daycare?

During the day, Shaver kept picking up his e-cig, growing uneasy at his state of mind. He couldn’t focus on his studies. The occasional noise coming from the nearby apartment dwellers distracted him, so he turned on his CD player. When he heard hurried conversations pass his door along with heavy footsteps, he turned up the volume of Scriabin’s Prometheus. Somehow, it helped ease his tired mind.

As he left the apartment that evening at precisely nine o’clock, he told himself,

I must not forget tonight! I must remember to stop and get my vape refill!

The thought echoed in his mind with each step he walked down the dimly lit street. The traffic, normally heavy until after ten, was nearly non-existent. But he paid little attention since he couldn’t afford to forget tonight, not when he needed to stop and get his vape refill. The nicotine withdrawal affected him more than he cared to admit.

The lone streetlight at the corner of Jefferson was back on, but it still flickered weakly, casting ominous shadows on the cracked pavement. As he approached 816, he noticed the familiar sight of the cemented driveway still boarded off, just like it was the night before. Everything seemed frozen in time, except for Walter’s Vape Shop, which he expected to see when he turned down Daytona Street. Shaver already expected to see the neon sign when he turned the corner, promising relief from his nicotine cravings.

He held on to that idea tightly as he quickened his pace down the street. However, when he reached the corner, he froze and looked in frustration at the next block. There were no bright lights or inviting signs to show the small shop nestled in the quiet neighborhood. Confused, his eyes locked on the street sign above.

“LEE?” he muttered, shock creasing his brow. “It can’t be!”

He scanned the quiet, dark houses around him, searching for any sign of the Vape Shop. He should be standing at Daytona Street and Jefferson. But Lee was another block over. He took a few steps along Lee Street, then shook his head.

Impossible, I can’t go past the street without seeing it.

He retraced his steps along Jefferson and then back to Lee again, only to find that there was no street named Daytona. Not even an alleyway and certainly no sign of the Vape Shop anywhere. A sinking feeling settled in his chest as he realized that an entire block seemed to have vanished. Now he understood why he had missed the store before, why he had arrived home fifteen minutes early.

Shaver’s legs trembled as he stumbled back to his apartment, heart racing with fear. He slammed the door behind him and collapsed into his worn armchair in the corner. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed. The familiar street outside was gone, replaced by a void of nothingness. How could this be possible? Was there some kind of dark magic at work?

No! It’s illogical to think of magic!

Shivers ran down his spine as he hunched down in his coat, only to realize that the room was already warm. The cold sensation came from somewhere else — a feeling of dread and terror creeping in on him. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the steady tick-tock of the clock. But this silence was different — it felt eerie and all-consuming, like a vacuum sucking away any sense of comfort or warmth. Mr. Shaver couldn’t shake off the feeling of familiarity with the changes. Still, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Mr. Shaver’s mind raced as he carefully went over everything he had observed in the last two days. He clenched his jaw with frustration as he realized the crucial data; he had missed by not paying closer attention to the surrounding details. The evidence was all there, but he had dismissed anything that didn’t align with his personal desires.

As a scientist, he couldn’t help but berate himself for his negligence. His own thoughts preoccupied him so much that he failed to notice the fragments of talk he had overheard about a looming danger. The snippets of fear and concern he saw and heard as he walked along the quiet streets were now clear indicators of the impending threat.

The roads and nearby houses had an eerie absence of activity for the past two days, devoid of their usual hustle and bustle. Mr. Shaver’s senses prickled with unease as the growing sense of dread crept over him. Every fiber of his being was on high alert, searching for clues and connections to make sense of this mystery.

Something inside told him there was a distant memory that held the answers to understanding everything. Yet, after racking his brain for an hour, Mr. Shaver came no closer to an answer. Deciding a brief of air might help, he stood up and walked towards the door, opening it to peer outside. The moon’s light created a patchwork of black and silver on the street, outlining the chimneys and trees against the backdrop of a silver sky.

He took a deep breath and stared across the street at an eyesore amidst the neatly manicured lawns and pristine exteriors of its neighbors. An old Victorian home, well past its prime, showed up in the moonlight. Its roof slanted at a peculiar angle, as if it were trying to escape from the rest of the structure. One corner of the house sagged lower than the rest, like a tired old man leaning on a cane.

For some reason, the house caught his attention. Maybe it was because of the large circular window above the entrance. Tonight, the circle appeared darker. Then he looked at the other windows along the front of the house. Mr. Shaver squinted, unsure if his vision was playing tricks on him.

No, that’s not it. It’s the darkness.

In that moment, the blackness he witnessed in each window held no reflection. Instead, he thought he was looking into a liquid with an endless depth amid the ink-like puddle. As Shaver’s eyes went from one window to the next, he noticed the glass and windowpanes appeared to disintegrate. The effect continued along the outside wall on one side, leaving only an infinite blackness where siding once showed.

For a brief second, the man thought the opaqueness lift slightly, showing him the inside of the living room. In a chair, he swore a skeleton stared at him from an easy chair. The jaws opened wide like the unfortunate victim kept screaming. The sight left Mr. Shaver feeling unsettled and questioning the stability of his mind.

With a sharp intake of breath and trembling hands, Mr. Shaver frantically slammed the door shut and turned the lock. With his back against the door, he refused to look out the window at the horrifying monstrosity across the street.

His heart raced as he prayed for safety behind the locked door, the darkness outside seemingly impenetrable by any source of light. Breaking down, he slid to the floor, telling himself it was a trick of the light. His imagination got away from him. The refraction created the effect he saw.

Light! Is that it?

Shaver remembered something. He lifted his head when he thought more about refraction. Elementary physics stated a change toward the wavelength at the boundary interface between two media.

A barrier!

Rigid, he sat there at the sudden thought. Reflecting on a paper he published with a colleague right after receiving his doctorate, Shaver got to his feet and hurriedly went into his bedroom. Going to his desk, he pulled out one drawer, which held a line of folders. He thumbed through the titles until he reached a folder that briefly brought back memories of happier times. He pulled the yellowing, stapled manuscript type on an old IBM electric typewriter.

Mr. Shaver sat rigidly in his chair; his eyes fixed on the yellowed paper of a manuscript propped up on his desk. Memories of happier times briefly surfaced as he thumbed through a line of folders in his desk drawer. Finally, his fingers landed on the one containing the paper he had published with a colleague right after receiving his doctorate.

As he scanned each page, lost memories of his work fell into place. He found his eyes drawn to a particular paragraph, written so long ago that the words now seemed foreign to him.

The paragraph delved into the possibility and probability of other dimensions and brackets of time and space beyond our own. It mentioned dark matter, a hypothetical form of matter that does not interact with light or the electromagnetic field.

Mr. Shaver believed in a theory that dark matter expands like our universe and destroys what it touches. However, his associates found the hypothesis too incredible to take seriously. While he didn’t mind the negative reaction, he wondered about their outright hostility to his idea.

Still, his thoughts immediately came back to the present concerning his observation across the street. Two probabilities lay before him. Either his mind misunderstood what he witnessed, or the dark shadow had another name. Perhaps what he witnessed might be something truly outstanding and horrendous as he reread a paragraph that struck him to the core.

Physics and math suggest that other dimensions may exist alongside ours. Scientists say we can’t go from one dimension to another, but can something from another dimension come to us? Dark matter makes up about 27% of the universe. It appears that this matter does not interact with light or the electromagnetic field. Still, it’s origins and makeup we don’t understand.

As he continued reading, Mr. Shaver became lost in thought, imagining a distant future which he wrote about.

According to Einstein, empty space can possess its own energy. Yet both occupy the same space. One day, in the distant future, our world may crumble around us as we witness dark matter seeping in from the neighboring dimension.

“Maybe this distant future is already here?” He wondered aloud.

When exhaustion finally forced Shaver to sleep, he found himself wandering among a garden of gray, dead things. He came upon an apple tree shadowy, indistinct in the gray with no leaves but holding a few withered apples. When he picked the apple, it fell apart in his hand, shattering like ash from his hand.

Shaver heard a noise, following the sound which remained vague and indistinct to the end of the garden where he beheld the city. Yet, it looked unlike anything he had seen before. Against the darkening sky loomed a strange landscape. Otherworldly towering and bizarre structures without an architectural form appeared around him. Instantly, he knew the reason behind the strange structures. Huge black shadows moved like specters. Sometimes as individuals, other times, the shadows came together, creating even more strange shapes and forms. Dull pillars of light, in combinations hard to look at, pierced through the atmosphere, casting a surreal glow over the area. The intricate design constantly shifted and developed. The muted colors weaved and swirled into ribbons of starkness and infinite black before solidifying into otherworldly geometric patterns with no discernible lines or details. It was as if a strange pure black to pure white kaleidoscope had come to life, dancing and pulsating in a hypnotic display of illumination.

The blinding light through the windows intensified, piercing through his eyelids and forcing him out of his nightmare. His mind, still foggy from sleep and shock, struggled to process the bizarre events that had taken place. Then the man realized he was back in reality. He lay there for a moment, trying to bring back the images in his head from the dream state. However, they were gone. However, he acutely felt the wave of terror which remained in him.

For often when a man is asleep, something in his soul tells him that what appears to him is a dream.

The ex-professor grabbed his rolled-up papers from the desk, then headed into the living room. He threw on his coat, shoving his paper bundle into a pocket, and went to the front door.

The temperature outside was strangely warm amid the fog. But he paid no attention as he went to the apartment next door and knocked. After receiving no response, the man pounded on the wood. An angry snarl, followed by barking, sent him stumbling away from the door. Still enraged, the small dog inside pushed through the front window curtains. The animal clawed at the window, trying to break out and attack Shaver. The man stared at the threatening creature and slowly backed away to the next apartment.

Frightened humans who abandon their pets should not surprise me.

After calming himself, Shaver knocked, then pounded on the next door. He received only silence for his trouble. He went down the row of doors on his floor. Repeated knocks and, eventually, his shouts brought no responses, Shaver determined he was alone.

Determined, even with growing anxiety, he made his way to the street amid the strange fog. The warm prickly mist landed on his face, causing his skin to itch and his eyes to water. He inspected the water droplets upon the back of his hand for a moment but could find nothing different aside from the temperature.

I wish I had a microscope!

Shaver crossed the street. He went up to the porches of several homes, but no one came to the door after his repeated attempts. Carefully avoiding the Victorian house which frightened him the night before, the man noticed the parlor window. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked into the house. The window, glass and all, along with part of the wall, no longer existed. Instead, a dense black swirling opaque type of shadow remained. When he looked at the other windows, it appeared the entire interior of the house contained the ominous-looking blackness.

Mr. Shaver stood there, contemplating his next move. Finally, he talked himself out of going closer. His hands shook, but he calmly determined the lack of nicotine in his system enhanced his fear.

Finally, he decided to find someone to talk to. He told himself he needed to understand where everyone went. Reason told him this might be a worldwide event if he could believe the snippets of conversation he overheard the last two days. However, a sliver of hope remained that what he saw remained local to the city. It was the only explanation he could come up with for the empty streets. Logically, if the world is falling apart, then people should still be around. After all, where can people run to?

His thoughts kept going over the probabilities as he made his way along Elm Street. Shaver kept looking up at the sky, which grew darker by the minute. There was no sun — only an all-pervading shroud over everything. It appeared to be fog, but, as he stood in it, he noticed the stillness, devoid of life, of any movement. He found no squirrels or birds in the area.

The path ahead led him towards Peach, but he slowed his pace as he became unsure of the directions. The houses lining the street became obscured from view as visibility decreased to just a few feet. Suddenly, a scream pierced through the air. Shaver couldn’t distinguish if it was a man or woman, but the shriek abruptly stopped, causing shivers to run down his spine. He paused and turned around, only to see that the grayness had closed in behind him. The atmosphere erased any trace of the houses and made the sidewalk disappear into nothingness.

Shaver yelled out for help. Only silence returned. When he yelled again, his voice echoed around him. The ex-professor wondered about the reason for such an odd acoustic effect. Despite his fear, curiosity took over. As he slowly stepped forward, he kept calling out. Shaver did this until he reached the corner of Daytona, where he nearly ran into the signpost.

The man nervously chuckled as he cautiously peered into the darkness ahead. As he took a step forward, his intuition warned him to stop. He quickly backed up and noticed the eerie blackness below. Unlike the square windows he had seen earlier, this darkness seemed like an endless abyss.

There was nothing beyond the curbstone, just emptiness. It was as if all eternity ended here at the corner of Elm and Daytona. That’s when any thought of an experiment left. The dark matter did not enter their world in small pockets. From his observation, it spread like a flood of water over flat land.

Then the blackness inched forward. His fear rose, and he backed away. Turning around, he looked over the area as panic swept through him. Survival overrode his curious nature, and he hurried away from the spot.

I can’t let it cut me off!

Following the sidewalk, Mr. Shaver kept a close eye ground around him as he retraced his route back to the apartment. Unaccustomed to the pace, he came to a stop several times to catch his breath. The eerie stillness around him, along with the darkening sky, weighed him down. For a moment, he wanted to scream out to the sky above.

Why give me intelligence to witness the end?

Is this what the people of Pompeii felt when they saw the pyroclastic flows coming their way?

When he made it to his apartment building, Mr. Shaver pushed the door open. Without removing his coat, he sank exhausted into his favorite chair. Blinking as he looked around the room, he felt relief from the unchanged environment. The clock on the shelf continued to tick.

However, his own private world would soon disappear. Mr. Shaver stared at the picture above the clock, wondering at the idea of a spirit and for a moment, a little breath of reassurance came to him. Something he read once about reincarnation took hold. Memories should stay with the soul, memories and feelings must become his sanctuary, locked away from the black matter coming.

Bracing himself, the ex-professor got up from his chair and looked out the window. It appeared closer to night now. He flipped on the desk lamp, but no light turned on.

He chuckled, but it came from the bitter realization of his time wasted inside the apartment, isolated and alone.

Of course, the condemned always regret their actions!

Did it truly occur? Could it all be a figment of his imagination? Maybe the street was still bustling with joyful children and barking canines. Was Walter’s Vape Shop still standing, its neon light casting a red glow on the pavement? Or was he slowly losing his sanity?

Could he be so delusional as to see all this in his imagination?

Shaver couldn’t help but shake his head at the thought. He knew that the end of time was near. Maybe in some other dimension, kids could still play outside on the streets. Neighbors would monitor them while talking to their parents. And maybe a college professor might step out of his apartment to say hello to those people. But for him and millions on this planet, the dark matter would wash away everything like Noah’s flood.

As if the darkness mocked him, he noticed the black abyss finally coming close to his building. The fog lifted enough to see the houses across the street. He watched as the old Victorian still stood while the others next door to it slowly disintegrated. Finally, the old lady turned black from the streams of dark matter surrounding it. Like a pile of ash on a fireplace, the house fell apart, its fragments wafting momentarily to disappear into the abyss.

Without thinking, he suddenly pivoted and walked across the room to open the connecting door to the bedroom. He stood at the threshold, shocked, as a gasp escaped his lips. There was no longer a bedroom before him. A horizontal pool of black inching toward him replaced his bed, desk, and dresser.

Deadened at the sight, Shaver turned around and slowly returned to his chair in the room’s corner.

“Well, that’s it,” he murmured to himself.

Maybe there were others like him, he mused. People who struggled against the vast emptiness that bridged the gap between dimensions. Men who once lived among their cherished possessions, yet who still found a tangible life. Perhaps they found a way to survive this abyss.

The black shadow of nothingness advanced upon him, ate its way across the room, stalking him as he sat in the chair underneath the lamp. The surrounding room became so dark he could barely see. However, he waited for it. Dreadful silence engulfed the room, which steadily became more and more like the blackness.

Mr. Shaver started when he heard the clock stop.

He rose to see the clock no longer existed. Only the vague outline of the shelf remained. He hesitated, then stuck his hand inside the blackness sliding down the wall. Shaver stared in disbelief as he brought back his hand, cold and numb.

The skin on his hand disappeared, leaving blackened skeletal fingers which slowly disintegrated.

FINIS