Echoes of Memory

The photograph, a relic from older days where smartphones and cameras were forever married and no one had to take a roll of anything to anyone to turn it into a bunch of glossy pieces of thick paper with images on them, rested on the stool in the middle of the abandoned apartment, dimly lit from the sun shining through the bare windows and front door. An eerie echoing of every single footstep and movement filled the space, giving it an otherworldly feel. The landlady, a middle aged, divorced, serial complainer woman named Glenda Bowner was speechless for the first time in many years. Everything was a problem for her, every situation an opportunity to rant endlessly about how terrible people are and how she had been taken advantage of (in her own mind) by every single person she ever met. Standing here with her assistant Jessica, a younger, less opinionated (and much nicer) woman, she was -- frankly -- scared out of her mind, and couldn't even muster an arrogant defense against it.

Jessica finally broke the silence. "Everything is gone. What --"

Glenda snapped back, fear and panic in her voice. "Shut up! Just..." She searched for something else to add, but could only manage to repeat "shut up", weakly this time. Reaching a light switch, she flipped it hoping that more light could make her feel better about the whole situation. Nothing happened. Looking up, she noticed that the light fixtures were missing their lightbulbs. She muttered a harsh curse and suppressed the urge to say it again even louder.

Jessica took out her smartphone and turned on the camera light. This time Glenda did let out a rather loud curse, followed by her nearly twisting her neck off spinning it around at Jessica with a stare that could have stripped the paint from the walls. "Tell me you're going to do that!" she spat. Jessica recoiled, almost dropping her phone in the process... and lowering the light enough to see that the floor was heavily stained in... blood? Properly lowering her phone to get a better view, she saw that it was not, in fact, blood. These stains were a disgusting shade of green, spattered all over the floor of the entire apartment.

At first, the pair didn't even look at the stool and photograph. They were more worried that they would find a dead body in a closet, or in the bathtub, or stashed in some corner somewhere. But their search of the apartment found nothing of the sort, and in fact, not much of anything at all as apparently their tenant, a short, mustached, unassuming man wearing glasses with an even temper, had made off with everything, even the kitchen appliances. His name was Thomas Smith and only ever described himself as a "collector", and never elaborated. His credentials came back spotless when he applied to move in, and every single month he had dutifully paid the full amount owed, far in advance of the due date.

This month was the exception. Glenda almost went out to question Mr. Smith as the due date loomed closer, but as he had never been late before, she let it slide, mostly because she had other tenants giving her a lot more grief that she had to deal with. Better to yell at someone who deserves it than waste time with someone I can rely on, she reasoned. But as the due date slipped by, she became more and more impatient, and today, the time had come to go demand payment from the delinquent tenant. But Glenda could not have -- ever -- expected this.

Glenda stood in the empty bedroom of the abandoned apartment when she heard a sudden shriek from Jessica. Glenda's heart nearly jumped from her chest as she went back out to the living room area to find Jessica, who was standing frozen in terror in front of the until now ignored stool, her cell phone on the floor.

"Jess... ica?" Glenda slowly uttered, almost hissing, too afraid to open her mouth too far to make the words. "Are... you..." She slowly stepped toward the unmoving younger woman, uncertain, afraid, unable to complete the question with "okay".

Jessica's head slowly moved to look at Glenda. Her eyes glowed, a sickening green light pouring out of her skull into the dimly lit room.

In a blind panic, Glenda ran from the apartment, all the way back to her office, and called the police. At length she described the strange events that she had experienced, how the trauma reminded her of her long, painful divorce with her husband, how Jessica turned out to be out to get her just like everyone else, and that she wanted Mr. Thomas Smith found, arrested, and sentenced to death for a litany of crimes, real and imagined, against her and Jessica. She was still on the phone to the police ranting about how the Internet had turned all men against women and that "some Internet cult" had probably possessed Jessica when the police came to her office door.

Returning to the apartment with the police, Glenda's mind began to cloud. She had to remind herself over and over why she was walking the police to this apartment, and suddenly, couldn't remember why she was doing it at all. Looking around, the police -- and their car -- was gone.

But what about... um... what's her name again? Glenda couldn't believe she couldn't remember her name. She couldn't remember what they were doing at that apartment, and couldn't remember what happened to her. All she remembered was the apartment. When she got there, she had forgotten that Jessica ever worked for her, or had ever existed.

The apartment door suddenly opened as Mr. Smith stepped out of his apartment, startling Glenda. He was smartly dressed as usual, and had a look of contentment on his face which turned to surprise. "Oh, Ms. Bowner." Boner. He keeps pronouncing my name as "boner". He always has. On second thought, had he? She didn't remember being irritated by her before somewhere in her mind, but she had the idea that somehow he had. "I was just on my way to pay you for this month, with the late charge. My apologies. It has been a very slow" -- here he paused for a moment to find the right word -- "collection month."

"Just give it to me now. Don't let it happen again, Mr. Smith." It was the only thing Glenda could think of saying. No elaborate speeches, no hatred, no judgement. There was almost a kindness in her voice.

He handed over the check, made out for the proper amount, nodded, and walked to his car. He gave a slight wave as he pulled out and drove away. Glenda gave a small wave back reflexively.

The apartment. Something in her mind nagged her about his apartment. She never hesitated to intrude into someone's apartment if she believed something might be wrong, and with Mr. Smith gone, she produced her master key and unlocked Apartment 407.

Nothing out of the ordinary was inside. A neatly yet sparsely decorated apartment with the usual amenities. A clean floor. And a stool, sitting in the middle of the living room. With a picture on it. Panic gripped her. She couldn't figure out why. Jessica, the empty apartment, the police -- it was all a vanished memory. But somehow, the memory echoed inside her. Turning on the light -- creating more anxiety that she couldn't explain -- she walked over to the stool, and looked at the picture.

A young woman's face was frozen in that picture. An uncomfortable panic rose in Jessica as she struggled to capture the echo of a memory of the person she saw here. On the coffee table near the stool, she saw a photo album, full of similar images, closed to its back cover. She closed the album, turning it over to the front, and saw a single word that reverberated inside her mind, dancing with the barely remembered echoes of her lost memory, and caused a middle-aged, paranoid, talkative landlady to leave her job, descend into madness, and live out the rest of her days in a mental institution:

COLLECTION