Prologue:

  Jan 2013

  Edgar Fitz Hume's Office

  “You should have given me a chance eight years ago to prove I was right, Edgar. But you didn’t then, and you didn’t now.” Foster’s voice grew low and menacing. “And to be honest, I’m glad you decided to screw me over one last time. After all, I did owe you a little bit of revenge. And guilt free revenge at that. Because remember… you did this.”

  Fitz Hume paused the video then grabbed the homemade candy dish off his desk and slung it against the nearest wall with all his strength. Fragile on the best days, his son’s gift smashed into what felt like a million pieces before his wide eyes.

  As the tiny mints scattered in every direction, he bellowed, “I did this!?”

  Had he?

  Head spinning, the subdirector of the NSA was about to reach for his phone and begin a series of frantic attempts at containing Foster’s incoming shit storm when a polite cough echoed throughout his cavernous office. Taken aback, he lowered his phone and refocused his attention on the middle computer monitor.

  What he saw there chilled him to the bone.

  “Hello, Edgar.” A prepubescent voice crackled over his high priced, government computer speakers. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  On the screen, standing next to a frozen Foster Evers was a child that looked to be 10 or 11 years old. Dressed in a black hoodie and faded blue jeans, the kid stood almost motionless next to the bed. A scene which by itself was on a Ring type level of spooky, but then there was the kid’s face.

  Shrouded in some kind of swirling shadow, Edgar couldn’t even tell if the child was male or female. He could however tell that the person was slightly off kilter, in that ‘I’m one red bull away from robbing a convenient store’ kind of way. But the most unnerving part was the child’s image wasn’t on his desktop screen or even another video window.

  No. The child’s image was inside Foster’s video player window.

  But instead of being frozen like everything else in the frame, the child was untethered and moving freely among the message’s digital canvas. And not an overlay or composite image. No, this child was somehow inside, or more accurately put, a part of the original video. Like they had been there from the very beginning, just waiting for its moment to speak.

  “Hello?” The director didn’t want to sound impolite, but the last ten minutes had put quite a strain on his calm. “Can I help you?

  “No,’ the figure said in an almost robotic voice from behind the facial distortion. “But I can help you.”

  “Help me how?”

  “Well, there’s a FedEx package waiting for you in the lobby, director.”

  “What?!” Immediately, Edgar’s face betrayed a sudden fear of what his old friend might have instore for him next. After all, Foster’s last words to him were not quite eternal hatred but they were very far from being comforting.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Don’t worry, director.” The child reacted as though they could sense the director’s growing fear. And with that knowledge, they quickly moved to assuage it. “Your actual name isn’t on the package.”

  “Really?” Edgar’s face relaxed a tiny bit, but his tenuous grip on things felt as though it was being beaten to death by an old rusty hammer. “But what do you mean a FedEx package? What’s in it? And if it’s not in my name. Whose name is it in?”

  “Not the questions I would have asked. But ok.” The voice remained robotic, but a hint of emotion bled through the monotone cadence. “First, the package contains a bank account number and an untraceable cell phone. Guard them both with your life, director. They’ll probably end up being the only things that keep you alive. Secondly, the name on the package is Harold Cole.”

  “Harold Cole?” Edgar’s panicked mania slightly shifted to paranoid anger. Who the hell was Harold Cole? “And keep me alive? Are you threatening me?”

  “Mr. Fitz Hume,” the figure’s distorted face looked like it was smiling, but the moving shadows made any type of confirmation impossible. “I don’t know how to threaten anyone. Not yet at least.”

  “Not yet?” Again, the level of paranoia in him crescendoed before finally dissipating like a breath at the end of a long run. Not knowing what to do or say at that exact moment, the director slumped his shoulders in defeat. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m doing one last good deed, Mr. Fitz Hume.” The child folded their arms across their chest. For a second, the director had to wonder who the adult between was between the two of them. “After that, I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again.”

  “One last good deed?” Edgar started to feel like he was some sort of human-sized parrot. Just repeating back every insane thing being said to him today. “Fine. Let’s say for the sake of argument you are doing one last good deed. Why me? I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m not doing this for you, Mr. Fitz Hume. I could care less whether you live or die, truth be told. No. I’m doing this for grandpa.”

  “Grandpa?” Somewhere in the back of his mind, the director’s grip on the present reality broke free and left him stranded in utter shock. Nothing, and he meant nothing, was making any kind of sense right now. “Who’s your grandpa?”

  “Oh,” the child almost sounded apologetic as they pushed back the top of their hoodie. As they did, the swirling shadows vanished along with the ragged cotton fabric. What remained was the spitting image of a certain, albeit severely de-aged mad genius. Then, like a creepy Benjamin Button, the child spoke in a strange, yet familiar voice.

  “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? My grandpa’s name is Foster Evers.”

  “Foster’s your... grandpa?” Again, Edgar’s brain sputtered like an engine getting too much gas. What the hell is going on? His mind kept screaming to itself. After all, more insanity wasn’t exactly how he imagined this day going. But more insanity seemed to be on the menu whether he wanted it or not. “That’s impossible, son. Foster never had any children. Let alone any grandchildren.”

  “Slight correction.” For the first time since this bizarro conversation began, the boy showed an actual emotion. A grin. But not a sly grin like his supposed grandfather. No, this grin held nothing but indifference and apathy. Like the director was a just some curious bug to be studied. “Not any biological children.”

  “What...?” Edgar began to stutter out a retort. But the sheer insanity of the last couple of minutes kept his vocal cords at bay. So instead of inquiring further, the director just sat there dumbfounded by the current situation.

  Sensing his apprehension, Foster’s ‘would be’ clone/digital grandson pulled the hood back up over his head and coughed. “I know this is a lot to take in, director. But now’s not the time to try and parse the meaning of the universe. Let alone what I represent. No. Now is the time to flee.”

  “Flee?”

  “Yes. Now is the time to gather whatever wits you have left, along with that package downstairs, and flee. Flee for your life, Edgar Fitz Hume.”

  Satisfied with his final words, the child’s image began to fade away into the background of Foster’s drab hotel room. But just before the last bit of pixels disbursed, the creepy child spoke one more time in a much more ominous and foreboding voice.

  “Because after today, you’ll be just like grandpa was eight years ago. All alone. Alone and betrayed by the very people you now call your friends.”

  Spidey senses tingling, Edgar stood up from his leather office chair and snatched up his coat. He was about to make a dash for the door and whatever the hell waited for him down in the lobby when one last question had to be asked.

  “I thought you said you were here to do a good deed.”

  “I did, Edgar. You just don’t know it yet.”