Seven Days
WARNING: Do not read this story. Turn back now.
You pop the DVD in
It shows this freaky scene
There's this girl and-what the crap-she's crawling out your screen!
-Apex Lion's "Sadoko (radio edit)"
You wake up, and promptly fall out of bed. Your girlfriend giggles.
You grumble in her general direction as you get to your feet, something about how she hogs the bed. How can such a tiny girl take up so much room?
"I'm like a reverse-Tardis," she explains, grinning. "Bigger on the outside."
You have no idea what a Tardis is, but choose not to display your ignorance as you stumble into the bathroom. You hear a VCR-no, really-engaging just before you turn on the shower, and ask your girlfriend what she's watching. She says something about "chain mail". You wonder whether they couldn't have put it on a DVD. Silently, of course; she's touch about her antiques. Glancing in the mirror on the half-open bathroom door, you catch a glimpse of some kind of ring of light, shining in the darkness, on the TV screen. Weird. You busy yourself with shampooing.
When you step out, she's waiting, wearing nothing but a towel, and you almost--no. You're already going to be late for work.
"You got a prank call on your cell phone," she says, squeezing past you in the tight confines of the bathroom. You're thankful for the thin terry cloth around your waist as you ask who it was.
"All they said was 'seven days'."
You dress in the spare work clothes you keep in the closet. One hurried breakfast of cereal in slightly-spoiled milk later, you head out to the train.
It's hard to stay awake, what with the late night and all. Despite the risk to your safety, despite all the Talks from your mother about The Dangers of Public Transit, you nod off.
You open your eyes, and there's no one in the car but you and a girl. She's wearing a yellow top and matching hot pants, and she has short purple hair hanging in front of her eyes. The outfit hangs off her slim, heroin-chic frame like drapes, obviously designed for a more full-figured woman. Probably a streetwalker.
Where did the sun go?
You look out the window, and find nothing but darkness. The light from the inside of the car shines off some walls of stone, like the inside of a well. Leaning back, you can just make out a gleam of light ahead, at the end of the tunnel-
"Moshi moshi," says your travelling parter.
You turn back to her, and do a double take. She's somehow changed into denim shorts, a flame-patterned bikini, and pink leggings. She's also switched to a much larger wig; this one red, with a large ponytail and a skull-shaped hairclip. You still can't see her eyes, but you get the impression she's looking at you."
You apologize, and say, hesitatingly, you don't speak Japanese. Maybe she's one of those anime fans. The new getup fits her no better than the first one did.
She shifts slightly, and opens her mouth. It's like she's trying to choose the right word. "Sister," she says.
You have half a second to note the slight bulge in her shorts before the train clears the tunnel, blinding you.
You open your eyes. The train has just reached your stop. You must've nodded off, and the jerk woke you up. Gathering up your belongings, you make your way onto the platform. You don't normally dream about costumed transsexual otaku on your way to work.
There's no tunnel on the line, you recall.
You go through your morning routine on autopilot, working through the usual emails, notes, and assignments that swirl around you like a flock of crows around a carcass. An hour or so in, you are interrupted by your coworker Larry.
"Good news, everyone!" Larry says, slipping his head around the corner of your cubicle. "They're reinstating free meeting donuts!"
A smile of joy spreads across your face, and you comment that it's sweet.
"Terrorist fist jab?" Larry offers.
You accept, and bump knuckles with your coworker. Larry pauses.
"Dude, your skin feels weird. Kinda like a fresh-caught fish that hasn't stopped flopping around yet, and you grab it so you can chop the head off, but you can't get a good grip because it's all slimy."
You ask why all of his metaphors involve fish.
"I used to spend summers up in Maine. Uncle was a fisherman. I think the word I'm looking for is 'clammy'."
Hard, dry, and tough?
This isn't the last such incident. Later that afternoon, Erica looks sidelong at you, and asks if your hair was always that dark. You're not sure what she's talking about, and she gently suggests a more subtle shade.
You carry your coffee cup into the bathroom with you, and examine your hair closely. Erica was right; it is darker, and more stringy, too. As you splash water on your face, you make a note to try a new shampoo.
Your coffee cup leaves a large crescent, nearly a ring, on the counter. As you wipe it up, you catch a glimpse of something in the mirror. You turn around, but there's nothing there.
You dream that night of tunnels. Endless tunnels, smelling of earth and damp and fear and your own stink. There's a light at the end, like a cover going over a well.
"You're smaller than you used to be," the doctor notes, the next day. Your bare feet dangle off the floor, and you resist the urge to kick your heels like a child, a girl, going for a ride in the country.
"Your heart seems to kick slightly stronger every seventh beat, but that's not what worries me. That would be things like the sudden weight loss, the condition of your skin...what's the word I'm looking for?"
Clammy.
"Yeah, that's it. I think you've gotten shorter, too. And your hair looks terrible."
So, what's up, Doc?
He hesitates. "I'd like to conduct some tests."
The blood is drawn. For an instant, the doctor turns it just the wrong way, and it looks black.
"I'm a private doctor, so I can't keep you for observation, but I *strongly advise* you to find an emergency room, or at least stay at home, pending the results of these tests."
You thank him as you hop off the exam table.
Your boss is understanding enough, and advises you to take as much time as you need. Larry and Erica see you on your way out, but say nothing other than to wish you well.
You were fully intending to wait for the test result, but make the mistake of going on the Internet. The symptoms you're experiencing seem to be signs of everything from H1N1 to the Bubonic Plague, though one website recommends a volumizing shampoo if your hair has that dry, stringy look.
The only person you've had physical contact with lately is your girlfriend. You call.
"Did you see that video?" She sounds scared, scratchy. There's some interference on the line. You say caught a glimpse in the mirror and ask what's wrong.
"I think...I think I'm going to die. But that's not important."
How could it not be-
"Listen to me! If you watch the tape, you die in seven days. I saw it before the morning after you slept over and...let's just say my time's up." She does something that sounds like a laugh.
How did she-
"Internet." A high-strung giggle. "Google 'ring videotape'. YouTube won't let them keep it up, but someone's probably uploaded a copy onto the file-sharing networks."
What?
"Like Limewire."
Oh. You tell her to stay there, lock the doors, and call the police.
"You think that will stop her? No. No. I'm sorry. I love y-"
The line goes dead.
The 911 dispatcher promises to send a few cars over, and you start to pace. You turn the radio on, but turn it off right away; no amount of music is going to calm you now. Maybe it was a serial killer. Maybe it was a serial killer who tracks people down by videotapes. But nobody uses videotapes anymore, that would be crazy. But serial killers are *generally* crazy by definition...
After a few hours, you think of Ducktales, and all the times Scrooge wore a circular rut into the floor. You think of the cost it would take to replace all that stone, about the depth of the foundations of McDuck manor. You think about how impossible it would be to swim through gold, unless you were really strong. You think about picking up the phone and calling your girlfriend.
"Hello?" says an unfamiliar voice.
You explain who you are, and ask how your girlfriend is. There's a pause. The person on the other end is clearly searching for words.
"We're not sure," he confesses.
What does he mean?
"There's a lot of blood. CSU is going to have to check it out, but I don't think it was survivable."
You were leaning against the wall, and now slide down to the floor. You told her to lock her door, did she lock her door?
"Yeah. There was blood visible under the door, so the responding officers kicked it down. If this is too much for you, I can stop."
Yeah. Yeah, it is.
The cop takes your address, so they can take a statement later. You hang up the phone, grab a pillow, press it to your face, and start to scream.
One of the nice things about the Internet is the fact that it's a wealth of information. A simple query turns up more information than you ever wanted to know about the mysterious videotape. No one knows where it came from, but it's been around since at least the 90s. Physically, it's a perfectly normal video, and can be transferred to any media.
The "dying in seven days" part is a constant, though. Comforting.
There are, of course, people who watched the video deliberately. There are always idiots, and a suspiciously large number of them post after seven days, claiming they're fine. Some of them never post on the seventh day. Several have actually posted on the seventh day, and then never again. An undercurrent of distrust and, yes, a little fear swirls around these accounts.
No mention is ever made of physiological effects. Of course, since it's a chain video that kills people, no matter where they are, there's no reason it can't switch it up a bit. Maybe it got bored.
One particularly cruel blow comes around the third day of your isolation; your girlfriend had you listed as next of kin. The only fingerprints found in the apartment were yours and hers, and you had an alibi. The significant other is always the prime suspect, you know, but are too tired to offer the detectives anything more than dry, unembellished responses. Yes, detective. No detective. Anything to help detective. Call me any time, detective.
The younger one, a black man with a goatee, stops at the door, and advises you to see a doctor; you look pale. You close the door and laugh wildly into the nearest pillow.
There's none of the perspective you've heard of. no grand revelation, no last-minute religion. Only something that seems more and more like a great black wave of panic, threatening to burst on the fragile shores of your sanity. To hold it off, you take time to catch up with your family. You don't tell them; they'd think you were crazy. You'd think you were crazy, if you were them. No point in running, when the noose finds the condemned man's neck wherever he goes. No point in running at all.
There's a smell in your apartment, and it won't go away no matter how much you clean. Gets stronger every day, until you can barely breathe for the smell of wet earth, of decay, of yourself. Even sticking your head out the window, into the city's smoggy air doesn't help; you notice after a point that every time you hear a sound out there, it then repeats six times. Seven times in all.
Your hair keeps getting longer. The locks, full black now, are now limp and lifeless. There's no point in cutting it; each day starts with it a little longer than before.
You keep having strange dreams; you're running down corridors,
(through automatic doors)
down hallways, and there's something behind you. There's a light at the end of the tunnel, a thin circlet of light, as if someone is just plugging a hole, and no matter how much you run, you can't reach it. Something cold curls across your chest, little skittering fingers like spider legs--
You wake up.
You've been feeling colder and colder, no matter how much you turn up the heat, no matter how much clothes you wear. Slower, too, like you're a smaller person stuffed inside a person suit, limbs leaden and heavy. (it puts the lotion on its skin)
It doesn't cost much to have the will made up, and you can even sign it by email . So when The Morning dawns bright and clear, you're ready. You've even put plastic down, so it'd be easier to clean up the bloodstains. Assuming there'll be bloodstains. Of course, there's no reason "she" couldn't just give you a heart attack. Or choke you to death. Or make your blood freeze. (Another way to die!)
You are afraid to leave your apartment, naturally. The furniture is easy enough to pile up in front of the door, but you don't have a lot of food, and rapidly work your way through the dry, starchy foodstuffs. Then the wet, starchy foodstuffs. Sooner or later, you're going to be down to gnawing on a bag of stale tea you saw behind the shot glasses.
As you pull your hand back from behind the shot glasses, you realize your thumbs and left pinkie are missing. Interesting effect. You place the teabag on the stove, and put the kettle on to boil-why do you have seven fingers?
You jump, and blink as the adrenaline surges through your body, and your hands are back to normal.
Hallucinations. It might be a good time to call for help.
The phone behaves strangely. You press nine; the seven key lights up and the tone sounds. One; same result. One again; seven.
Okay. You're absolutely certain you pressed the right numbers, so you put the phone to your ear and wait, trying to ignore the trembl--
"Seven days."
What?
"Seven days," says the person on the other end of the line, in Japanese. (Why can you understand Japanese?) It sounds like a 911 responder, even has that slight tinny edge the ones on TV have. They clear their throat and continue, in English. "Seven days seven days seven days seven days seven da-"
You do your best to slam the receiver down, but these plastic phones, they only make a soft little "click", like a cover on a well.
The phone begins to ring. You yank the cord out, and grab your cell phone, which somehow has seven bars. The same trick with the numbers happens, and you smile-or something like a smile-grimly. (Don't know who they're dealin' with.) You access your address book. The names are all "SEVEN", and so are the numbers. You scroll to what should be your mother's number. She picks up on the seventh ring.
"Seven days," she says. "Seven days se-"
Mom, could you, ah, put Dad on?
You scrub at the sweat on your face with a corner of your bedsheet.
Dad comes on the line. "Seven days," he says.
Thanks, Dad. Just wanted to hear your voice. Click.
It's easy enough to move the furniture. Bookcase, end table, end table, armchair, stereo, TV stand, bed.
You pause. You didn't pile your bed in front of the door.
Doesn't matter. You lock the door behind you, and head for the stairs. Except you can't find them, only more doors. You stop, and look at the nearest door. It has your apartment number which, you recall, is 7G. And so does the next door. And the next, and the next. They all open to your keys, too.
You decide it's time to try the fire escape.
The screwdriver you use to lever the window open has a seven-sided handle, and the actual fire escape itself, is plain old wrought iron. You climb down, and look down into the alley.
The ground isn't any closer.
Ignoring the sudden jump your heart makes, you climb down one more floor and check. Still the same distance away. You watch the ground, this time, and there's a definite sense of being on a vertical treadmill. Inside the window is your apartment.
Of course it is.
Climbing up doesn't get you any closer to the roof, either, and, with a sigh, you climb in.
That girl from the train is inside. She's naked, and you can see the shriveled length in between her legs, the dirt on her legs, the bloody hands where she tore her fingernails out trying to climb out of a well--
"Everyone must suffer," she says. You can understand her perfectly now, and you turn to run, knowing it's futile.
She reaches out with her mind, pulling on your body like taffy, moulding it into a smaller, more compact shape. The flesh peels away from your left leg, leaving something pale and wet-looking protruding from the stump. You, quite understandably, fall, screaming. Gibbering, you try to pull your flayed flesh back onto your leg, shortly joined by that of your other leg.
Through your tears, you are dimly aware of your tormentor squatting next to you. You try to roll away, only to find your new limbs unresponsive.
The girl rolls you onto your back, ignoring your feeble attempts to bat her off. She reaches around you, her small breasts pressing against your chest. Her hands poke holes in your shirt, into your back, sending blood into the carpet. They pull, pull, and the shirt rips cleanly, along with the flesh on your back. She does the same with your front, leaving pale flesh exposed. You look down, and find a slim, emaciated chest, much like the girls own, sitting in the middle of a gaping hole in your torso. What--
"You're like me inside," the girl whispers.
She opens up your arms, next, starting near the center of the chest wound, her cold hands pulling apart your skin like scissors splitting a dress along the seam. The arms that emerge are slim, and pale, and identical to-
No.
You know what you are becoming now, and screaming does not help. She performs the same operation with your other arm, and then kneels, so she can get at your crotch. She removes your underwear first, of course, and delves slowly into your flesh, above the most private part of your body. You feel every jerk, of course, every shudder as the skin, the muscles underneath, peel away, revealing small, girl's hips, bones nearly poking out of the skin. You must look absurd; an adult's head on a starved girl's body.
The penis emerges, a slit beneath it. Limp, of course; you're terrified. She makes sure you're clean of any other kind of flesh before sliding her hands up your body, past your navel, across your ribs, your collarbone, before cupping your chin in her hands.
You try to punch her.
Her brow creases, and she closes her eyes briefly, concentrating. Your hands, entirely of their own accord, spasm, and reach around her body, pressing her frame to your own. She chuckles, a nasty, mirthless thing, and presses your lips to hers, her hair leaving nothing for you but her lips, the wet-earth smell of her her breath, and the contact between your bodies.
"It was the mirror," she says, her thumb sliding along your jaw, pushing it upward. There's just a bit of give. "It...changed things. I don't know how." A catlike lick, on the end of your nose. Then she clamps her teeth on it, and pulls upward. Blood slides down from the bite marks as your face lifts outward like a sheet. Under your own skin, you beg for mercy. She runs her fingers down the sides of your face, and they part neatly. You know you look like her, like a half-unwrapped chocolate egg, with your own skin as the bright foil packaging. She pushes back, and your skin, your old skin, shucks off.
She stands, and gestures for you. You rise like a puppet on string, long dark hair about your face.
You can't stop crying, and the pale one moves to your side. You are joined now, and you can tell she wants to explain things to you, to tell you of your shared quest, an endless vengeance.
"I always wanted a sister," she says, wrapping her arms around you.
Somewhere, you both know, someone has just started watching a certain videotape.
ENDF
7 Days
Loosely based on "Ringu" by Koji Sazuki and adaptations thereof.
2009 Eulalie "Nequ" Quentin