Disturb the Devil

Each glochid of a cactus has a distinct curve to it. That is what you have realized in the past however many minutes staring at the potted plant, an escape from the work you have to do. The melamine desk is cold from the air-conditioning, but you are too tired to lift your forearms off it.

It is strange to talk about fatigue when you have been working while sitting for the past eight hours. Well, there are occasional coffee or toilet breaks and a brief window for lunch, but other than those idle times, your butt has been firmly planted on the leather seat.

There are case after case to review, all sob stories of people falling victim to various ailments. Your eyes are sore from reading the rows of words on the computer monitor, but you still have to keep your attention on each little detail, to make sure their story checks out solely through the information they have submitted.

You sometimes wonder if a medical expert would be more qualified for your job, but in truth, it doesn’t matter. The company doesn’t want to waste money hiring this kind of person. A person who truly cares about the well-being of the patients.

They need someone soulless, and maybe that is why you were hired in the first place. Through your absent gazes, you give off the impression of the living dead, and the company treats it as a plus. But this appearance isn’t your choice; you are born with it.

That’s what humans do. They work to earn a living. Survival is not free. And in the workplace, social activities are unavoidable. You prefer not to interact with others that much, but this is also a part of life.

“Hey, have you heard?” Your nosy office-mate, Cole, starts to talk while you are trying to concentrate. “The central government is cutting the budget for healthcare again.”

“This can be an opportunity for the company to take advantage of,” you reply quickly, hoping to end the conversation.

“Yep. And this is the kind of answer I expect from you, Morgan.”

“Please explain what you mean.”

“You ran for the city council or something a few years ago, right? That’s why you have this objective perspective that politicians have.”

You don’t know whether that was an insult or a compliment. But it is a good end to the conversation, at least.

The workday ends soon after, and you slip out of the office right on time, like any average office worker aspires to do. This is a special privilege you have as the manager of this branch.

The company has been cutting costs by setting up offices in rural areas, using the low living costs to justify a lower salary. Nowadays, everything is done through the internet, so you don’t have to be in the city to work for a monolithic company.

The town is usually quiet at this time; people scurry from work back to their families at home, only nodding to passing acquaintances. But today, the streets are busy with people sticking one-dollar bills above the entrances of buildings. For some of the taller structures with front doors that almost reach the roof, even ladders have to be deployed.

Luckily, your office building has an accessible door header. On your tiptoes, you stick a bill from your wallet up there with tape when you’re on your way out.

“What is everyone doing here?” The owner of the voice stops you in your tracks. You almost let your displeasure leak out, as you sense trouble brewing. He is a young man in his late 20s. An ugly yellow Hawaiian shirt with sunglasses, complete with a straw hat. It is like he is advertising his status as a tourist.

“Are you talking to me?” You don’t know what you wanted to achieve by asking such a question with such an obvious answer.

The man chuckles. “Is there anyone else nearby? My name is Brock, by the way. Brock Taylor.” He reaches his sweaty hand out for a handshake.

You stare at his moist palm. He keeps resisting the silence. Eventually, you are forced to gather up your courage and take the hand.

He has a firm grip on you, and the contact of your hands has gone on longer than you are comfortable with. You struggle to break free, but he keeps his hand on yours, even placing his other hand on top.

“Can you please let go?” you ask.

“Can you give me a tour around this place?” He replies with his own question.

You want to say no so desperately, as alone time within the confines of your own private space sounds that much more alluring. But, that would also be against your personal principles of being human.

With a decision made, you return the favor by tightening your hand around his. “It would be my pleasure.”

The standoff eventually ends with him giving up, releasing you from the finger cage.

“Tonight is the annual bundance festival. We offer up money on our front doors to keep the evil spirits out,” you explain to Brock. Maybe you should charge him for this.

“Can you tell me your name first?”

What is this? A date?

“I will only tell you my name after you buy me dinner,” you say.

“Playing hard to get, I see. Then I shall buy you dinner.” He can’t get more pretentious than this. Part of you wants to take off and leave him here. But you persist; your curiosity about this strange, bold man is just too strong. This person can be a serial killer, but if so, then you understand why so many are mesmerized by them.

You lead Brock along the streets. Cutouts of dollar signs are hung on droopy strings tied to the buildings on both sides. The breeze blowing past shakes up those tiny charms to produce a fluttering murmur that builds to something audible.

“Your town really loves money,” Brock comments.

“The monster can be deterred by money,” you correct him. The familiar citizens of the town greet you as you pass, and regard Brock with suspicious eyes. Outsiders aren’t common here, so it makes sense that he won’t receive a warm welcome. This place isn’t a tourist spot after all, so why is he here?

You ask him about his intentions.

“The lake.” Pretty much what you'd expect as his answer. That is the only place worth visiting in this town. There is just one hole in this explanation.

“There are plenty of lakes in the country, so why here?”

“The lake here is breathtaking. I’ve seen pictures online. Lemme tell you. No one can resist coming here after seeing those.” He shows his phone screen to you, containing photos of a familiar sight. A still surface reflecting the night sky; the water ripples give the false moon much more texture than the original. Other than that, you can’t even see the blurred objects in the background.

You have gone on walks by the lake for decades, so you know that this image isn’t even close to what the lake has to offer. No one would come here because of such a mediocre picture. But you suspect that questioning him further won’t give you anything meaningful.

The street ends at the beginning of a mountain path, and that is where a miniature shrine lies. More accurately, it can be called a small cave. A place with only an offering box in the center of the spherical space. It is another measure against the spirits.

Brock stands at the mouth of the shrine, casting his shadow on the offering box. “You put money in there and?”

“And the more money is in there, the stronger the protection.”

“This is a scam; the mayor has to be pocketing everything.” His tone is dismissive. It is getting on your nerves. He is the one who asked for a tour, so why is he so nitpicky?

You turn to replenish your energy by gazing at the trees ahead of the path that seem like they are waving at you. Finally, you calm down and say to Brook, “Donating the change we have in there is a part of our everyday life.”

“Boring, bring me to the lake.”

You give up trying to convince Brook. Instead, you should just lead the way to the lake quietly. But peace isn’t that easy to achieve.

Time is up. You hear a sudden whisper in your head, an ominous warning. You turn to check on Brook. His expression tells you nothing, and he only asks why you have stopped walking.