Rapping at his Portal

From his chair, Glentavius Orchman pondered about the nature of the universe. He hadn’t seen another human face in years. The wintry mix on this November day messed with him. He was thirty-one-years-old and dressed in gray trousers and a black top, black sneakers wrapped around his feet. With locks on his dark brown head, he washed his hair regularly. He possessed plenty of other clothes. He made his own meals and cleaned up after himself. Trash piled up like so many broken dreams. His rations could last him for years but the stench of the garbage became overwhelming. Orchman glided from his desk to his bed. While he puffed up his chair’s back pillow, a knock came at his door. In his mind he thought it impossible. No one else could possibly be rapping at his portal. However the knocking increased from a soft tap to a definite pounding. Orchman’s heart beat with the knocks.

He got up. When he looked through the peephole, he saw a distorted figure. The image appeared to be glassy and shadowy as well. The figure lifted its hand again, only Orchman opened the door. “Can I help––” Orchman started.

The figure now clearly a man of slight build with glasses and a short haircut. He wore a plaid red shirt and black trousers and black shoes.

“You’re Fredric Brown!” Orchman exclaimed. “I thought you were dead a long time ago.”

“Thanks for that. I thought you were part of my story. How are you real?”

“I just am, I guess. You know they say it’s the scariest short story of all time….” Orchman observed.

“I’ve heard….” Brown replied.

“Wait, you wrote this into existence? You wrote me into existence?”

Brown shrugged.

“This is a trip. So you were the man knocking at the door and I was the ‘last man on Earth.’ I’m telling you this is a trip.”

Brown looked around the room and wrinkled his nose.

“I’ve just been working on this screenplay about your story,” Orchman explained.

“It was never meant to be adapted,” Brown made clear.

“Pardon me, but everyone thought you were dead. They didn’t count on anyone but your estate granting permission. When they did, I started writing.”

“I knock and that’s the horror of the story. You’re supposed to be the final person on this rock. At the same time, however, there is someone else. A soul searching amongst the wilderness of life and employed to reconcile with the past.” Brown spoke these words in rapid speed as if trying to conduct an orchestra with his vocal chords.

“Yes, that’s right. The knock is what is frightening. With your succinct diction, it startles the reader and makes for even more fear and wonder,” Orchman championed Brown’s words.

Brown kept darting around the room like a pigeon. He looked out the blank window at the rain and snow covering the Wilmington, Delaware streets below this apartment complex.

“I was just sitting here typing away and I noticed that I heard no noises after a while. It became ghostly. Like apparitions had replaced actual human beings,” Orchman divulged. “I’m just now getting used to the idea of ensuring I get your story right. I’m confident in my abilities, but with you present….How many others are there?”

Brown shook his head. “I think it’s just the population of us, right now.”

Chills shot down Orchman’s back like ice cubes. He then shook off the feeling. His intrepid spirit allowed him to venture.

“I don’t think this story’s going to see the light of day. It’s definitely not going to be made into a film. We, however, can expand upon it and you’ll get a credit not just for the source material but as co-writer.”

A wry little grin crossed Brown’s face. “I intended for that story to be only two sentences. Of course, I expanded it. You want to make it into a film that will never be produced….I think I’ll continue with the process. This intrigues me.”

With a swivel in his chair, Orchman returned to his desk and started to lay more words down on a digital typewriter that didn’t need an Internet connection. Fredric Brown sat on the edge of Orchman’s bed. He spread his finger tips over his thighs and sat erect.

“If you do this….” Brown began.

“If we do this….” Orchman corrected.

“Yes, if we do the unthinkable, craft one of my stories and adapt it…I’ll get to know that my work is still in the minds of the populace, wherever they might be,” Brown noted.

“Absolutely. We’re here to be the change agents of a possible breakthrough on the literary and cinematic scene,” Orchman pointed out.

With Brown rising from the end of the bed, he looked at the time on his wrist. It had stopped. Orchman looked at his timepiece. A digital watch showed the hour of the day. Ten at night. Somewhere a signal picked up and he could receive sporadic WiFi.

“That story took me six weeks to write. Two sentences in six weeks. I took bus trips. I rode in taxis. My mind yielded nothing in return. I just kept the wheels churning. I knew I’d get it soon enough.”

“And you did.”

“But this isn’t my story anymore. I’ll take the adaptation credit, but you punch up the thing. This is like when I first started.”

The light shone dim around the otherwise spotless room. The softkeys produced minimal sounds as Orchman typed. Brown circled the room. His steps seemed measured and sure. Orchman’s confidence at the keys matched the other areas in his life. He had been living in this same spot and had grown to care for everything. He fed fish and cared for a bird. Orchman suggested he look at the copy.

“This is brilliant,” Brown uttered almost under his breath like a wisp on a whim.

“I know.”

Then a chuckle burbled from Brown that had been cut short by a tiny gasp. It seemed like an opportunity to interject a piece of wisdom for the young man.

“What you’re reading there is a summer time blockbuster that no one will get to watch.”

“That is true. Just keep it simple and as short and close to the bone as possible.”

“We’re the only ones who can lay claim to this material. You’ve crafted the ultimate scary story. In two sentences! I have to salute you, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, let’s talk business. There’s a whole market out there just waiting to, yearning to sup from the cup of Fredric Brown’s mind. I have obviously been inspired. What we can do is just send it out there. Maybe I’m not the ‘last man on Earth.’ Maybe you’re the one.”

“No, I didn’t just appear here. I’ve been waiting to see if anyone else had picked up on the fact the story actually has a fleshed out plot and other elements to make it a more robust tale….”

“That’s right. But the idea of those first two sentences takes it to another extreme. That’s all you need. There’s a strong sense of mystery and suspense embedded in the phrasing. You get it all in a tight little bundle of syllables,” Orchman replied.

Then, Orchman’s cell phone rang. The two men looked at each other.

“I didn’t write that into the story,” Brown recalled.

“I’m answering it,” Orchman announced.

“No!” Brown shouted.

“You don’t know what this means….”

The caller ID on the phone read SOS. A distress signal, it continued to vibrate and a pop song played before Orchman picked up.

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is Marine Captain Dax Schneider. I’m calling to see if anyone can hear me.”

“I can hear you, Captain. What is your location?”

“I’m somewhere in the South Pacific.”

The phone remained on speaker as Brown’s face became a stone.

“Captain….”

No answer.

“Captain!”

The line died.

“There were at least three men….” Brown clarified.

Another knock at the door produced agitation in both men.

Orchman look through the peephole. The blurry image looked like a woman with a red dress in high heels. He thought he had been imagining all of this. He opened the door. In walked Lolly Verbose. She stood five feet five inches and possessed golden locks. She had mascara running from her eyes. The blue-black stuff streaked her alabaster skin. Brown stood tall as did Orchman.

“Can we help you, Miss?”

“I’m Lolly. My husband’s a fighter pilot out to sea. He’s in the Corps as a captain.”

Brown and Orchman exchanged glances. She continued.

“He’s been away for so long. I tried to get in touch with him but I got nothing.”

“We actually received your husband’s distress call. We figured everyone else’s communications had been disabled and that he could only get this signal.”

Her eyes brightened. A spark of life jolted her further into the room. She jetted over to the phone. She picked it up, dialed, brought it to her ear and waited for a signal. Nothing. Great goblets of tears kept the bluish black makeup flowing down her face.

“He’s gone.”

Brown and Orchman hugged the woman with an attempt at comforting her.

“It looks like your husband may have perished,” Orchman relayed with gravitas. “Don’t fret however, we can observe whatever customs you have for occasions like this.”

“I’m an atheist. So is Dax. Was….” she began to cry some more.

“Stop that. Stop that,” Brown reassured. “He died a hero on the torrents of the Pacific. You should hold his memory in high esteem.”

“Yes, a Marine captain will get full honors. Have you any children?”

“No,” she sniffled. Orchman reached for a tissue. She grasped it.

“Thank you. We had just gotten married.”

“Jesus,” Brown said. “I mean…that’s extremely sad.”

“Please have a seat at my writing chair,” Orchman suggested.

“Are you a screenwriter?” She fought back tears and wiped her face.

“Yes. This is Mr. Fredric Brown. He’s caught in a time warp or something. Anyway, he’s here to give me guidance.”

“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though,” Brown intoned.

“Thank you.”

“What do you do?” Orchman asked.

“I’m an actress,” she said. “I’m surprised I never heard of you in the trades,” Lolly admitted.

“This is my first project. Mr. Brown right here inspired me and is encouraging me to be the master craftsman of his words applied to the page for the screen,” Orchman mentioned.

Lolly perked up a bit. How much have you written so far?”

“Just the exposition. I haven’t made it complete just yet.”

“That’s where I come in,” Brown responded.

“Well, give me what you got. There’s more to the story than just the beginning.”

“I actually have a copy of the story with me,” Brown stated. He extracted the magazine in which the tale appeared.

She began to scan the pages. “This is frightening. How about I memorize some of the parts and act them out?” She queried.

Brown and Orchman both shrugged. She shot up from the chair and started going over the lines of Grace Evans. She spun and twirled like a little top infused with doses of caffeine. She commanded the space, though it may have been small. She projected and fought her sorrow with the power of work.

“I’d say we can have at least a one woman show with all of this,” Orchman observed.

Brown laughed lightly. “Yes, you’ve gotta knack for this whole acting thing. It’s too bad it’ll be in development hell indefinitely.”

“We’re going to just keep this between us. We’re going to write and act and keep our wits despite our situation. We’re going to continue and go on from this time in our lives,” Orchman stated.

Brown smiled at that last phrase. It was like a ray of light bursting from a cloud. It shone on Lolly and Orchman smiled as well. Then, a knock came at the door.