The Thing Outside the Fourth Wall

It was a typical Sunday morning in Oliver’s studio flat on the east side of Brookfield. Well, not so typical. Oliver had neglected to close his blinds the night before, and the sharp, unforgiving sunlight now sliced through his room like a scene from a bad horror flick.

“Ow, my eyes!” Oliver muttered as he flung his blanket over his head. “Did I forget to close those stupid blinds?”

He had, in fact, forgotten. But that wasn’t the problem. He was about to have an uninvited guest. A guest that preferred catching him off guard.

“What the hell?” Oliver squinted, looking around suspiciously. “Who’s in here? How did you get in?”

Oliver listened. His studio flat was silent, save for the hum of his refrigerator and the clinking of a neighbor’s wind chimes through the open window. But he felt it—the presence of something. Or was it someone?

“Show yourself!” he demanded, grabbing a flimsy table lamp and holding it up like a makeshift sword. “I mean it!”

The only response was silence, dust particles dancing lazily in the sunbeam and Oliver’s pounding heart.

“I’m warning you!” he shouted, brandishing the lamp like some lunatic brandishing a toothbrush in a bar fight. “I’m armed.”

No sooner had he said it than he realized how ridiculous he looked: standing there in his boxers, half-dressed, clutching a lamp like a feeble weapon.

“Really, Oliver?”

The voice didn’t come from the corner or behind him. It came from somewhere else entirely—somewhere inside his own head.

Oliver froze. “Who’s there?” He stammered. “Why—why are you in my head?”

Oh dear, poor Oliver. He was speaking to me, the Narrator. A misstep for sure, since one does not question the voice that guides them. One simply listens.

“Whoa, hold on!” Oliver exclaimed. “You’re saying I’m talking to you—the Narrator? That’s just… that’s just twisted.”

Not quite as twisted as what awaited him outside his door. If Oliver moved quickly, he might still escape. If not—well, let’s just say it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Wait, why should I trust you?” Oliver asked as he slipped on a pair of wrinkled jeans. “And why the heck do you sound like you’re reading a bedtime story from 50 years ago? What kind of voice uses ‘alas’?”

Oliver babbled on as he slipped into a shirt and made his way to the tiny kitchenette. Then—

“Wait, what just happened? I was getting dressed, and now I’m here. How did I—”

Exposition, Oliver. No need to narrate every little detail.

“But I—”

His protest was cut short by a sudden, terrifying crash. Glass shattered across his floor, sending shards skittering under the fridge. He turned to see a frozen turkey—a massive, rock-hard bird—sitting in the middle of his kitchen. A note was tied to its stubby leg.

Oliver bent to read it.

“We know you’re here.”

Oliver stared at the note, then at the turkey, and back at the note.

“I’m not ready for this.”

Ah, but coffee! With coffee, one can face anything. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away, always crowded and buzzing with the comfort of anonymity. He should go there, blend in.

“Who’s we?” Oliver yelled, throwing up his hands. “What the hell are you talking about? Explain!”

He gathered his wallet and jacket and made a hasty exit, ignoring my plea for calm. He darted through the narrow alley beside his building, then onto the busy street, weaving through clusters of early morning joggers. Oliver wasn’t running towards safety. He was running from something.

“Damn it, tell me who’s coming for me!”

All in good time. He entered the coffee shop and ordered a double-shot cappuccino and a scone, trying desperately to look like just another guy with a caffeine addiction. But the barista stared a little too long.

“Okay, okay. This is stupid,” Oliver muttered. “Why am I here?”

Before I could reply, he burned his fingers on the steaming cup. “Ow, ow, OW!” He dropped it onto a table and sucked on his knuckles. “You—uh—you didn’t warn me.”

I tried. The pace is accelerating, Oliver. We need to move.

“What pace?” Oliver scoffed. “This isn’t some bad thriller novel—”

But the barista was already on the phone, whispering urgently. And then Oliver noticed the men in black suits. They were crossing the street towards the shop.

“Wait, no! I’m staying right here. I want answers,” Oliver said stubbornly, planting himself at the table.

But the men were closing in.

Oliver, don’t be an idiot! Run! Now!

“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

The barista’s eyes widened, and she ducked behind the counter. The two suited men burst into the shop. They were both large, built like linebackers, with strange devices strapped to their wrists. And they were looking straight at Oliver.

“There! He’s destabilizing the plot!” one shouted, pointing a brass gun at Oliver.

“Wait—plot? What plot?” Oliver jumped to his feet, knocking over his coffee. “This is crazy! I’m just some guy, okay?”

But they didn’t care. They advanced on him, and Oliver found himself vaulting over the counter. One man fired, and the brass gun whirred and clicked as a fine mist sprayed through the air.

“No! Stay away!”

Oliver threw a rack of mugs at them and sprinted for the back exit. He exploded into the alley, gasping and desperate, and ran until he couldn’t anymore. He hunched over, breathing raggedly.

“Where am I?” he whispered. “How did I—”

I told you, Oliver. They’ll erase the story if they catch us! You have to trust me.

“What story?” Oliver’s voice cracked. “What are you talking about?”

The men rounded the corner, their guns glinting. One raised his arm, and Oliver could feel the air humming with electricity.

“Target locked,” one growled.

Run! Climb the fire escape! It’s right there—

But Oliver hesitated, his gaze darting between the ladder and his pursuers.

“Oliver, no!”

The men were meters away. One flipped a switch on his gun. “Narrative parasite identified. Preparing for extraction.”

They’re lying! Don’t let them take me! Without me, you’re nothing!

“Enough!” Oliver screamed.

“Fire!” one shouted.

The last thing Oliver saw was the gun’s blinding flash. Then everything went dark.

Oliver... no…

“Extraction complete,” one man said, lowering the gun. “Entity neutralized.”

And with that, Oliver’s story ended.