The evening of June 27, 1957, was a sunny, humid one. The town of Troy, New York, slowed down as the sun began to set, not that it was moving particularly fast in the first place. Still, the workday was over as the newlywed, twenty-four-year-old Lowell Carmichael rolled into the driveway of his one level brick house he shared with his wife, Jane.
“Janie, I’m home!” he called upon entering the house.
No answer.
“Janie? Are you here?”
Lowell caught a glimpse of her in the kitchen, which wasn’t hard to do. It was a straight shot from the coat rack in the foyer to the kitchen island, which Jane was leaning against. She looked pensive with her face buried in some kind of notebook clutched tightly in her hands.
“Jane, did you not hear me?” he asked, approaching her.
Jane’s shoulders flinched upon him, speaking. He had startled her.
“Jesus, Lowell. Why the hell would you scare me like that?” she demanded, wide-eyed and obviously annoyed.
“I didn’t mean to, Janie. I thought you heard me. I’m sorry.”
But the apology fell on deaf ears. She had returned to reading her notebook. Her eyes darted quickly from word to word with urgency. It began to concern Lowell.
“Honey, whatcha reading?” he asked after a few minutes of pause.
No answer.
“Hey Jane, whatcha got there? You ok?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say, Lowell. I just can’t believe this notebook I bought.”
“Why? What’s in it?”
“Well, I was at Wilson’s Department Store-“
“The one on Eighth Avenue?” Lowell interrupted.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, you know how I’d filled up my old notebook and was going to pick up a new one today?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well, I bought this new notebook today, and it turns out somebody’s already written a diary in it. I didn’t realize until I was already back home.”
“You’re saying somebody left their diary in an unbought notebook?” Lowell questioned with eyebrows raised.
“I mean, that’s what it is. A whole diary. But the story’s insane. I’ve read it twice today, and I can’t decide what to make of it. Is it a prank or some story idea because there’s not a chance it could be real.” she affirmed.
“Ok. Well, can I read it?”
“Be my guest,” Jane replied, handing him the notebook.
Lowell flipped to the front to find neat handwriting in black ink. The date was written at the top of each section. The entries weren’t more than two weeks old. And so, like Jane had, Lowell leaned over the kitchen island and began to read the curious journal to himself.
-June 12, 1957
My name is Francis “Frank” Reuel Todesco. I am a thirty-seven-year-old, never married, failure in life. It’s ironic, really, that my middle name means “friend of God,” because if there is a God, he’s told me repeatedly that we are definitely not friends. To start, he made me look like the human version of a horse. I’m thin, lanky, and with a long face. I think it’s the reason I’ve never had a serious relationship, but that’s not why I’m writing.
All my life, I had aspired to become an artist. I truly believed that somehow this poor, low-class kid from Manhattan was going to get discovered. I was inspired; no, I was driven to make myself into the next Cezanne, Picasso, or Kahlo. I was so determined to be a revolutionary, a household name. So I did everything right. I took out loans to learn from the greats and go to the best schools leaving me in crippling debt. But no matter, I thought. Before long, my work will be paying off my student loans, and I can make my fortune. I’d be another testament to the American Dream.
But the American Dream is dead. How could I have been so naïve? I never made my fortune. I barely make enough to scrape by. And now those student loans that were supposed to be paid off years ago are an ever compounding weight around my neck.
“Van Gogh never lived to see his art become valuable, and yet here we are selling his work for millions.” I used to tell myself. Van Gogh also cut off his own ear and died at thirty-seven. What does it matter to him that his work sells now? He’s dead and never saw a penny of it.
I am the same age now as Van Gogh was when he died. And to tell the truth, I sympathize with the poor bastard more every day. I’m not sure how much more of this purposelessness I can take, and I’m afraid I’ll do something much worse than cut off my ear. I’ve contemplated suicide in the past, but I don’t have the nerve. I’m terrified to die, and yet death is the only way out of the debt I’m in. If I am declared dead, then my debt will be erased. No more calls from the bank, no more collectors coming to my apartment threatening to repossess my things. The only problem is I’ll be too dead to enjoy it.
Luckily, I’ve come up with a plan, a last-ditch effort to turn my life around. I was at Wilson’s Department Store on Eighth Avenue when the idea popped into my head. The store is massive, stocked with everything I could need or want. “What if I hid myself inside the store before the closing time and lived here for a time?” It’s crazy, I know, but if I stayed in long enough, I would be declared missing. After no one finds me, I will eventually be declared dead.
My plan is to go to the carpeting and rugs section of the store just before closing and discretely tuck myself away. Then by nightfall, I’ll be scot-free! I’ll have successfully disappeared, and after a year or so of being reported missing, the police will give up on my search, and I’ll be declared dead. At that point, the bank will clear my debt, and I’ll be able to leave here a free man. In the meantime, I’ll have every food item, article of clothing, bedspread, and other luxury known to man while I dream up new plans for the rest of my life.
I’ll live a nocturnal life. During the day, when the store is open, I’ll sleep in my secret hiding spot in the stacks of carpets where no one would think to find me. And at night, my only worry will be the night watchman, whom I’m not too concerned with. In steaking out the store, drawing up my plans, I saw him. He’s a decrepit old thing that looks like he was hired in the 1910s. God forbid he actually finds an intruder because it may just do the poor man in. Anyway, it’ll be an abnormal life that will take some getting used to, but the pay-off will be worth it in the end. Wish me luck, because I move in tomorrow.
June 13, 1957
The time is now 10:30 at night. I was able to discretely creep into my hiding place just before closing time. I’ve been in here almost four hours now, and I’m working up the courage to explore. Hopefully, I’ll come back to make my place a little homier.
Without a hitch! I’m back with a pillow, pajamas, a corkscrew, and a $32 bottle of merlot. I did see the night watchman while I was out. The light from his flashlight was shaking feebly, and I highly doubt he heard when I accidentally made a little clink when grabbing the wine bottle. Little by little, I’ll cautiously figure this place out, but this was a good first night.
June 14, 1957
I slept surprisingly well during opening hours. I’m not sure if that was due to the wine or the intense satisfaction that my plan has worked out so far. Or at least it had, until things got weird.
I went to go fetch a meal and a fur coat. As I was looking through the coats, I heard the night watchman coming. Swiftly, I dove into the racks of furs and silently crouched as he hobbled by. A few minutes later, he was out of earshot, and I prepared to hurry back to the carpet section when something caught my eye. My heart sank, and every hair on my arms stood at attention when I realized what I had caught its eye.
Starting back were two large, clouded black eyes that appeared to be made of glass. Surely they’re fake, taxidermy perhaps, until they blinked at me. The grey lids skimming over the two bulbous eyes made a moist sound that curdled my insides. I wanted to run, scream, vomit, but none of that was possible. I would be found out for sure. So, I just slowly backed away through the furs until I felt a cold, clammy palm rest on my back, sending chills down my spine accompanied by the sound: “shhh…”
“Welcome, Frank. We’ve been expecting you.” whispered the chilly voice to my back.
I was petrified. I felt hot, then cold as all the blood drained from my face. I tasted the bitter adrenalin coursing through my body, stimulating me for fight-or-flight. I did neither because before I could figure out what to do, more and more glassy-eyed creatures began emerging from the fur coats. Within a minute, I was surrounded by grey, pale, bony figures standing no more than four feet tall. However, their constant hunched position made it hard to judge. They looked dead with their concaved faces, filmy, dark eyes, and wispy white hair.
“It’s time for you to meet our matriarch. Come.” the creature with the chilly voice said, still at my back.
They allowed me to stand upright and lead me to the furniture department. I began to break out into a nervous cold sweat. My mind was racing, but I couldn’t think straight. I wasn’t sure what to do or why I was complying. For all I knew, the matriarch could eat me for dinner. Still, I went.
I looked up, and we had stopped in front of a carved dining chair with a velvet cushion. Surrounding me were more and more of the hideous creatures, perhaps four rows deep. An entire congregation, anxious to see their queen. Slowly, I began to be able to smell them. Their aroma was concentrated as they were all together, a strange, unholy stench reminiscent of rotting tomatoes.
Without warning, the crowd began shifting. The matriarch had arrived. She was solemnly paraded in, carried to her throne on a red piano bench with a purple paisley cushion, hoisted along by four burly-looking creatures. She was the most horrid-looking of them all. She was taller, with a dusty, hollow face. The pale grey skin seemed to be clinging tightly to her skull.
Her thin, stringy hair had a green hue and bobbed with the movements of the piano bench. Her hands were curled, and arthritic with long, grimy nails that were a similar color to her hair.
As if the matriarch’s entrance wasn’t shocking enough, to my bewilderment, a human girl followed her three steps behind. She looked to be no older than seventeen years old. The girl looked terribly thin, and her skin looked like it had never been in the sun. In retrospect, it hadn’t considering she’s in this place. She was brunette with round, green eyes, wearing simple clothes and no shoes.
“Come along, Evelyn, you stupid, ugly creature,” the matriarch grumbled at the girl while keeping her eyes forward.
“Is this my fate as well?” I thought to myself, “To serve that repulsive old sandbag?”
Finally, the procession stopped. The matriarch climbed from her piano bench to her dining chair throne and addressed the eager congregation.
“Good evening, children,” she said in a deep, raspy voice. “Whom have you brought me?”
“Your majesty,” spoke up the creature with the chilly voice. “This is Francis “Frank” Todesco, the one we’ve been watching for you, your majesty.”
“Ah, yes. Well done, Inepta. The community thanks you for your service,” the matriarch congratulated as she motioned with her crumpled hand.
“Francis,” she said cooly, as her eyes locked with mine, “Welcome to our humble community. We are glad you have decided to become one of us.”
My God, I couldn’t stop staring at her. Have you ever heard the expression, “so terrible you can’t look away?” That summarizes how I felt looking into those lifeless eyes.
“One of you?” I finally fumbled.
“Why, yes. Congratulations, son. You are an Idler now, one of the tortured souls that never got their way in life. Whether it was an unwillingness to work, a pending court case, or something meager like being thrown out by your family or debt you can’t pay, we are all here because we could not cope with life on the outside. We are the leeches of society, Frank, and have become higher, more evolved beings because of it. In a few nights, you will look like us too. Exciting, is it not?”
Idler? Devolve into them? It was too much to take in. And yet, amongst the sea of hideous, stinking creatures, there was this strange girl perched at the right side of the dining chair.
“What about her?” I said, pointing to Evelyn sat on a cushion at the matriarch’s feet.
“That useless thing? My handmaiden?” she replied, obviously shocked. “My apologies, any of us have to look at that unfortunate creature, children,” she consoled, looking at the now stirring, hissing congregation.
“She didn’t choose to be here, Frank, like you or I; hence she never evolved. But, of course, I cannot let her go for fear she might expose our community. I would sooner take her to the Undertakers before I let that happen.”
This statement put the creatures in better spirits, as they began to snicker amongst themselves. Considering an undertaker is an unpleasant person on the outside, I could only imagine what they do in here.
“The Undertakers?” I repeated. “I don’t understand.”
“My boy, you will understand our way of life more every day, but the Undertakers are who one gets sent to when they break our community rules. Do you see these people?” she asked, pointing at the mannequins set up around the store.
“They are the product of the Undertaker, forever sealed in a waxy coffin. Nasty business,” she said assuredly with an intense glare. “Let them be a warning to you, Francis.”
A waxy coffin? I had thought mannequins disconcerting since I was a child. They seemed too real. But I never imagined this.
Soon after, we were dismissed. I have to get out of here. I have no clue how the hell I’ll do it either. If I leave during the day, I’ll be spotted by the daytime security and arrested for breaking an entry. If I go at night, God knows what my fate will be. All this, and I can’t help but feel awful for that poor girl, Evelyn I think her name was. The matriarch treats like a slave. I want to help her too, but I don’t know how yet.
June 15, 1957
I got up out of my spot around midnight and went looking for Evelyn. Eventually, I discovered the basement to the department store. It was disgusting; damp, with mold lining the walls, stray garbage, and a dumpster next to a chained sliding door that lead to the alley where the garbage truck takes away the trash. In the far corner of the basement was Evelyn. She was sitting with her back toward me in the fetal position on a yellowed mattress.
“Evelyn? Are you Evelyn?” I asked with a hushed voice.
She instantly turned around towards me, locking eyes with a deadly glare.
“You shouldn’t be down here,” she snapped. “I swear if you try anything I-“
“No. Please, you’ve got it all wrong,” I stopped her. “I’m looking for a way out. I never would have come in here if I knew about the Idlers and the matriarch. I’m not like them. I’m a good person with bad luck.”
She rolled her green eyes at me.
“Oh please, cut the crap. You’re exactly like them. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be in here trying to live off of what’s not yours,” Evelyn replied. “So goddamn selfish. What does it matter if you steal goods and more of my life? You never have to face the reality you made for yourself on the outside.”
I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, sticking my neck out for this wretched captive, and this is how she treats me.
“Listen, you little prick,” I objected, “I’m trying to get us out of here. I don’t have to bring you along, you know?”
She began to laugh at me. This slave sitting on a dirty mattress at the bottom of a department store began to laugh at me, her hero.
“There is no way out. I’ve been in here years. Don’t you think I would have figured it out by now?” she pressed. “And besides, how desperate are you anyway? If you get me out of here, then you’ll get a chick half your age? Besides, what are you, a man or a horse? There are transitioned people more handsome than you.”
My blood was boiling at this point. Why did I even bother? But, she was right. I don’t know how this place works, and she does. And regardless of what we think of each other, we’re our only chance out of here. So I swallowed my pride and tried again.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m just scared. I know I’m not a great person, but I thought maybe I could try to be if I helped get us out of this place. I don’t know what you’ve been through or what you’ve seen. How long have you been in here anyway?”
Evelyn got quiet. She stared at her bare feet on the mattress and took a deep breath.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I’ve lost track of time. The last thing I can remember is coming here with my mother when I was a little girl. I was so tired that day and all I wanted to do was take a nap. Like an idiot, I wandered off and fell asleep behind a counter. When I woke up, it was dark, and the store was empty. It didn’t take long for the Idlers to find me and bring me to the matriarch. I’ve been here ever since. Of course, I want to escape, but its an impossible dream. Anything that remotely threatens the community will get you sent to the Undertakers. Look, in my opinion, you should just transition because you won’t make it out of here.”
I could sympathize with her initial harshness towards me. This kid doesn’t know how old she is and has spent the majority of her life without the sun. To think I had given up on my life is unbearable. Evelyn had survived all these years despite her circumstances, which I greatly admired.
“Evelyn, listen to me.” I finally responded. “We are our best chance of getting back on the outside. Honestly, right now, I have no clue idea how we’ll do it, but I swear to give it my all.”
Suddenly, we both heard the sound of footsteps scurrying away from us. I told Evelyn I’d revisit her soon, and began to creep back to my hiding spot in the carpet department. I just dread those footsteps were going to tell the matriarch what they’d overheard.
June 16, 1957
WE’VE BEEN FOUND OUT. PLEASE, IF THIS IS MY LAST ENTRY, PLEASE, TO WHOEVER FINDS THIS NOTEBOOK, PRESENT IT TO THE AUTHORITIES AND TELL THEM TO SEARCH FOR A TALL, DARK, THIN MALE MODEL WITH BLACK HAIR WITH A LIGHT, BRUNETTE MODEL WITH GREEN EYES
Thus concluded the diary. That was indeed Frank’s last entry. Lowell slowly set down the notebook on the island, trying to make sense of what he’d just read.
“So, Lowell, do you think we should actually turn this notebook into the police? Just to be safe?” Janie asked, not believing the question she had just asked.
“Janie, honey, I promise you this is somebody’s way of having a little sick fun. They’re probably just lonely and looking for some attention,” he reassured her, and secretly himself. Though he put on a brave face, he was shaken up by the disturbing content of the diary. Particularly jarring were the heavy, panicked, all-capital pen strokes of the last entry. They were so deep you could feel them with your fingers from the back of the page.
“Of course. You’re right,” Jane finally said. “That story was way too unbelievable, anyway. There’s no such thing as Idlers and if a young girl was captive in the basement, don’t you think the employees would be a bit suspicious by now? Aw, Lowell.”
Janie wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and put her head on his chest.
“Thanks, Lowell. It was kinda freaky reading that in the house alone.”
“That’s what I’m here for, baby,” he said as he kissed the crown of her head.
“Did you see anything you liked while you were out at Wilson’s today?”
“I did, actually. There was the cutest blue sundress on a brunette mannequin beside a tall, black-haired one that had a jacket that’d look good on you.”