CHOOSE YOUR OWN MINDFUCK: A Night in Eighth Block Tower (A47)

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You’ve decided to go right…

After ensuring the coast is clear for a second and third time, you finally coerce yourself to step out of the apartment and into the hallway.

As soon as you close the door, the woman standing to your left, down at the end of the hallway looks up at you, tears welling in her eyes, and she shouts, “The salt! Beware of the salt!”

The salt? What the hell is she going on about? you think, but as you turn and walk away from her, you notice the many heaps of salt collected along the baseboards of the hallway. You look up to see it sprinkling down through cracks in the ceiling. You shield your eyes to protect them from the soft rain of granules. Though there’s no obvious reason as to why the salt is there, you’re still not sure why the woman’s convinced that it’s dangerous in some way.

Then you remember where you are: the Eighth Block Tower. The residents are all mad here. It’s what you’ve always been told, anyway. Then it occurs to you that that’s not all you’ve been told about the tower… you’ve also been told that it doesn’t take long for the tower to work its way inside you. Madness. It comes to everyone who dares walk through the front door. So, is that what this is? Is this madness? You look up at the ceiling once again, but this time you hold out your hand to catch the salt in your open palm. After a dime’s worth collects there, you bring your palm to your lips and push your tongue against it. The salt dissolves and tastes exactly as you expect it to taste.

It’s real. This isn’t madness, you think. Not yet.

The woman continues to shout from her end of the hallway, attempting to get your attention, but you just ignore her and continue pushing forward. You can still hear her voice echoing off the walls as you turn to walk down the stairwell.

Not even a full flight down, and you’re greeted by the most wonderful sight you’ve ever laid eyes upon. Your heartbeat quickens and your palms begin to sweat. It’s a miracle, no two ways about it. It’s as if all your prayers have been answered. You can hardly believe your luck.

Lying on the stairs now, directly at your feet, are two bodies—warm, but dead. They’re the bodies of your former accomplices: Leonard and Larry. It’s pretty obvious how they died, as blood continues to gush from their open wounds. Of course, you’re not positive what led them to their demise, but you deduce that one or perhaps both of them got greedy and attempted to rob the other, right here on the stairwell. Leonard managed to land a bullet straight in the middle of Larry’s chest, and Larry—being the deadeye that he was—put a bullet in the small gap right between Leonard’s eyes. Neither one stood a chance at surviving.

So that’s what that thunderous sound was…

Scattered across the stairwell are hundreds of dollar bills, in various denominations, spattered with tiny dots of bright red blood. You remove the bag tucked under Leonard’s arm and begin tossing the loose bills into it, one by one, until it’s all accounted for. Once you have the cash packed away, you bolt towards the front entrance of the building, hoping not to be seen by any of the residents.

I’m home free, you think, just as you push open the busted glass doors of the front entrance.

But then you remember that you don’t have a way out… no plan, no getaway vehicle—nothing. It’s much too late to catch a bus now, you know for a fact, because you arrived on the final stop of the evening. You could call a cab—you certainly have enough money for that now—however, you don’t have a phone to call one up.

You look around, and standing under the warm glow of bright moonlight, leaned up against the parked Oldsmobile you spotted earlier, is a young woman, dressed in all black. She looks bored, doom scrolling through her social media feeds on her cell phone.

You take a moment to assess your wardrobe, specifically looking for spots of blood or any other incriminating evidence that might be present on your person. A quick examination says you’re in the clear. You decide you’re going to approach this woman to ask if she’d mind calling you a cab. What’s the worst that could happen?

Once you’re standing within ten feet of her, you notice she’s watching you out of the corner of her eye.

“Um, excuse me, miss…,” you say, but before you can finish your sentence, she throws her arm up in the air and sprays you down with some liquid concoction of harsh chemicals—pepper spray. Instantly, your eyes and nose are set ablaze. You fall to the concrete to writhe and squirm and to kick at the air like a raging infant. “What the hell, lady? Why’d you go and do that for? I never did anything to you!”

She nonchalantly lifts up her phone and begins doom scrolling through her social media feeds once again. “Can’t be too cautious in these parts,” she says, monotonously. “A word of advice: If you want to avoid having your eyes soaked in various chemical agents, then don’t run up on women here on the streets of Eighth Block. You’ll get it every damn time.”

“I was only going to ask if you’d call a cab for me!” you shout, still rolling around on the pavement. The more you rub your eyes, the more they burn, so you try to avoid it—however when you don’t rub them, they feel as if they're dissolving and leaking down the sides of your face. There’s nothing you can do to make the situation any better. You’ll just have to wait for time to heal your wounds.

“A cab? So, you’re not from around here?” she asks, sounding surprised to hear the request.

“Hell no, I’m not from around here!” you shout. You’re livid. Pain makes you angry, and it’s only getting worse by the second. Thankfully, she doesn’t take offense.

“Wow. Good for you,” she says, finally looking up from her phone. “Most folks, when they cross paths with the tower… well, they just end up staying here… forever. It has that kind of effect on people. I’ve always thought of it as a sort of trap. Once you step into it, it sinks in deep and never lets go. But you… it seems you’ve somehow avoided it. Nice. It doesn’t happen often, I’ll tell you that.”

You don’t have a response. You’re so busy dabbing your eyes with the bottom of your t-shirt that you’ve only heard about half of what she just said.

“What’s in the bag?” she asks. You don’t have the energy to come up with a believable lie.

“Fifty-six thousand dollars in cash,” you say between grunts.

She just laughs, then proceeds to dial a number on her phone.

“Who are you calling?” you ask, immediately regretting your decision to tell her about the cash. What were you thinking?

“I’m calling you a cab,” she says. “Before you get yourself killed out here. You have to be a special kind of stupid to carry that much cash on you, especially in this part of town. If I don’t get you out of here and something bad happens, I’ll just feel guilty… and that’s the last thing I need—more guilt.”

“Something bad has happened to me,” you say, now lying in a fetal position on the sidewalk, hugging your bag of cash. “And you’re the one who did it to me.”

“You think that’s bad?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Man, I can tell you didn’t spend much time in the tower, cause if you had, you’d gladly take a bath in pepper spray if it meant you were getting out of here. The terrors happening inside those walls, they aren’t the kind you can just walk away from. It’s like that old saying: you can take the man out of the tower, but you can’t take the tower out of the man.”

You’re done talking. You don’t even thank her for calling a cab. You’re still angry. Instead, you just rock back and forth, waiting for the pain to subside.

The cab arrives about ten minutes later.

“Hey you! Is your name Gale?” the cabbie yells out the window.

“Yeah, but the ride is for my friend here,” she says, pointing down at you.

The cabbie shakes his head. “I should’ve known better than to accept a fair in fuckin’ Eighth Block.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, laughing. “He’s harmless. He isn’t one of us. So he says…”

The cabbie opens his door and steps out onto the street. “I better be getting a nice tip for this shit, that’s all I can say,” he mutters under his breath, but you hear it clearly. He leans over and helps you to your feet.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Gale says. “You’ll definitely get a nice tip. Won’t he, pal?” She directs the question at you, but as you look back, you’re only able to see a blurred outline of her. Your eyes are so wet and swollen that you can no longer see the details in anything anymore.

The cabbie pushes you into the backseat and you immediately spread across the length of it. He shuts the door, returns to his seat, then leans back to ask you where you’re headed.

“As far away from Eighth Block as possible,” you say.

He nods. “I know just the place.”

As he drives away, you pull yourself up in the seat to take one final look back at the Eighth Block Tower, shrinking in the distance behind you. The entire city is a blur, but even devoid of details, you’re still able to make out which building is the tower. It’s the only one glowing a sinister green.

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