Chapter 10: Forgotten Home

Chapter 10: Forgotten Home

The night air was thick and heavy as Alex walked back to the Burberry Gym. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe and recoil from the gym’s entrance, a squat brick building that squatted in the darkness like a toad. This wasn’t a desperate scramble for answers anymore. This was a final, cold walk to an altar. He felt a strange, hollow calm, the kind that comes after all the fear has been burned away, leaving only grim purpose.

He pushed open the heavy door. The late-night crowd was thin, just a few of the usual grim-faced men moving with the rhythmic, joyless motion of pistons. They didn’t look at him. They were part of the machinery, cogs in the town’s grand, monstrous engine.

Louis Alistair was waiting for him. He stood behind his counter, not writing in his ledger, but simply watching the door as if he’d been expecting Alex at this exact moment. His wide, welcoming smile was gone, replaced by a look of placid, ancient curiosity. He was a scientist observing a strange new specimen.

“You’ve made your decision,” Louis said. It wasn’t a question. His voice was a low rumble that cut through the rhythmic clank of weights.

Alex didn’t answer. He just stared at the old man, the eternal, smiling farmer who tended this grotesque harvest. In Louis’s eyes, he saw no malice, no evil glee. He saw only a profound, weary pragmatism that was somehow more terrifying.

“The name,” Louis prompted, his voice softening with a hint of what could almost be mistaken for encouragement. “Just give me the name of the replacement, and we can balance the ledger.”

“I’m not giving you a name,” Alex said, his own voice sounding distant, disconnected from himself.

He walked past the counter, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the locker room. Louis didn’t move to stop him. A flicker of something—surprise? interest?—crossed his features. He simply turned, leaning his heavy forearms on the counter to watch the final act of the play he had directed for decades.

The locker room was empty. The air hung thick with the ghosts of steam and the cloying, mildewed smell of rot. It was a stagnant, dead space, and at the far end, under a single flickering fluorescent bulb, was the numberless locker. It seemed to pulse with a quiet malevolence, a dark star absorbing all the light and hope in the room.

Alex walked towards it, each footstep echoing on the damp tiles. He remembered the first time he’d seen it, the casual dare, the bravado that had led to this nightmare. Now, there was no bravado left. He reached out his hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and placed them on the latch.

The cold was instantaneous and absolute. It wasn't the cold of ice, but the cold of a void, a chilling emptiness that seemed to suck the warmth directly from his bones, just as it had that first day. He half-expected to see that fleeting vision of an empty room again, but this time, he wasn't looking in. He was about to step inside, metaphorically, and leave a part of himself behind.

He pulled the metal door open. It swung with a low, hungry groan. There was no rush of air, no supernatural wind. Just a gaping, black maw that seemed deeper than its metal shell should allow. It was waiting.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Alex closed his eyes. He didn't fight. He didn't resist. He surrendered. He called up the memory he had chosen, his offering.

And it came.

The backyard of his old house, vibrant and alive. The scent of freshly cut grass and the sweet, heavy perfume of his mother’s rose bushes. The rough, splintery feel of the wooden porch beneath his bare feet. He could hear it all: the sizzle of burgers on the grill, the tinny sound of the radio playing a song he loved, and above it all, the chorus of his friends’ laughter. Mark, with his loud, donkey-like bray, chasing Sarah, whose giggles were like a string of little bells. He felt the phantom splash of cold water from a water gun on his arm, the shock and the delight of it. He saw his father, a silhouette against the setting sun, turning the burgers with a practiced flip of a spatula. He felt the solid, comforting weight of his mother’s arm around his shoulders, her familiar warmth, as she leaned in and whispered, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” The taste of chocolate frosting, overwhelmingly sweet on his tongue. The feeling of pure, unadulterated happiness—a warmth that spread from his chest all the way to his fingertips. It was perfect. It was home.

He held the memory in his mind, not just seeing it, but feeling it with every fiber of his being. He cherished it, polished it until it shone with an unbearable brilliance. And then, with a final, silent act of will, he offered it.

He pushed it forward, out of himself and into the cold, waiting emptiness of the locker.

He felt a violent, wrenching sensation, a spiritual tearing. He watched in his mind’s eye as the colors of his memory began to fade, bleaching to a monochrome grey. The sounds of laughter grew distant and distorted, like a radio station losing its signal. The smell of charcoal and roses turned to ash. The feeling of his mother’s arm, the warmth, the love—it all grew cold and dissolved into nothing. The memory was unspooled, consumed, shredded into meaningless data and fed to the silent, insatiable hunger.

A low hum vibrated through the locker room, a sound so deep it was felt more than heard. The metal locker door, of its own accord, slammed shut with a deafening, final boom.

And then, silence.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Alex felt it. The oppressive, suffocating atmosphere of the gym, the weight that had been pressing down on the very air since he’d first arrived, suddenly lifted. It was like a pressure valve had been released, the stale, malevolent energy bleeding out into the night, replaced by a neutral, almost clean stillness. The transaction was complete. The debt was paid.

His legs gave out and he slumped against the opposite wall of lockers, his chest aching with a hollow, phantom pain. He had to find Jason.

He staggered out of the locker room. Louis was still standing behind the counter, his expression unreadable. He gave Alex a slow, almost respectful nod, the nod of one professional acknowledging another’s costly but successful gambit. He gestured with his head towards his office door.

Alex pushed the door open. Jason was sitting in one of the chairs, his hands resting limply in his lap. He looked dazed, like someone just waking from a long, feverish dream. The deep, vacant fog in his eyes was gone.

“Alex?” Jason whispered, his voice thin but clear. He blinked, looking around the small office in confusion. “Where… where are we? What happened? I had the weirdest dream.”

Relief, so powerful it was dizzying, washed over Alex. He rushed forward and grabbed his friend’s arm. “We have to go. Now.”

“Okay,” Jason said, his brow furrowed. “But man, I have this crazy craving for a Blue Raspberry Blitz. You know, the kind that tastes like… victory.”

The words, so mundane and so perfectly Jason, were the most beautiful sound Alex had ever heard. It had worked. The locker had taken its payment and, as if spitting out the bones of a lesser meal, had released its hold on his friend.

They fled. Out of the office, past the silent, watchful Louis, through the gym floor where the remaining men continued their endless, pointless work. They burst out into the cool night, running without looking back, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and that house of hunger.

They didn't stop until they reached the edge of their neighborhood, gasping for breath under the familiar glow of a streetlamp.

“Seriously, what happened?” Jason asked, his mind slowly piecing itself back together. “The last thing I really remember is putting my Charmander card in that locker…” He trailed off, a shadow of the remembered fear crossing his face.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alex said, his voice ragged. “It’s over.” He felt a sudden, desperate need to anchor himself, to remind himself of why he’d done it. He tried to summon the image that had driven him, the warm, golden memory of his past life.

He reached for it. For the smell of the grass, the sound of laughter, the feeling of his mom’s hug.

And found nothing.

There was only a cold, empty void. A blank space in the archives of his mind. He knew, factually, that he’d had friends. He knew he’d had a birthday. But when he tried to picture his old bedroom, he saw only a vague, grey, featureless room. When he tried to remember his old friends' faces, there was only a blur. The knowledge was there, like a dictionary definition, but the feeling, the color, the life—it had been scooped out, leaving a perfectly smooth, horrifyingly empty hole.

The locker had taken its payment.

Jason was looking at him, a concerned frown on his face. “Alex? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Alex forced a smile, a brittle, painful thing. He had saved his friend. He had won. But standing there in the quiet suburban night, he had never felt more alone, or more terrifyingly far from home.