micro-fiction monday: feb 17

yesterday was monday oops holiday weekends, amirite ladies?

cw: visceral descriptions, claustrophobia, Dolly Parton villain arc

Jean was the talent, plain and simple.  She had the charm, the personality, the voice, a smile you could hear through the static.  To me, the 2am-6am slot on our college radio was just a credit, but to Jeannie, it was an opportunity. She took every Sunday morning slot as a time to shine, while I spent the four hours playing Candy Crush, shotgunning redbulls and trying to stay awake.

Jean was one of those girls that was easy to envy, but hard to hate. She approached life with a sort of naiveté that made her want to always believe the best in people.  I guess that included me.

I’ll say that I didn’t grow up in an environment that was conducive to accepting help.  I saw Jean's extension of kindness as a pity, or that she was using it as a tool to get something out of me.  In my head, I thought that she must have saw me as someone to fix, or someone to take advantage of, someone who needed her companionship. I bristled against it, like I always did. She took the hint, gave me space, but her kindness never relented.  It took me much too long to realize that Jean was just like that. There wasn’t an ulterior motive, the way she walked through life, the way she carried herself: it wasn’t an act she was putting on.  Jeannie really did care how your day was going, or how your mom was, or what your plans were for the weekend.

One advantage of the timeslot we were assigned was that Jean could basically say whatever she wanted on air.  I wasn’t tracking the metrics but I had to assume that there was at most 5 people at any given time listening, and I doubted school administration was tuning in.  She could talk about how classes were going, what teacher’s she liked, or hated, the weather, anything that she wanted.

Hearing her talk about her life while we broadcasted made me realize how much we had in common, especially when it came to movies. She had objectively correct opinions, and a knack for pattern recognition that imbued everything with more symbolism than I could ever imagine up, maybe even more than what the filmmaker's intended. I loved hearing her opinion on why she thought certain shots were done a certain way, and found myself eager to talk about it further after the show.  Our good-bye chats got longer and longer. Eventually we were making plans to catch movies together, hang out, grab dinner. Against all odds I had, for the first time in a long time, made a friend.

March had come, the last few weeks before final exams. And yet, it was hard to believe it was almost officially ‘springtime’, considering the metric ton of snow that had just been dropped on us. The wet snow continued to fall through the night, and I watched, not realizing that the door to the exit was being sealed shut from the outside.

It started with a tweet, and then a text, and then a phone-call.

The tweet from McGill University, @mcgillu: Weather Alert. All in-person classes scheduled for tomorrow, Monday, March 15, are requested to shift online whenever possible. All in-person assignments, tests and exams will be postponed and rescheduled as necessary. Check your email for more details and updates.

I shared it to the station groupchat with the caption, “So, should me and Jean pack up???”.  A conversation started, mostly from Nadia and Ujin, about how they had been making bets on whether or not they’d be coming in this morning. Retrospectively, it was obvious, but I hadn't considered that a school closure meant that no one was coming in to take the 6am slot over. Jean and I were going to have to shut the station down all by ourselves. Great.  

I’d taken the time to carefully write down all the instructions our Prof had given us, as he requested... all two steps. Cut the feed from the studio to the transmitter. Then shut off the transmitter. Frankly, it seemed kind of idiot-proof.

The broadcast wound down, Jean said her good-byes and we cut the feed from the studio. I had my headphones on, monitoring the station output.  Jeannie’s mic was cut, there was no track set to play, the broadcast was finished, and I’d disconnected every aspect from the studio to the transmitter. So then, why was music playing over the station?   It certainly wasn’t anything Jeannie would’ve queued up, some old country song whined its way through the airwaves.

I looked for any indication for why this was playing.  Dials, anything with any levels showing output.  I couldn't find anything.

“Did you get off alright?”  

I jumped.

“Jesus Ro, are you alright?”


“Yeah, sorry,” I stammered, “I think there’s something wrong with the station.”



She plugged her headphones in next to mine.  

“What song is that?”

“I don’t…” I listened closer.  Dolly Parton’s voice was hard to mistake.

One day in the summer, we took some flowers
To place on some old family graves
Jeannie said, "Mommy, ain't it dark in the ground?
Oh, Daddy, I'd be so afraid”

The song began to slow, like the rotations per minute were turned down, then a gurgle interrupted the song.  Then another.  I looked to Jean, confused. Her eyes were already cast into the booth, squinting past her furrowed brow. Dolly Parton’s voice sounded like it was boiling over. I turned to look at what she was seeing.  

A puddle of black ooze eked out of the microphone, spilling onto Jean’s papers, and spreading further on the desk.  Dolly Parton’s warbling vibrato shifted to a gurgle, and I realized the sound was projecting out of the microphone on the desk.

“What is that? Is there something wrong with the battery?”

“There's no battery, Jea, everything's turned off.” I showed her on the soundboard where the light was no longer illuminated.

“Are we still on-air?”

“I-I don’t know.” 

A screech came over the Fire Alarm speaker system, I clapped my hands to my ears as a sinusoidal frequency tuned, then honed into the station broadcast.  The song started to play station-wide.

Then she looked up at her daddy and me
And said something that broke both our hearts

“Turn off the transmitter, Ro!”

“What?”

“Turn. Off. The. Transmitter.”  She forced each word out between gritted teeth.

She said, "When I die, please don't bury me
Because Jeannie's afraid of the dark"

I reached for the switch just as the lights cut.

The sound snapped off like an old CRT TV, leaving a vacuum of space where the music had just been. Residual static was palpable in the air. Despite the blizzard outside, the air was hot and still. Instinctively, I held my breath.

A draft cut through the air as the room's pressure changed. The studio door had cracked open.  A squelch echoed through the booth.  Squelch, drag, squelch, drag.

I ran. I wasn’t having any of what God was serving me today. I darted to the door and threw it open. The dragging squelch locked on a trajectory and sped up, heading straight for me.  I grabbed Jean's arm and dragged her out with me, closing the door behind us.

There was a moment of calm.

“I was hoping there’d be emergency lights out here,” I mumbled, fishing out my phone flashlight.  “C’mon.  Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

“The transmitter’s still on.”

“It’s not. The power’s out.”

“Oh,” Jeannie said.  She sounded dazed.

“C’mon,” I guided her forward.  As if on cue, the door cracked open again, knocking Jean forward, the open door separating us. Through the dark, I could see it again.  It had grown significantly. If before it was the size of a forearm, now the black puddle of goo had grown to the size of a human torso.

Squelch, drag, squelch, drag.

Jean froze again.  The ooze grew, as if rising up on its haunches, towering over Jeannie’s form, quivering on the floor.  


“Here!  Over here!” I started clapping, waving the flashlight, trying to attract its attention as if it were a black bear.  The creature’s attention was unwaveringly focused on Jean.  

She screamed as the ooze crashed over her like a wave.  The sound muffled as the ooze got in her mouth, smothered her face. I scrambled helpless, unsure of what I could do.  

Help. I needed to get help.

As I turned to run for the door, my hip slammed into something. Disoriented, I grabbed at it to shove it out of the way.  I felt the clasps on the wall and quickly recognized the shape.

Fire Extinguisher.

I pulled it from its bracket, aimed at the creature and squeezed the handle as hard as I could.

Nothing happened.

The black mass turned slowly, intrigued by the action. I wasn’t sure where Jean was.

I fumbled on the side of extinguisher, ripped out the pin, aimed again, and squeezed.

Whatever I thought would happen, it certainly wasn’t that the black ooze would melt into the floor, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West style. But there it was, seemingly dissolving in front of me as I advanced on it, emboldened by the success.

I realized I was cackling maniacally as the canister emptied.  I threw it to the side, as I examined the residual puddle, only maybe the size of my palm now. It gurgled, spitting black ooze over the walls.  I stepped away, keeping a close eye as I backed towards the door.

I felt the push bar against my back and shoved hard.

Nothing.  

I tried again.

I peeked out the door window, turning my back briefly.  A massive snowbank had accumulated in front of the door.  Someone would have to come dig us out.

I turned back to the goo, as it slid pathetically towards me.  I almost couldn’t help but feel bad. Almost.  

I grabbed the spare extinguisher from the professor’s office and finished the job.  There was nothing but specks of its existence, ink spots splattered around the station.

I took a deep breath, and fell to my knees.

“Jea?” I called. “Jeannie, I got it. You can come out.”

I didn't want to believe what I'd seen.  I wasn't ready to give up hope yet. I wandered to the end of the hallway, where I’d last seen her, pushing the door that had separated us closed.  

“Jea?”

The hallway was empty.  I walked to the door at the other end of the hallway, and pressed on the push bar.  This door was blocked too.  My last ditch hopes that Jean had gotten out where dwindling by the second.

I wandered back to where I’d dropped my phone, ignoring the new crack segmenting the screen and lifted the flashlight.  I checked every corner.

Jean was gone.

I called for help, finally.  I was dug out of the station.  Paramedics wrapped me in a tinfoil blanket.  I was treated for shock and psychosis. I couldn’t answer when they asked where Jean had gone.  I returned to university the following semester after making a “full recovery”. It didn’t feel like it. For one, Jeannie was still missing. Not to mention the fact I was starting my degree over in a new major.  Communications, the radio station, those classes.  They weren't something I could face again.  My parents were suprised, but ultimately supportive of my shift to Bio-Chem.  Maybe one day I'll be able to understand what I saw, understand what happened to Jeannie.  Maybe one day, the sound of Dolly Parton's voice won't make me nauseous.