u/VisitMundane

My job the past year has been my one constant. Now you may not have heard of Ulric’s pretzels. Not a ton of people have. We aren’t a very big chain and well… we happen to be in the process of going out of business. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You know how malls have a certain comradery to them? Well, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re too young to remember or simply never had the experience of being set free in the giant playground of glass and linoleum by your aggravated parents on a Saturday evening with a wad of cash and two friends laughing like feral hyenas at your side. 

Or maybe you’ve never worked at a food court and had the luxury of high fiving your favorite Orange Julius worker and spending your 15% off mall discount on a post-shift treat so tantalizing that you nearly fall over after hours in a hot kitchen. 

I don’t know your life. What I do know is that my city has one of the best malls I’ve ever encountered. Or moreso, one of the only malls I’ve ever been to. Not having ventured much outside of my own neighborhood, I don't have much to compare it to. Still, as far as jobs go, I’ve had much worse. 

What a lot of people don’t realize is that a mall can be a leg of a community. A strange type of third space that you only start to notice if you’re there more than once a week. Early in the morning, the mall walkers start their trek through the place like they’re on a mission. 

It’s often the older people who’ve made it their routine exercise regimen. Or the unhoused that need a place to cool off from the summer heat. Occasionally you see habitual shoppers carting bags around in full suitcases. As mall workers, we see all types of people in the duration of a day.

At first, my smiles and waves were more compulsory. It was my job to be friendly and give out samples. But the more time I spent there, I started to notice myself genuinely looking forward to their company. Everyone is a moving part. A cog in a perfect Truman show-esque machine that seems to loop every half hour or so. 

I’d start to think, oop there’s lady-with-perm again, arguing with her husband next to the department store. In about fifteen minutes we’ll see the old man with the Yankees cap on his third lap of the day and he’ll smile and wave and make a joke about how if he worked here he’d be eating the cheese right from the nozzle. 

Don’t get me wrong, the conversations aren’t always so predictable. I’ve had a middle aged dude rant to me about the history of Kaiju in film, helped a teen girl plan her promposal to a boy she was pining over and even wound up consoling a teary-eyed woman about her divorce. 

So when I first met Hope, I wasn’t at all phased by how she turned the conversation existential. I’d assumed this came with the territory given my boss was a part of a semi-popular church and we had a lot of regulars who happened to have some flavor of religious. 

The first thing I noticed about her was that she seemed genuinely untroubled. Not in the smile-at-customer-service worker, kneejerk way. But another level of happy. She had this casual ease about her. It made me feel like somehow, if I just listened to her, everything was going to be okay. 

“Have you been curious about His word?” She asked me. I paused, trying to think of how to react. I knew what she was likely implying, given that my parents had been religious. But I’d fallen out of it due to time constraints in college. 

I wasn’t necessarily uninterested. I only hadn’t thought about it in any substantial way. 

Though I had often wondered what that meant for me. If the very banal life I was living, having just left a long-term relationship and living alone, (only entertainment the kooky customers that stopped by the storefront on occasion) meant that I was subjecting myself to a bleak afterlife with not much to show for my actual, current life. 

I told her that in all honesty, it depended on the day. That I did believe in Him but simply didn’t have reason to be consistent about it. She seemed genuinely content with my honesty, chewing on her pretzel casually

Nothing about her seemed too preachy. Actually, she really didn’t need to be. For some reason I didn’t want her to leave. Not only because of this subdued allure she exuded, but because my shifts tended to be so dull and lonely I’d have done anything to break them up. Just to talk to someone. Anyone.

As we wrapped up our conversation, we exchanged numbers. I felt strange about the whole thing. But she explained to me that she worked at the shop across the way, selling candles and room fresheners. Something about that felt comforting. A fellow employee that was probably just as eager for friends as I was.

She slipped me a coupon for 50% off tea lights. On the back she’d written,

Mandy, 

Trust that he will not forsake you.

The sentiment unsettled me a bit. Did I come off as some pitifully lonely pretzel girl that needed a stranger’s reassurance? 

What bothered me most was that I hadn’t offered my name. Only my phone number on a bit of scrap paper. I hadn’t even worn my nametag in months because I had forgotten it a few times and the boss didn’t seem to care. It wasn’t like it would have been hard to find. But I suddenly found myself feeling too… seen. 

After catching glimpses of her note near the register for the next few hours, I tore the thing up. 

Every so often after that I would catch Hope staring at me. It wasn’t threatening or anything like that. It was more like she was… studying me. Like now we had some kind of connection that made me important in her eyes. 

To add to my stress, the shop was getting a bit destitute. They were cutting hours to the point where I was digging into my meager savings just to pay rent. When I did come in, I was working on my own, eyes bloodshot from scrolling on indeed the whole night previous. 

But who was I kidding? This job was all I had. I’d never gone to college and the idea of working anywhere else felt wrong to me now. Like leaving a little piece of me behind. I know that sounds dumb, but when most of your friends leave town, you start to rely on the few things that you’re left behind with.

Even when I wasn’t seeing Hope at the sales counter, I would see her in the reflections of the glass doors or out of the corner of my eye I would catch a swath of curly hair, just out of sight. 

I think that’s also when the humming started. It was as if it was coming from right behind my eyes. 

I started thinking maybe it was the building doing construction somewhere, shaking the walls. But it wasn’t mechanical. I googled tinnitus on my break but it didn’t quite match up with how other people describe it. Almost a lyrical hum that toyed at my attention. 

On Sunday, I saw one of our regulars. But she wasn’t looking so good. 

Linette had always been a bit on the grunge side. She let her teenage granddaughters add lilac streaks into her grey hair and talked about her high school garage band like they’d been bordering on being the new Kiss. 

But she’d always taken good care of herself and held conversations with me on a regular basis. We talked about music and whatever new combination of fry oil and cheese had cropped up at the food court.

That day I noticed she was staring into space instead of rattling off her usual order. Or at least I thought she’d been spacing out. I soon noticed it was the reflective wall. 

Beyond that, she looked gaunt. I’d never seen someone lose so much weight in the span of a week. Her skin bunched around her brow bone and cheeks like the jowls of a neglected dog. The darkness under her eyes made them look bruised like she hadn’t been sleeping either. 

I said hello to get her attention and her face snapped towards me, suddenly more aware than I'd been expecting.

“Oh, honey…” She raised a hand to my face, startling me. “Don’t you want to know what happens after?”

I froze for a moment, noticing that her hands looked rough and desiccated, like she’d been doing an unholy amount of yard work. I stepped back, letting her hand fall and hit the counter. She didn’t flinch, arms hanging useless by her sides. 

I muttered an apology regardless. She was a nice lady and I hadn’t meant to cause her harm, just to weasel out of her grasp.

“After what?” Having had Hope on the brain, I had wondered if maybe she was also trying on some new religious ideology. Not that she seemed to be the type to attend church. But it wasn’t impossible.

Linnette mimed some laughter as if she were humoring my feigned ignorance. But I wasn’t feigning anything. She poked a thumb at me as if to say “get a load of this gal” and then simply walked away without buying anything.

The interaction stayed in my head all week on replay. What had she meant? Was it in fact some kind of mall-centric cult that I had missed the memo on? Or was she maybe alluding to the fact that she knew we might go out of business soon?

I kept remembering the feeling of her crusty hand on my face. It was possible that she was just going through something mentally. But the timing of both interactions couldn’t have been a coincidence.

So now we come to tonight. It’s a Wednesday and of course as usual it's pretty slow. But it’s always slow on weekdays and frankly I don’t mind. I usually catch up on reading or draw in the margins of the employee manual. 

But today, I got a call from my boss. The man was in tears explaining how we most likely will only last another week or so. That I should make other preparations for work. It doesn’t surprise me enough to hit me right in the moment. 

It took a couple of hours to really sink in. But as I’m brushing butter and salt on what will most likely be some of my last pretzel tots, I get a pang of anxiety in my gut. No, I was not surprised. But what am I going to do without this?

Don’t you want to know what happens after?

The words have been echoing through my synapses. They’re making a mockery of me. Of this life I’ve built.

I’ve been realizing that it’s very possible that the reason I haven’t found a new job yet is because I don’t want one. 

Anyway, I was closing up today which meant that by the time I left the mall it was dark and empty. The humming became even more intense now and I don’t know what could possibly be making the sound now that all of the bustle is gone. 

A stress reaction. That’s all.

When I walked out carrying the day’s trash thrown over my shoulder, the only sound was the night cleaner guy across the way wiping down the windows. An ominous squeak, woosh. It gave me a chill anyway. Call me jittery but until you’ve worked a closing shift in the echoing maw of an empty mall, you have no idea what it’s like.

Next, I entered the service hallway. This is something I would immediately regret. But the alternative was venturing down an alley to get to the outside dumpster and I was not prepared nor in the mood for the anxiety of all that.

The emergency lights did not illuminate enough to ease my jitters either, but that was to be expected. 

I shuffled through the darkness. The place was too quiet. Besides the steady humming that seemed to get louder every minute. 

I curse my lack of foresight here, because I could’ve gotten out my phone flashlight. But I wanted to get out as quick as possible and I knew that digging into my backpack would only hold me back. 

I saw the light at the end where someone had propped the door open to the exit. But I let that make me cocky. Or maybe that had been the plan for me all along.

My foot caught on a sudden nothing and I fell through the void I now realize must’ve been an open vent or bulkhead or something. Before I could process the lurch in my stomach from the fall I hit a new patch of ground. 

My knee made a cracking sound as it met the concrete and my eyes watered with the pain. The contents of the trash bag had belched open on top of me and I could feel salt and grease already starting to mingle with my hair. 

I was about to cut my losses, leave the bag and run up the closest flight of stairs out of the place when I saw it. The altar. 

Candlelight illuminated what had to be at least ten feet of store items stacked into a tower, glistening with some kind of tar-colored viscous goo. I could make out brief glimpses of breakfast cereals, designer bags, the latest trendy keychain that’d been selling at a nearby kiosk, body oils, soaps, candles. 

I crouched there, at first more perplexed and mesmerized by the glowing beacon than afraid. It started to concern me, actually. The lack of urgency when I looked at it. All my panic melting away. But then I saw something move at the foot of the tower. 

A figure appeared to have been kneeling and praying. Not just any figure, but Hope. She had turned her eyes to me. They were glassy and I could see tears shine on her face. I knew they weren’t tears of sadness but… something else. Devotion? 

She gave me a hollow, sickening smile.

Her hands were still clasped at the altar and I gaped in horror as I saw that one of them was nailed down to the side of the plastic base of the monstrosity. Blackened blood pooled out from her palm. 

I realized finally what it was that was housing the tower’s collection. Our mall’s old wishing well. The one I’d tossed pennies in as a child. 

It’s needless to say I got out of there fast. Despite hearing the sing-song calls of Hope trying to lure me back. “MandyMandyMaaandy” I heard not far behind me. The fact that she must have literally ripped herself away to follow me was more than disconcerting. 

But eventually, like drains leading to the ocean, apparently all tunnels in the mall eventually lead to an exit when you’re frantic and running from an unhinged sales lady. 

So I'm in my car now, after having sprinted to the back of the parking lot because even the parking is a struggle here. I’m wondering what the hell I should do besides writing this. 

I know I should probably quit, but with Ulric’s going under, I feel awful leaving the poor guy at his weakest point. 

Besides, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t morbidly curious about what exactly is happening here. These people are my people and I don’t want to abandon them without an explanation.

Still, I can't help feeling a sense of dread wondering what it is that they are praying to. Who or what is taking their offerings.

Like I said, the mall is all I have at this point. So I might as well stick around and find out.

(To be continued)

Having been in the medical field for fifteen years, I have seen it all. Or at least I thought I had. Sometimes I look back on that day and wish I had expanded my views of what constitutes as scientific.

Maybe it would have been smarter to accept that there are just some things outside of the current realm of understanding. Maybe then I wouldn’t be in the situation I find myself in now.

Regardless, I have seen a lot of sick and anxious people. In fact, I had been known in our town for being “the gentle doctor”. The one parents would send their kids to when they’d graduated from pediatrics and were rounding the bend towards college age. To ease into the transition between childhood and adult healthcare.

 

I even took on those with a history of psychiatric problems and developmental disabilities. My aim was always to create a comfortable environment, knowing full well that some of my patients wouldn’t seek out a doctor otherwise.

 

So when I met one particular patient (we’ll call him Theo), I was not at all caught off guard by his demeaner. The boy sitting in the nylon chair in the corner of the room was squirrelly and anxious.

 

 A waifish plume of red hair stuck out over his eyes, the whites of which looked bloodshot and strained. His skin was blotchy and he wore a hoodie pulled up over his face and neck.

 

I suspected he was covering something up with it. Perhaps the rest of the apparent rash or worse. I greeted him kindly, introducing myself. I did not attempt to offer a handshake considering he did not give the impression of wanting to be touched.

 

At this point in my career, I knew better than to catch anyone off guard. Especially someone in such discomfort. As I watched the boy shaking in his seat, I was prepared for the possibility that he might work himself into a panic attack or bolt from my office entirely.

 

When asked if he could remove his clothes while I waited in the hall, he refused. He told me that the hoodie needed to stay. We compromised in that he could wear it over the johnnie, as long as he could lift it up enough for me to check his heart and blood pressure.

I reassured him that, at first, we would only have a simple conversation. At his own pace, he could take me through his symptoms and concerns. I even asked him if he would prefer a male doctor, given the concerns about showing his body.

 

He shook his head stiffly and insisted that he only wanted to get the appointment over with. Still, I continued to inquire about his support system. Did he have someone who might be able to come in with him to keep him calm? Perhaps a family member or trusted friend.

 

“My stepdad,” He ground out, teeth chattering. “He’s waiting in the car. But he won’t come. He just wants to make sure…”

 

He shook his head abruptly, as if convincing himself to cut off any further explanation.

 

“We just haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately.”

 

I started going through possibilities in my head. Maybe it was substances that brought him here and he didn’t want to admit it. Or show the evidence on his skin. Or a myriad of other stressors that college life brought on. But he hadn’t disclosed it during intake.

 

“I see.” I nodded. “Well I must remind you that you are an adult and you need to give your own consent to be treated. You understand that right?”

 

He nodded, but I noticed the clench of his jaw escalating to a grind. I wondered if I was too out of my depth. If he needed to speak to someone in the mental health field before he’d be comfortable enough for an exam.

 

“While you did sign the forms, I wouldn’t feel comfortable providing treatment if it’s causing you such distress. Perhaps we should reschedule at a later date when you can come back with a fami-“

 

“No.” He cut me off, voice an abrupt exhale. “Just… check my heart. Please.”

 

I quirked a brow, surprised at the emphasis on his heart. Perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me about his condition. I had assumed that his main concern was the rash (likely contact dermatitis) or something a bit less extreme. He’d been tight-lipped about most of the symptoms. Until now.

 

The sudden urgency struck a chord with me and I agreed, setting up my tools to begin the exam. But Theo soon began to screw up his face in disgust. Confused, I asked him what the matter was.

“The smell.” He gagged. “What is that smell?”

 

I paused before approaching him further. The only smell I could think of that could be different was the rose perfume I was wearing. I tensed, hoping I had not somehow given the boy an allergic reaction.

 

He retched suddenly, his hood falling to his shoulders at the sudden jolt and exposing a nasty infection. Purple veins crawling outward from a wound. Or rather… two wounds. They were dark with dried blood and yellowed at the edges.

 

Concerned for my patient and worried I was making things worse, I removed myself and went to the nearest bathroom. I scrubbed my pulse points where I always applied my perfume, catching the dazed expression on my face in the mirror. My heart rapped against my chest feverishly.

 

The wound on Theo may have been a snake bite or something of the sort. Some animal. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d seen it.

 

I shook off my silly fears of what it might have been and hurried back to my patient. It was possible that the shaking and odd behavior were a result of shock and I needed to take his concerns seriously, now more than ever.

 

His head was once again tucked into the hoodie, but he allowed me to examine his chest with the stethoscope.

 

As I shifted the end around to find the spot I had located in every patient before him, I found myself perplexed. I could feel the muscles tense underneath his skin as if he was also becoming gravely concerned.

 

The shaking had grown more excessive and I tried to reassure him that at times these things could be tricky to locate. Something I was also trying desperately to convince myself of as well. But as I held my breath, the only sound I could hear in my expectant ears was the hollow sound of empty ribs. 

 

I hadn’t noticed it before, but where the side of my hand settled on his skin her felt as cold as stone. It was emanating. Just the same way that the sun could draw heat to your skin, he could pull it away just as easy. I began to stiffen, wondering incredulously if I had begun to hallucinate.

 

There was a shift then. It felt as if the tension had built so strongly in the space between us that before either of us moved, something would snap. A magnet whose pull I no longer had control over.

 

The sinking realization set in that my silence was a confession. I had heard the physical confirmation of what we both knew to be true.

 

It was then that his mouth opened, incisors gleaming. Before I could process the feeling I was on the ground being torn away at like one of those anatomical models I used to play with as a child. First carotid, then jugular.

 

Where I’d expected it to spurt, my blood was being siphoned away. It was as if some sucking mechanism was tucked inside him that I hadn’t seen. Along with so many other anomalies I had missed.

 

I helplessly pawed at the young man, trying to scratch at his acne-ridden face. But the force of his feeding frenzy was too strong, the pressure on my larynx silencing any scream that could’ve fought its way out of me. At last, my vision swam with black and my strength left me as I became limp and bloodless.

 

When I awoke, I tried to scream through the bloody gurgle of what was left of my throat. But the vocal chords must have been destroyed. They rushed me to the hospital and sewed me up. My voice hasn’t been the same since.

 

I’ve heard that around the office, they still talk in hushed tones about the man who had a mental break and maimed a staff member. They’ll never know the full story and I won’t tell them.

 

Even when my throat fully heals and my voice box knits itself anew, I will agree with them. I will recount the story as another occupational hazard. I will smile and pick up new clients and try to go on as usual.

 

I switch the news off, knowing that this false story is better. Better for me to know and the public to believe they’re safe. Except for you. There you are. Now you know. Reading my story while I remain anonymous.

 

I suppose I just had to get it off my chest. After all, I lie to my own doctor quite a lot these days.