My eyes shoot open to a stark white ceiling and dim lighting, palms sweaty and chest tight. The suction cups and needles​,​ attaching my arms and legs to the simulation equipment​,​ feel sticky and sharp​, ​and the leather ​pullout​​ ​chair I’m on​ ​suddenly feels like I’m sitting on needles.

BY ISABELLA PISANI

IMAGE BY EBRU KUR

This morning, a note was found in Dr. Carter’s office.  

Before that, my day was boring as usual. I w​o​ke up and ​made​​ ​myself presentable​,​ ​​leaving​​ ​my room at the Sunflower Inn to go on a walk alone. Everyone I pass​ed​ by always sa​id​​ hello to me​.​ I weave​d​ through old red and white brick buildings, but I ​didn't​ respond. Today, I’m more content to listen to birds chirping,​ the​ ​wind chimes​ blowing​ and​ sightseeing the timeless chipped paint on the buildings. ​T​ak​ing​ in the organic sounds of nature—which, is to say, everyone else’s conversations, is ​not ​totally​ ​eavesdropping. After a loop around the town, I realize​d​ that I missed a distinctly messy gargoyle​-looking man—Dr. Carter.  

Odd, but nothing to be concerned about.  

That is, until I found out from the sounds of nature that no one had seen him all day. T​he pathetic nurse — more like assistant — who insisted on following him around literally every day​ hadn’t seen him​, no​r​​ ​the patrons at the grimy old saloon where he did his gambling. N​​ot​ even the local farmer, who ​brought​ everyone fresh produce, so fresh, you can see the dirt on it, ha​d​​ ​heard from him since last night. I​f​ Dr. Carter wasn’t the only person in this dingy town with any sort of medical expertise, whether that be from old age or experience, I wouldn’t ​care about​​ ​his apparent absence. 

Unfortunately, he is a necessity in this place. Which ​led​ me to visit his office. Oddly, his door was locked​.​ I ​took​ it into my capable hands and picked the lock. All it took was a spare hairpin I kept in my pocket​ and​ a few flicks of my wrist and it was open. Breaking and entering is a crime Frankie, I hear​d​ a suspiciou​s​​ ​Dr. Carter-sounding-voice​ ​in my head​ say​. ​”No​​,​ it isn’t,” ​I said, ​”it’s investigative work​.​​ ​​You wouldn’t understand, old man! “

Anyway.  

None of his stuff was askew and everything was clean. No signs of foul play. How boring​, I thought​. I continued to search. Nothing in his ​vials looked​ out of the ordinary​.​ ​H​​is​ equipment was in the same crusty box as his animal carcasses​. Several creatures, yet to be dissected, ​were ​kept in the corner of his room​ so​​ ​if the smell got​ ​too ​funky, it could potentially be ignored. Gross. Next to his ​desk, the surface cluttered ​with the town’s medical files, drawings of human anatomy and other papers with blurred lines, was ​o​ne note​.​ ​It​ stuck out, as the ink is not the typical coal-black colour, but a blood red. Though, like ​many​​ ​others, I can’t read the content of the letter, blurred, just like all the other words in this town. The only words visible to me ​were​: Dr. Miles Carter / isn’t here / tomorrow.  

​​The words left a bad taste in my mouth​.​ Dr. Carter ​wa​​s​ always here when ​I was​. So​,​​ despite the lack of evidence of foul play, I assumed the worst. ​​​ 

Murder, though it could eventually happen, was not the case here. Obviously, he was kidnapped, but who would want to kidnap Dr. Carter? He was old, unkempt, and annoying. There were a few people (not me) who would want to deck him. Weird people who would want to lock him in their basement​. ​Either way, it was time to snoop around​.​​ ​Luckily for me, I already h​ad ​a suspect​ in mind​​ ​who would have a reason to kidnap him​.​​     ​ 

Gale Atwater, the nurse. She started coming here after meeting Dr. Carter at a Science ​C​​onvention​​. S​​tudying​ something about the development of Artificial​ I​ntelligence in relation to celestial bodies. She’s bubbly, annoyingly so, and utterly obsessed with Dr. Carter​.​ It’s almost pathetic. I’ve heard (and participated) in bets of when she’​d​ finally fess up​ to liking him​, and so far, I’m winning​.​​ ​ But that’s not the point here. Her motive​ could be​​ ​to wed him away from prying eyes, maybe have some sort of secret honeymoon where their delusional experiments will​…​​     ​ 

​​“​You,​”​ the ominous disembodied Dr. Carter voice beg​an​​,​ ​“​need to stop reading romance novels.​”​  

Which is untrue, but maybe he’s got a point. Gale is too mousy, and frankly, doesn’t have the willpower to kidnap someone. That’s fine though, there are many other people who would like to see the private downfall of Dr. Miles Carter​.​ Like Glenn Dwyer, ​a ​notorious gambler and infamous loan shark​.​​ ​​He​​ ​spends his time​ ​at the Velvet Saloon, terrorizing the patrons with his obnoxious personality and (lousy) cheating during games. He first met the doctor during a game of poker at a casino, where he promptly lost all his money. The doctor offered him a job at his lab, where he assumed the position of unwilling lab rat​, though ​his complaints​ are ​generally kept to a minimum​ these days​, due to the high pay Dr. Carter offers.  

​​​H​​is​ perceived debt to Dr. Carter is what ke​pt​​ ​him coming back to this place. Had Dr. Carter not beaten him at his own petty game of mucking cards, I’m sure he wouldn’t be here right now. ​B​​y​ taking him out, he can finally leave the lab trials behind him, run with the money​ and live the dream life he’s always wanted!​​​ 

Feeling triumphant, I exit​ed​ Dr. Carter’s office and ma​d​​e​ my way to the Velvet Saloon, where he’ll no doubt be. As I beg​a​​n​ my march to the saloon, I pass​ed​ by the Sugarplum Bakery, the town hall, and other townsfolk— participants, suspects, criminals—when something ​caught​​ my eye. 

A slim figure, slipping through the alley between Marley’s hair salon and the community library. Intrigued, I change​d​ paths, and decide​d​ that​ ​no matter how obnoxious Glenn seems, he is not the perpetrator—after all, this job funds his unsavoury endeavours more than any rigged card game ever will. Anyway, the figure that I​ am​​ ​following treads a path that leads into the forest behind town, the perfect place to hide Dr. Carter’s body... why didn’t I think of this before? The figure keeps walking until they reach a cluster of trees. They turned to the right and that’s when I realized the sketchy figure I was following was...the farmer? 

Well. I can’t say I saw that one coming.  

​​Though, it makes sense, looks can be deceiving. It’s always the innocent-looking ones, and the farmer fits that. With big doe eyes and long flowing hair, Mira Hale was always delivering free food to the townsfolk. Even now, she moves toward a tree to harvest sap, most likely to hand​ ​out. It’s probably a distraction. But Dr. Carter always raved about how sweet she was, and though I only spoke with her a few times, I begrudgingly had to agree with him. But not anymore.​​​ 

​​How could someone do this, especially to someone who has given these people so much? It doesn’t matter, because now, I need​ed​ to make sure that Dr. Carter was alive, and that she c​ouldn’t​​ ​do this to anyone else​. ​I move to confront her and—​THE SIMULATION for PARTICIPANT #26 HAS TIMED OUT. REMEMBER TO REMOVE ALL OF YOUR EQUIPMENT BEFORE LEAVING YOUR STATION, chime​d​​ ​a robotic voice. 

My eyes shoot open to a stark white ceiling and dim lighting, palms sweaty and chest tight. The suction cups and needles​,​ attaching my arms and legs to the simulation equipment​,​ feel sticky and sharp​, ​and the leather ​pullout​​ ​chair I’m on​ ​suddenly feels like I’m sitting on needles. What was happening? ​W​​hy​ was it just my station being disconnected? Confused, I look to my right where I see the other participants lying in their own chairs, unconscious and completely unaware of my sudden panic. I turn my head to the left where the control booth is located, separated from the rest of us by a glass wall: sitting there, in one piece is Dr. Carter. “Welcome back, Frankie,” he says. Ugh. 

“What,” I start, “the hell was that?”  

“Well,” he begins. I see him pick up his notepad​ with​​ ​red ink in lines across the pages. He gets up from the control booth and makes his way over to me, a smug grin on his face. If not for just coming back from this simulation, I would deck him, I think. Dr. Carter continues, “Frankly, I was too tired to participate today.” 

“Seriously?” Though not an unexpected answer from him, I still feel an unnecessary amount of rage from his statement​, o​​r​ maybe dumbfounded is a better word to describe how I’m feeling. He complains about how tired and strained he is from the moment I leave my bedroom in the morning to when I go to sleep at night. If not for that, I’d call it a bluff.  

“I know it’s hard to believe,” he approaches the leather pullout chair I’m in sitting on and sits down next to me, “but my age is catching up to me.” 

“Stop acting like you’re geriatric.” Maybe his crazed delusions are finally ​catching​​ ​up to him, but that’s better kept in my head. People his age are sensitive about that topic, anyway​, a​​nd​ maybe to me too. After all, he’s raised me since I was nine, and to think he may be losing it...Ugh, it’s best not to dwell on things that aren’t happening and focus on what’s in front of me​, a​​n​ infuriating excuse of a person. “What was that letter about anyway?” 

“Well, thank you for finally asking,” the smug grin is there again. “It said, ‘Dr. Miles Carter isn’t here today. He’ll be back tomorrow.’ I know that words are unintelligible in there, but really, if you took the time to stop and talk with other people, someone would have told you​, o​​r​ you could’ve just asked Gale.” 

Huh. That makes sense, but it’s his fault for leaving such a sketchy-sounding note in the first place, knowing what he does about the town’s limits​, ​ Gale’s for being a pushove​r and​​ ​everyone else​ ​for acting so incriminating all the time. “By the way,” Dr. Carter says​,​​ ​“​y​​ou’re​ on ​a ​time-out for ​a​​ ​week. I’ll see you at home, Frankie.”  

Ugh.​ ​“​S​​tupid​ old man.”

Isabella Pisani is a second year Psychology student at the University of Guelph-Humber. By pursuing creative writing projects alongside that, she aims to create works based on the nostalgic parts of her youth and the importance of community.

Image: Colourful Thoughts (Ebru Kur, 2019)

Edited for publication by Amelia Hutchcraft, as part of the Bachelor of Creative & Professional Writing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation