Daniel Deisinger

Breaking the Chain

            On Monday, Tom took a big breath and licked his lips, staring at
his mailbox. A bright, breezy May day flowed around him. He put his
hand on the latch for his mailbox. The flap dropped open. Inside, of
all things: mail.
            He snatched it out and went to his front door. Once inside, he
walked through his bare house to his cluttered office.
            Most of the mail went right into the recycle; the fifth piece
was an envelope with his handwritten address. No return address.
            He dropped the other mail on his desk to grab a letter opener.
The sharp blade sliced the envelope open. Two pieces of paper,
folded. After glancing at one, he inspected the other.
            ​"Dear Tom:
            I saw your message online, and I knew I had one sitting around
here somewhere. Just like you asked, I've rewritten it word-for-word.
I'm not superstitious, but fingers crossed nothing bad happens. I
don't know why someone would WANT chain letters, but your message
made it seem like you have a good reason. Whatever you're looking
for, I hope this helps.
            -Frida."
            Tom put the letter on his desk. He stood in the center of the
room, holding the second piece of paper by the corners.
            "Dear reader, you have an incredible gift!! This letter is an
omen of good fortune to come as long as you follow the instructions!!
            Become just like Patrick Everman, who followed these
instructions and got a raise, a new car, and a wonderful wife, all in
the same year!!
            ​If you FAIL to follow the instructions, however, you are in
GRAVE DANGER!! Like Daisy Thurgood, who discarded her letter and got
into a car accident, lost her job, and got divorced--all in the same
month!!
            The instructions are simple--all you have to do is--"
            Tom sighed. The chain letter went into the recycle with the
other mail.
                                                                 #
            More than a week later, on Wednesday, he stood in front of his
mailbox again and took a deep breath of fresh May air. He licked his
lips. Again the flap dropped open. Two pieces of mail. He inspected
them inside.
            The first was a letter from his Realtor; the second was an
envelope with his hand-written address on the front.
            In his office, he opened it up. A shorter message from the
sender this time.
            "Hi Tom, I saw your post on Reddit. It took me a little bit of
time, but I found it in my old things."
            No name. No matter. He opened the other piece of paper.
            "i'm sorry"
            Tom's body locked tight. Sensation drained out of his hands--his
heart pounded in his ears.
            "she's coming to u now. i didn't have any choice. i had to send
this letter. u have to send this letter to sixteen people in three
days or else she's going to visit u. There's no way to stop her. if u
don't send it to sixteen people, ur going to die.
            don't ignore this letter. don't try to look for her. don't leave
your windows open. don't leave your doors open. don't keep any knives
out. don't tell anybody about this letter, but send it to sixteen
people in three days or ur dead.
            i'm sorry"
            Tom barely even needed to read it. He'd read it a million times
in his head. Sixteen people in three days. No capitals. u instead of
you. The rules at the end.
            i'm sorry.
            He lifted his head, looking at the wall. There hung a dozen
faded pictures of the same teenager. Sitting on the deck, in the car,
in the yard. At school, dressed for church, in a swimsuit for the
pool. Bright smiles or goofy sneers. Alone, with his arm around a
young woman, or carrying a younger brother on his back. Above the
pictures, on a big piece of paper, written in marker--
            i'm sorry.
            Tom's hand went into one of his desk drawers. It pulled out an
old, dirty switchblade.
            He checked out the window, pulling the shades wide and letting
in as much breeze as possible. After that, he roamed around the
house, re-reading the letter, opening every door. In the kitchen, he
set his silverware knives on the counter in a long row, covering the
counter next to the sink. He lined up all his cooking knives on the
other side of the sink. He put the switchblade at the end.
            Only three more days. Saturday.
                                                                 #
            ​"Check it out, Ben," Tom said on Thursday. "I got a chain
letter." He placed the chain letter on top of Ben's keyboard. "Got it
in the mail and everything. Remember these?"
            "What?" Ben picked it up and scanned it. "Wow. People actually
send these in the mail? I just get emails." He read on, chuckling to
himself. "Amazing anyone could take these seriously. Did you ever get
the ones that were like 'the original version of this letter was
written by Jesus Christ himself!' Or the ones that tell you to send a
dime and get a dollar, things like that."
            Tom nodded. "Those are classic. Practically the original.
They've been going on for a long time. Some say back to the late
nineteenth century."
            Ben snorted. "Did your research, huh? Uh oh, better not show it
to anybody else, or 'ur dead'!"
            Tom grinned as he took the letter back. "I'm going to tell
literally everybody in the office."
            ​"That'll show her. Hey, any word on that API project?"
            "Not yet," Tom said. He went to the next cubicle. "Hey Cath,
check it out. I got a chain letter in the mail."
                                                                 #
            After work, he had dinner at his mother's house. As Mom cleaned
up, he pulled the attic ladder down; old wood creaked and groaned as
he climbed. His mother hummed from the kitchen while he hunted
through boxes. Clothes, Christmas decorations, forgotten housewares,
and more scattered detritus of seven decades of life surrounded him.
He picked past them until he got to the back, to a set of boxes
marked "Oscar."
            Kneeling in front of them, he took a deep breath, taking in
layers of dust. He licked his lips and pulled the flaps open.
            School books. Toys. Clothes. Things his mother couldn't possibly
give away. Oscar's junior yearbook. Bits and pieces collected over
the years of being an older brother. While chasing off bullies and
helping with homework and doing chores and--
            Tom took another big breath. He rubbed his face, wiping dust out
of his eyes. The ladder rattled as his mother climbed into the attic.
            "I've been thinking about him a lot lately," Tom said after she
sat next to him and pulled one of the boxes close. "I was...what's
the word...." He shook his head. "I wished I could see what was next
for him. His college, his family, what he accomplished. There should
have been so much more of him."
            His mother nodded. "I ran into Harriet a few months ago at the
bank. She had three kids with her, and I spent the whole time
thinking they could have been my grandchildren. Just maybe."
            Tom reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a stack of
Polaroids. "What do you think he would have ended up doing?"
            "He would have done something like you. Something complicated
and detailed and technical, and he would have been good at it, even
if it didn't get him any acclaim. He would have been good, like you."
            There was Oscar, sitting on the steps of the house, shirtless,
pocket knife in his hands. "How old would you say he was in this
picture?"
            Tom's mom appraised the photo. "I'd say fifteen." She wrinkled
her nose. "Throw it away. I never want to think about those knives."
            Tom tore the picture up. "Seems like the right age." He flipped
through some of the other photos. Each one had Oscar, younger or
older, but never past seventeen, just like in Tom's office. Playing
t-ball, dressed for a first day of school, or standing with Harriet,
wearing a suit for junior prom. One had Oscar at his sixteenth
birthday party, surrounded by friends and decorations. Cake on their
plates, a colorful plastic top hat cocked on Oscar's head, and his
long arm around twelve-year-old Tom's shoulders as Tom gazed at his
older brother with unchecked devotion.
            "Oh, would you look at that," Tom's mom said. She pulled Tom
close. "You know, I think I felt the worst for you. You lost your
best friend. I was terrified of what you might do."
            Another picture had the two brothers sitting on the deck's
bench. Ten-year-old Oscar had a book open in his lap as he grinned at
the camera. Six-year-old Tom slept, mouth hanging open, head leaning
on Oscar's shoulder, his own book slipped off the bench onto the
ground.
            Heat filled the space behind Tom's eyes. He exhaled, and the
pressure in his chest released. He went through more pictures. So
many had the two boys. One Polaroid had Oscar, older, looking at the
camera with a weary expression. Seventeen. Little time left.
            "Do you mind if I keep this one?" he said.
            "Of course, dear. Where did that one of you two on the bench go?
I think I want to put that one up."
            Tom sat looking at the Polaroid. The lines around his eyes, his
drooping mouth, his slumped shoulders.
            "Come on, let's get out of here," his mom said. "It's too dusty
up here."
                                                                 #
            Thursday had a big red X on the calendar. On Friday, Tom
continued telling people at work about the chain letter, no matter
how annoyed they looked.
            When he got home, he carefully took his framed pictures of Oscar
from the office into the living room, crowding them on the hearth.
The Polaroid he got from his mother went in the very center. He taped
the big piece of paper above them.
            i'm sorry
            After digging through his office closet, he found a crate of old
things. He picked out a piece of newspaper and a large notebook. His
brother's handwriting greeted him from the cover.
            He flipped the notebook open to a random page. The paper, twenty
years old, was thin and yellow and feeble under his fingers. "Got my
test back from Mrs. Wallentine. I missed an easy one but I still did
well. After school, Tom and I went to the park and got ice cream.
Dad's doing better."
            Tom had been eight. They walked to the park a few blocks away.
The ice cream truck had come by, and Oscar had bought Tom a cone. He
didn't remember the flavor but remembered Oscar handing over two hard-
earned dollars for two treats in late spring. May. Hot already. A
perfect day for Tom.
            He flipped forward. The journal entries got more frequent. More
detail, better handwriting, deeper thoughts. Still straight and to
the point.
            "Harriet and I had a fight. She wants to see me more, but I'm so
tired. I know she's right, but by the end of the day it's hard to see
her after work and school. Especially now that Dad's gone. God, I
can't believe it's almost been a year. It still seems like yesterday.
I'm getting my colon checked every year once I'm twenty-five. I want
to spend more time with Harriet. She's been so good about everything.
            Tom had a rough day at school today. Came home crying. Bullies,
he says. Middle school is tough. We hung out for a little bit."
            Older kids had made fun of Tom. Made fun of his dead dad. He'd
tried to stand up to them, but they laughed at him. Hard to be brave
with tears in your eyes.
            He flipped forward a few more pages. Another year passed in the
record. Entries became more frequent, but they were either one
sentence or three pages.
            "I don't know what the fuck is going on."
            They clawed at Tom's heart.
            "Dad's gone. Mom is too busy. Tom is distant. Harriet and I
haven't spoken in a week. Who the hell do I even talk to? How can I
possibly explain what's happening to me? I don't even know what's
happening to me! I go to sleep scared, I wake up scared, I spend
every moment in between scared. I think the only time I'm not scared
is when I'm dreaming!"
            And, then, just before the journals ended, they changed.
            "Surprise is the best way to put it. Chain letters are garbage,
everybody knows that, but this one....
            I guess she's going to kill me."
            At thirteen years old and in his last year at middle school, Tom
had no idea why his brother had changed. Of course, Oscar hadn't told
any of them about the chain letter. Tom had found it afterward, going
through his brother's things.
            He scanned the remaining journal entries, reading and re-reading
them to prepare for tomorrow. Missing his brother.
                                                                 #
            ​He got up early and checked out the windows. Nothing. They stood
wide open, letting in fresh air, and he sucked in a deep breath. He
licked his lips. Knives gleamed in early morning light, neat rows of
metal on either side of the sink. Saturday. Nothing to do but sit and
wait.
            By noon, he had been pacing for three hours. He stalked through
the quiet house, checking all the windows, making sure breeze still
flowed through them all. Rearranged the knives a few times and re-
read the rules. Had he told enough people? Were the doors open
enough?
            As he adjusted the angle of the upstairs bathroom door,
something slammed. A door. And then another and three more. Wind blew
through from nowhere, knocking him off balance, and the bathroom door
slammed shut. The bedroom door behind him did the same.
            Tom stood in the upstairs hall, listening. Stairs creaked as he
descended to the first floor. Windows shut. Doors shut. A woman in
the living room.
            Hazy. Out of focus. Lost. Feet drifting over the carpet. Tom
stared from the landing.
            An envelope of shifting color surrounded her. Green, white,
black, blue. Never staying put. Haze drifted down from the top of her
head like long clouds of hair, pooling around her feet, casting
shifting shadows as she glowed. She gazed at the row of pictures.
            "Thank you for coming," Tom said. The head turned toward him.
Eyes gleamed white--the rest of the face a mere suggestion of
features. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I think you can.
That's what it seems like, anyway."
            He stepped forward. He took a breath and licked his lips. "I
remember coming into the basement once, finding all Oscar's knives
laid out in a row. All the windows and doors open. "He was having so 
many issues. Once I read his journal, I put it all together"
            Tom stepped up to the spirit. Smaller than him, even floating
off the ground. "My name's...Tom Hanson. My brother was Oscar Hanson.
You visited him about twenty years ago." Tom stepped around the
ghost. He picked up the Polaroid and held it to her. "I wonder if you
remember him."
            The head inspected the photo, and a hand came up. Tom placed the
Polaroid in the shimmering, cupped palm. It drifted closer to the
face. "You're a hard lady to track down," Tom said as he went to the
kitchen. "Took me twenty years. I got every chain letter in existence
until I got yours. It had to be mailed to me properly."
            He picked up Oscar's old switchblade. "I felt crazy. Must have
been how Oscar felt. But I was right. Here you are."
            The figure drifted closer to the wall, looking at the newspaper
page Tom had put up.
            Service for Oscar Hanson on Sunday. Under it, in smaller print:
Shocking suicide stuns school.
            "We all thought the same thing," Tom said quietly. "He couldn't
have really killed himself. He wasn't like that. And then I found his
journal. He talked about the chain letter, and doing everything in
reverse because--in his own words--he didn't care anymore. Might as
well, right? I thought you had done something. Enchanted him. But he
was hurting long before you."
            He walked back to the hearth and opened the switchblade
carefully. "I read his journal a thousand times. He felt like he
couldn't talk to any of us about what was happening. But he could
talk to you. You were there. You listened. He didn't even know your
name, but he told you everything. His thoughts. His depression. I
hate that he didn't think he could talk to me, but I was a kid. I
missed Dad, and I was struggling. He would never ask me for help when
I needed help, too."
            The figure gazed at him.
            "Thank you," Tom whispered. "For being there for him." He
sniffed. "I'd like to think you didn't want him to...." He looked at
the knife in his hands. Ancient blood stains had blackened the blade.
            A shimmering hand took the knife from Tom's hand. The blank,
white eyes inspected it, turning the blade in the light. Her second
hand came up and slipped it away, clicking it shut. She put the knife
back in Tom's hand and closed his fingers over it. Both of her hands
wrapped around his--warm. Soft.
            "I want to help you," Tom said. "Repay you."
            The light in the room shrank. The figure faded, and Tom reached
forward. "Wait. There are things I could try!"
            Gone. Wind picked up from nowhere, stinging Tom's eyes. Blinds
rattled against windows, and pictures of Oscar tumbled off the hearth
onto the carpet. The big piece of paper tore off the wall and landed
at Tom's feet.
            i'm sorry.
            He held the switchblade. She had taken the Polaroid.
​

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Daniel Deisinger is alive. He's usually helping seniors play bingo. His work has appeared in more than twenty publications, including Havik, White Wall Review, Castabout Literature,bDefenestration Magazine, and Ripples in Space. His serial “Voices in My Head” is available on Amazon, as are several books. 

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