Beeper

When this first started happening, it occurred to me that maybe we were just being paranoid. Maybe my family and I were buying into a spooky idea for the thrill of it. Maybe we enjoyed puzzling over the mystery, or connecting dots to take turns forming wild theories. But things escalated quickly; that one week, it happened every single night. It should have been a relief that more than one of us witnessed it - but it wasn’t. If anything, it made the unwelcome phenomenon somehow far more unsettling.

Each night, at exactly 11:56, a shrouded stranger in a dingy old Chrysler would cruise past our house, slow down, and honk his car horn a few times in a taunting pattern that quickly grew all-too familiar. My mom had suffered from insomnia for a long time, which made her the perfect captive audience for this bizarre midnight spectacle. The first night, she assumed that it was just my brother and his friends, messing around on a summertime joyride. But one night became a handful, days became weeks, and my mom, being a detail-oriented person, started to realize that the time of each incident was identical - to the second. Like this bizarre, roaming beeper had gone out of his way to show up at our house and honk with surgical precision for reasons that none of us could comprehend.

“Betty, why would anyone ever do that?” my dad asked, with the most puzzled look on his face.

“I have no idea, Matt. But I promise, it’s happening. Almost every night.”

My dad, being a committed husband, gathered us together in the upstairs den. With a clear view of the street outside, we waited. We glanced at each other apprehensively, smiling, but nervous. I wanted to believe my mom, we all did - but then, at 11:56, it happened, and I realized there was a part of me that wished she had been wrong. Now, it was real, and we all felt our comfort melting away.

Days passed, the pattern continued, and we all grew increasingly uneasy. Something about the honking felt so targeted. The intentional slow-down, the positioning, and the purposeful, obnoxious blaring of the horn - why us? Who was this person, and what were they trying to say? It felt like we’d been marked by some evil spectre. We started taking precautions, leaving lights on, and never letting anybody stay home alone.

After about six weeks of domestic discomfort, my dad decided he’d had enough. None of us predicted his next move, but in retrospect, what else was a worried father to do?

I remember how panicked I was when I saw him getting his shoes on.

“Dad? Are you okay?” I asked nervously. The look on his face was distant, but resolute. I could feel his frustration, and could tell that he wasn’t sure what he expected to accomplish.

“I’m fine, sweetie.” He grabbed a bunched-up newspaper, unopened from the morning’s delivery. Wielding it like a club, he crossed the foyer and opened the front door.

“Dad!” my sister shouted. I looked at her face and saw the same fear that I felt.

“Everybody stay inside. I’ll be fine.”

We ran into the family room, and huddled together at the window, watching from behind the curtain. We were scared, but we understood. He was our dad, and he wasn’t about to let another beeping night go unanswered.

It started, the same as the night before. It was 11:56. Time stood still as the headlights became visible on the dark pavement. This was it, and while none of us had any idea what to expect, I couldn’t help but feel thankful that my dad at least brought his newspaper-bat with him. My heart was in my throat, I saw the sheen of the faded-silver bumper, and I heard my dad shout as he stepped out onto the boulevard.

“Hey, you creep! Stop the car! What do you want from us?!”

The car slowed down, as always. I could barely see the driver, but he didn’t seem to notice my dad. Like clockwork, he slowed almost to a stop, striking at the horn in the same infuriating pattern. That was the last straw. My dad wasn’t about to throw himself in front of a moving car - but he did throw his makeshift weapon at the driver’s window. I watched as the newspaper-bat spiralled dramatically towards the Intrepid. I watched as my dad’s years of amateur baseball came out in that one powerful moment. I watched the newspaper come within six inches of the beeper’s car - before suddenly vaporizing into a bluish explosion of light, with the sound of a billion velcro shoes being ripped open simultaneously. I watched my dad trip and fall in his confusion, and look back at us, mortified, but unharmed.

The next 8 hours were the longest of my life. I remember all of us running to the door to hug my dad. I remember how silent he was when he walked in, sweating despite the cool breeze we felt rushing in as the door hung open behind him. None of us understood what we’d just seen, but none of us could find words to discuss it.

“I think… We need to get some sleep.” my dad said. I knew it wasn’t going to happen, not for any of us. But he had to say something.

“Matt, what we just saw…” my mom started.

“I need to sleep, we all do. We can talk about it in the morning. Lock the door. Keep the lights on.”

Then came the longest night of my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about the flash, the unearthly sound, and the look of horror on my dad’s face. I think he would have had an easier time if he’d just been hit by the car and sent flying across the sidewalk. Shattered bones would heal, but could any of us recover from a shattered reality?

The next morning I wasn’t able to focus. After toasting the same slice of bread twice I realized that I wasn’t done processing the eventful night we’d had before.

“Dad.” I said, without thinking of the rest of the sentence.

“Hm?” he managed. He’d spent the morning staring at the countertop with an expression that I could best attribute to Bambi the day after his mother was shot. I wasn’t expecting much by way of conversation.

“Do you think…” I stopped, interrupted by a harsh rapping at the door. Thank God, I had no idea what I was going to try to say.

“Should we answer it?” my sister said.

“Of course.” my dad replied, he seemed relieved that the world outside of our home still existed. “Can you see who it is?”

“It’s… Two men. In suits. I don’t recognize them.” she replied.

“Maybe they’re police?” my mom said, looking hopeful. “We should talk to them, we should tell them what’s been going on!”

My dad took a deep breath, and walked hesitantly towards the door. He unlocked it slowly, opening it just enough to interact with the strange men. They nodded curtly as the door opened, and maintained their rigid composure.

“Can I help you?” my dad said tersely.

“If you would allow us to speak to you and your family privately, Mr. DeWitt...” said the shorter suit.

“I’m shutting this door if you don’t identify yourselves right now.”

“We’re here to deliver your newspaper.” the taller man behind said, raising his hand to return my dad’s weapon of choice from the night before.

My dad turned back to us with a haunted look on his face. I made eye-contact with him, and we all seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. These creepy-ass suits might be the only hope we’d have for an explanation.

“Are you with the police?” my dad said, opening the door another inch.

“In a way. Please, let’s continue this inside. Privacy is imperative, as is your safety.”

The man’s words were chilling, but something about the two of them seemed to suggest that they were trustworthy, or at least not threatening. Maybe we were all just tired of feeling so paranoid and alone; we needed answers, and by this point we’d take what we could get. The door opened fully as the two men entered. They removed their sunglasses and acknowledged the rest of us in turn. They seemed polite, but something about the intensity of their gaze stood out to me. Were pupils supposed to be that big?

They followed us into the kitchen. One of them, the slightly taller man, sat down quietly at the bar. The other man stood, his suit jacket draped casually over his forearm.

“I presume…” the shorter man said “That you have some questions regarding the whereabouts of your newspaper for the past 10 hours.” The taller man placed the newspaper down in the middle of the table. “And the honking man.”

“The beeper.” I said.

“What?”

“We call him the beeper?” I repeated, not knowing why I need to clarify.

“Right… The ‘beeper’, as you say.”

“In brief, the man is a wanted felon. His crimes pose no threat to your family, but his existence threatens us all.” the taller man said, with less emotion than his words would otherwise require.

“I don’t understand.” my mom said, looking concerned. “Can’t you just arrest him?”

“Oh, we’ve been trying. For about 30 straight years. When did you first begin to notice him?”

“Mid-June.” my mom said. “Maybe the 15th?”

“Of this year?” the shorter man replied.

“Of course!”

“I see. And currently it is… 2011?”

“...Yes.”

“I see.” the two men exchanged a glance, raising their eyebrows. The taller man spoke.

“This man has been evading us since 1992.” he said solemnly. “Specifically, June 15th, 1992. A highly unremarkable date, save for the fact that it has re-occurred roughly 6,898 times.”

“If this is some kind of joke…” my dad said, growing impatient.

“It isn’t, but if it comforts you... Regardless, only our friend - ‘the beeper’ - has experienced June 15th, 1992 all 6,898 times. As it is now August 2011, it is clear that the passage of time has remained consistent for you and your family.”

“You’re crazy.” my dad said angrily.

“No, but we must ask that you read these forms and consider their contents before you ask us to leave.”

The taller man opened a briefcase containing multiple identical forms, the shorter man took them and gave one to each of us.

“Is this… A non-disclosure agreement?” my dad said.

“It is.”

“You’re offering us… $20,000… To let this man beep in front of our house each night and not say anything about it?”

“$20,000 each.” the shorter man clarified. “We assure you, the beeping will stop, things will return to normal; with enough time, we can put him where he belongs.”

I looked around at each of my family members. None of us had any idea what was happening. Their words gave us more questions than answers. But, after all that we’d been through, their assurance that things could be normal again seemed more valuable than money.

So, we signed. Each of us got $20,000.00 wired into our bank accounts, and after about six more weeks the beeping finally stopped. I quit my job, and used the money to stay afloat while I started writing full-time - and here we are.

“Wow. I loved that. Our readers adore short fiction, I’m sure this will go over well.”

I handed over the small black notebook that contained the completed manuscript to Mary, my tentative publicist. She smiled and thanked me for coming in, and I left her office feeling confident that I’d soon receive an offer. I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally sat down in my car, I was ready to go home and take a well-earned nap.

And then I heard it again.