Stop Reading—or Else.

Stop Reading--or Else.

Midge Wright gave no notice to the sleet peppering the small office window on the thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building. She opened the next brown envelope in a seemingly endless pile of short story entries. She pulled her glasses up on top of her head, massaged the bridge of her nose and poured another diet cola. The sign on her office door read, Midge Wright--Assistant Editor---Barnhill Press. Assistant flunky and resident pain in the ass was what Blanch, the women who occupied the next cubical, called her.

She thought she should be having dinner uptown, finishing her second, or maybe third Harvey Wallbanger instead of wading through this pile of trash. Why do these pathetic losers think they have any talent what-so-ever?

In a, I'm going to be fired panic, she had pitched the idea of a short story contest to the managing editor, Ian Strong. Going over the boss's head had worked because

Ian was a weasely want-to-be boss with even less talent and drive than her.

Without an immediate boost in sagging revenue there would be new tenants here within a month. That's exactly why her panicked presentation of--each entry will bring in a ten-dollar entry fee, the outlay for prizes would be minimal, and each winner would be sure to buy the special edition containing the winning stories and extras for easily impressed friends and family, had succeeded.

"Rance plopped down on the red divan and looked longingly into . . ."

She tossed the entry into the "I can't believe someone wrote this crap" pile.

It was 10:30pm. She lit a cigarette and walked around the portable wall between where she had been sitting and Blanch's desk. She inhaled as deeply as she could and blew smoke at the "Smoking is Illegal Here" plaque that rested at the edge of the computer, then took one further step, bent down, and pulled a diet coke from the fridge hidden under the desk. " Cheers." She raised the can to Blanch's computer, then gave the finger to the picture of Blanch's cat. "I hope you crap in her shoes."

She took a drink while returning to her own desk. One more disastrous load of trash, and I'm going to go get wasted. A priority mail envelope waved from the middle of the pile. She slipped it out, tore it open, took another sip of coke, exhaled slowly and prepared for the inevitable disappointment.

"Have you ever read something that never should have been written?"

At least the cover page had a decent hook. She swiveled her chair around and propped her feet on her lower desk drawer. I'd kill for a foot massage.

"I had to send this manuscript to someone. This story should never have been written. I fell into a sort of trance. When I awoke, the manuscript lay before me with a page warning what anyone who read it would descend into Hell. It also said that I would suffer the same fate if I didn't pass the story to someone.

"Good thing I don't believe in Hell^__or Heaven for that matter." Midge thought out loud. "Still it is a somewhat intriguing. Much better than, ( He grabbed her tightly and jammed her warm breasts to his chest . . . ) what a load of crap that was.

"I beg you, stop reading!" the story continues, "I had to get it out of my house before my wife, thinking it was one of mine, read it. The most terrible things would happen to her if she did. They will happen to you unless you lock it away where no one will ever find it. If you do, we will all be rid of it, and no one will be harmed. Please do not--ever--read this story and don't contact me--ever!" The signature was shakily written. But, years of reading writer's dreadful handwriting made recognizing the name, Bomar Alsheer.

Midge's stomach growled. "Alright, we'd have to alter the opening a bit but I'm sufficiently intrigued to read this later." She opened her briefcase and slid the manuscript in. She followed it with three others and snapped the cover closed. "However, I'm to rotten hungry to read anything now. She punched a button on her phone. "Al, get me a cab! She heard Al mumble an obscene response before he hung up.

She hit the L key on the elevator keypad. The doors closed, and it gave an unusual lurch as it headed down. Her purse slipped down to her wrist spilling the contents onto the floor. "Damn it!"

She had managed to retrieve everything by the time the door opened onto the lobby.

Al smiled at her from behind the information desk. She walked past him and out the door. The sleet had turned to snow and it blew against her face. She squinted. At least the cab was on time.

"Cafe L'Europe."

The driver flipped the meter and, uncharacteristically, said nothing.

Thirty minutes later she was ordering a Caesar salad, a rare steak and a double vodka martini. Thank god it's still happy hour. She was used to eating alone. Still, it was almost Christmas, and this season she had nothing to look forward to except work. Her fourth relationship had ended every bit as badly as her second and third. There was one difference this time. He hadn't beaten her up.

Cafe L'Europe was the type of place that men took women who weren't their wives for romantic dinners before they headed to her apartment for the inevitable. That is what had happened to her the first time she had ever been there. That was affair number two and she hadn't known he was married--at least that is what she had convinced herself. She never came here with another man. She only came here when her affairs ended badly, and they always did. Either the men tired of her or, in the case of the only one she really loved, they suddenly died.

Several hours, two more martinis, and a Harvey Wallbanger later she lay curled up in bed with the late night news playing on her new 52" LED screen, surround sound TV system. "You've put on a couple of pounds Eddie," she said to the local newsman. He had been affair number three.

She muted the sound, rolled on her side, and retrieved the manuscript from her brief case. She needed to fine something worthy of a prize or she'd be out on the street.

"Why are you still reading? Please, stop now, or lose your soul. "

"Sorry, don't have a soul." She adjusted her pillow.

She flipped to the actual title page. "The Story That Should Never Be Read" by

Bomar Alsheer." There was no return envelope, just the story.

"For the love of God, you must stop reading!"

"Yeah, right" She turned to page one of the story.

"This is a tale about some very evil things that have not happened. They will only happen if you read the story written below. You will determine if these terrible things happen to you."

She felt uneasy for the first time. It was a clever way to begin a story and a good hook. It had kept her reading. Still, there was something creepy about all this. Yet she was a practical person. She was not in the least superstitious or religious. She prided herself on those traits. Never the less, she felt apprehension and uneasiness. "Too many drinks," she told herself.

She got up, went into the kitchen and got a bottle of Avian out of the fridge. She had it half gone by the time she was back in bed. This is ridiculous. It's an entry in a short story contest. Just read the damn thing and get it over with.

It is the best thing so far and if she didn't come up with something actually worth printing she could be out on her ass. She had used up too many chances already.

"This is a story of how souls are harvested for the city of the dammed. It will show you how easy it is for the living to be fooled by the evil ones. Their souls are sucked from their bodies, which do not die, but become soulless hulks, unable to move or speak. Their existence is an abomination to everything good and admirable thing in this world."

There was a tap, tap at her window, and she jumped. Nervously, she eased over to the window. It was slightly ajar, and the sleet had started again. Dumb ass!

"A person, even a good person, can have her soul sucked out by the terrible words of this story. I begged you to stop reading! Now it is too late for you! You should have listened when you could have stopped reading. Now your soul will be in eternal darkness, tormented night and day by the demons of the story. They will feed on ever bit of joy, every good memory, until there is nothing left but everlasting despair.

Her eyes widened as she read on. Panic pounded her brain. Her heart crashed against her collapsing lungs, but her eyes would not be pulled away from the words. Terror ravaged her every nerve as she reached the final line. Her last gasp caught in her throat as her lips spoke her last sane words. "EXSECRARI ESSE!"

These drifted off as a soft voice spoke, "Good by Midge Wright." Her eyes closed and contorted with an effort to scream.

The TV blinked on into the night, its surround sound muted like Midge's cries.

In the morning the alarm would go off, but no one would hear it. Midge won't have a breakfast bagel at the East End Coffee Shop, not call her taxi, not report to work, not start another affair, not that morning^__not any morning.

The wind blew the window wide-open. The story flew off the bed and rolled under Midge's dresser.

In the weeks that followed, her things at the office were packed into two large boxes and sent to the extended care facility where Midge lay comatose. No visitor would ever come to see her. Soon everything she owned would be sold to pay for her care. A court would order her life support terminated. But, to the astonishment of the doctors, she wouldn't die.

A man from Delaware would buy her condo. One day in the spring he would lose

a cufflink and, searching under the dresser, he would pick up a dusty manuscript, and reach for his reading glasses.

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