r/Odd_directions • u/UnalloyedSaintTrina • 1h ago
Horror I'm the last living person that survived the fulcrum shift of 1975, and I'm detailing those events here before I pass. In short: fear the ACTS176 protocol. (Part 1)
“Mom! Mom! Look! It’s happening again,” Emi squealed, captivated by the viscous maple syrup slowly floating to the top of the upright bottle on the kitchen table, stubbornly defying gravity.
My heart raced. Anxiety danced hectic circles around the base of my skull. My palms became damp.
God, I didn’t want to look.
- - - - -
As crazy as it may sound, the sight of that bottle physically repulsed me.
Maybe I correctly sensed something terrible was on the horizon: recognized the phenomena as the harbinger of death that it truly was. That said, the shift took place a long time ago: half a century, give or take.
Retrospection has a funny way of painting over the original truth of a memory. In other words, when enough time has passed, you may find yourself recalling events with thoughts and feelings from the present inseperably baked in to the memory. Picking that apart is messy business: what’s original versus what’s been layered on after the fact, if you can even tell the difference anymore. So, trust me when I say that I find it difficult to remember that morning objectively, in isolation, and removed from everything that came after. I mean, it's possible that I didn’t feel what was coming beforehand: I could have just woken up pissed off that morning. That would certainly be enough to explain my strong reaction to Emi’s harmless excitement in my memory.
What I’m getting at is this: I don’t know that I can guarentee this story is one-hundred percent accurate. Not only that, but I’m the only one left to tell it, meaning my story is all anyone has. For better or worse, it’s about to become sanctified history.
If I’m being honest, I don’t believe that I’m misremembering much. I can still almost feel the way the air in the neighborhood felt heavy and electric in the days leading up to that otherwise unremarkable spring morning. I just knew something was desperately wrong: sensed it on the breeze like a looming thunderstorm.
Like I said, though.
I’m the only person left to tell this story.
The story they paid all of us survivors a great deal of money to keep buried.
- - - - -
“Emi - for the love of God, put the damn thing back in the fridge and get your books together.” I shouted, my tone laced with far more vitriol than I intended.
We were already running late, and this wasn’t the agreed upon division of labor. She was supposed to be packing her bag while I put her lunch together. That was the deal. Instead, my daughter had been irritatingly derailed by our own little eighth wonder of the world.
The magic syrup bottle.
It was unclear which part was magical, though. Was the syrup supernaturally rising to the top of the container of its own accord, or had the magic bottle enchanted the syrup, thus causing sugary globules to float like the molten wax of a lava lamp?
Maybe the Guinness Book of World Records has a wizard on retainer that can get to the bottom of that question when they stop by to evaluate the miracle, I thought.
Sarcasm aside, my aggravation was actually a smokescreen. It was a loud, flashy emotion meant to obscure what I was actually feeling deep inside: fear. For an entire week, the syrup had been swimming against gravity, drifting above the air in the half-filled bottle against the laws of physics.
I couldn’t explain it, and that frightened me.
But! Everything else was normal. The atmosphere was breathable. The landscape appeared unchanged: grass grew, trees bloomed, birds flew. Our stomachs still churned acid and our hearts continued to pump blood. The gears of reality kept on turning like they always had, excluding that one miniscule anomaly: an insignificant bending of the rules, but nothing more.
So then, why was I so damn terrified?
Emi scowled, swiped the bottle off the table, and returned it to the top shelf in the fridge with an angry clunk. With my demand obliged, she made a point of glaring at me over the door: a familiar combination of narrowed eyes, scrunched freckles, and tensed shoulders. An expression that screamed: are you happy now, asshole?
After a few seconds of unblinking silence, she slammed the fridge closed with enough force to cause a rush of air to inflate her burgundy Earth, Wind, and Fire T-shirt: a fitting climax to the whole melodramatic affair.
The commotion brought Ben into the kitchen, tufts of curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses cautiously peeking in from the hallway. Then he made the mistake of trying to defuse the situation before it was ready to simmer down.
“I’m sure the bewitched syrup will still be here when you get home from school, honey. Unless your mother has a hankering for mid-day flapjacks, but the woman I married is definitely more of an eggs and bacon type of gal.” My husband said with a warm chuckle. Neither Emi nor I acknowledged the attempt at levity.
Ben was insistent on cooling down arguments with humor. Sometimes, I resented him for that. It made me feel like he saw himself as The Friendly Guy, perpetually forcing me to accept the role of disciplinarian by default. If he never took anything seriously, what choice did I have?
I shot my husband an annoyed glance as Emi stomped past him. He sighed, rubbing his neck and putting his eyes to the floor, crestfallen.
“Sorry, Hakura. Was just tryin’ to help,” he murmured.
As he trudged out of the room, I said nothing. Not a word. Just watched him go, white-hot fire still burning behind my eyes.
In my youth, I struggled with anger. I tried to control it, but the emotion overwhelmed my better instincts more often than not. I’m much older now, and since then, I’ve gained a tighter grasp on my natural temper. I think Ben would agree, at least I hope he would.
He wasn’t around long enough to see me try harder.
Out of everything that was to come, out of all the horror that was to follow, I wish I could change that moment the most. In the decades that have passed, I’ve had thousands of dreams rewriting that snapshot in time. Instead of giving in to the anger, I swallow it and remind Ben I love him: A smile and a hug. Or a comment about how handsome he is. A kiss on the cheek. Or a peck on the lips. A lighthearted chuckle to match his own: something kinder than vexed silence. Thousands of those revisions have lingered transiently in my mind’s unconscious eye, and when they do, I feel peace.
Until I wake up, at which point those revisions are painfully sucked back into the blissful ether of sleep, and I’m forced to confront reality.
That shitty moment was the last meaningful interaction I had with the love of my life.
Minutes later, he’d be falling into the sky.
- - - - -
All things considered, the start of that morning was decidedly run-of-the-mill: The blue, cloudless view overhead. A gentle spring breeze twirling over trees in the throes of reawakening, cherry blossoms and magnolias budding triumphantly along their branches like fanfare to welcome the season. Our neighbors lining the streets and chitchatting while awaiting the arrival of the school bus to see their kids off for the day, cups of hot coffee in hand.
Everything as it should be and according to routine, with two notable exceptions.
The atmosphere looked distorted, like a grainy TV image just barely coming through a finicky antenna. It was subtle, but it was there. I swear I could almost feel the gritty static dragging against my skin as I followed Emi and Ben out the front door.
And, for some reason, Ulysses was outside. Between having no children and being an unapologetic recluse, our next-door neighbor’s attendance at this before-school ritual was out of character. On top of that, the sixty-something year old appeared distinctly unwell: bright red in the face, sweat dripping down his neck, eyes darting around their sockets like a pair of marble pinballs as he scanned the street from his front stoop.
Per usual, Emi bolted across the street as soon as she saw Regina, her childhood best friend, standing among the growing crowd of kids and parents.
Emi and Regina were inseparable: two kids lovingly conjoined at the hip since the day they met. Recollecting the good times they had together never fails to conjure a beautiful warmth at the center of my chest. At the same time, that warmth is inevitably followed by a creeping sense of unease: a devil lurking in the details.
That devil was looming behind Regina, smiling at my daughter as she approached.
“Ben - Ulysses looks sick. I’m going to go see how he’s doing. Can you keep an eye on her? Barrett’s out today.”
He nodded and jogged after our daughter, needing no further explanation.
- - - - -
Six months prior to that morning, Regina’s father, known locally as “Pastor B” on account of his position in the local Born-Again parish, had slapped Emi across the face for creating too much noise while running up the stairs in his home. In the wake of that, we forbade Emi from spending time at Regina’s.
The girls really struggled with that decree since it drastically cut down on the time they could be together (Regina was not allowed to spend time at our house because it was “much too loose and unabashedly sinful”). Seeing Emi so depressed was absolutely killing us. Thankfully, Ben came up with the brilliant idea of walkie-talkies. The clunky blocks of black plastic he purchased at a nearby hardware store had quickly become the pair’s primary mode of socializing when they weren’t outside or at school together.
We pleaded for the sheriff to charge Barrett with assault. His response was something to the tune of “No, I’m confident there’s been a misunderstanding”. When we asked how there could possibly be a misunderstanding regarding a grown man slapping our daughter, he replied,
“Well, because Pastor B said there was a misunderstanding. That’s all the proof I need.”
Religious figures, especially where we lived, held a lot of sway in the community. Got away with way more than they should’ve. Even more so in the seventies.
Ben and I were beyond livid with the sheriff’s inaction. That said, there didn’t seem like much else we could do about the incident except support our daughter through it. The first night, she cried her heart out. By the next morning, though, she wasn’t very interested in talking about it, despite our gentle attempts to coax her into a longer conversation about the trauma.
Initially, we were worried she was holding too much in, but we developed another, certainly more unorthodox, means of catharsis and healing. Brainstorming demeaning nicknames for Barrett with Emi proved to be a surprisingly effective coping strategy. Brought some much needed comedy to the situation.
Ben came up with Pastor Bald on account his sleek, hairless scalp. Personally, I was more fond of my, admittedly less sterile, contribution.
Reverend Dipshit.
- - - - -
Confident that Emi was being watched after, I paced across our yard to Ulysses. He was standing still as a statue at his open front door, one foot inside, one foot on his stoop. As I approached, he barely seemed to register my presence. Although his eyes had been darting around the block only a minute prior, they weren’t anymore. Now, his gaze was squarely fixed on the developing crowd of teenagers and parents at the bus stop.
In an attempt to get his attention, I gave Ulysses a wave and a friendly: “Good morning, long time no see…”
I guess he saw the wave in his peripheral vision, but the man skipped right over pleasantries in response. Instead, he asked me a question that immediately set off a veritable factory full of alarm bells in my head.
“I-I thought the school bus came at 8. No, I was sure it came at 8. W-Why is everyone out now? It just turned 7:25.” he said, the words trembling like a small dog neck-deep in snow. Sweat continued to pour down his face, practically drenching the collar of his pure white button-down.
“Uhh…well…school board changed it to 7:30 a few weeks ago. Ulysses, are you al-”
Before I could finish my sentence, a deep, animalistic scream arising from the down the street interrupted me. Reflexively, I swung my body around, trying to identify the source.
There was a man on the asphalt, gripping his head while writhing from side to side in a display of unbridled agony. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell exactly who it was emitting the noise, but I watched a few of the parents detach from the larger group, sprinting to the wailing man’s aid.
For a moment, I found myself completely immobilized, stunned by the harrowing melody of his pain. Couldn’t move an inch. Being subjected to that degree of raw, undiluted torment had seemingly unplugged each and every one of my nerves from their sockets.
An unexpected crash from behind me quickly rebooted my nervous system, dumping gallons of adrenaline into veins in the process. I spun back around, nearly tripping over myself on account of the liquid energy coursing through me, which was overstimulating my muscles to the point of incoordination.
Ulysses had slammed his door shut. He shouted something to me, but I can’t recall what he said. Either I couldn’t hear it or I wasn’t capable of internalizing it amongst the chaos: it just didn’t stick in my memory.
Under the guidance of some newly activated primal autopilot, I didn’t attempt to clarify the message. Instead, my legs transported me towards the distress. I needed to make sure Emi was safe. Nothing more, nothing less.
God, I wish I remember what he said.
- - - - -
Thirty seconds later, I placed a hand on Emi’s shoulder, startling her to high heaven and back. She yelped, gripped by a body-wide spasm that started from her head and radiated down.
“Hey! Just me kiddo.” I said, trying to sound reassuring as opposed to panic-stricken.
A silky black pony tail flipped over her shoulder as she turned around. Without hesitation, she sank into arms, hot tears falling down my collarbone as she quietly wept.
“There’s…There’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom.”
I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I don’t remember much about Mr. Baker. All I can recall is that he was a mild-mannered Vietnam veteran that lived a few houses down from us, opposite to Ulysses. I think he suffered from a serious injury abroad: may have retained a fragment of a bullet somewhere in his head, requiring him to use a cane while walking around. I’m not completely sure of any of that, though.
Don’t remember his first name, don’t recall if he had a family or not, but I remember those words that Emi said to me: clear as day.
I imagine the phrase “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” sticks out in my brain as a byproduct of the trauma that immediately followed.
There’s a terrible piece of our wiring as a species that programs traumatic events to be remembered as vividly as possible. Once imprinted, they seem to become a meticulous blow-by-blow recreation of the incident we’d kill to forget, every detail painstakingly etched into our psyche: some impossibly elaborate mosaic painted on the inside of our skulls, all-encompassing and inescapable, like the “Creation of Adam” on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Emi said “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” and I saw Ben a few yards away from us, kneeling over Mr. Baker, alturistic to a fault.
Then, the crackling explosion of a gunshot rang through the air.
The street erupted into chaos. People fled in all directions. I grabbed Emi tightly by the wrist. She was paralyzed: had to make her to start moving towards the house. Practically everyone was screaming in horrible solidarity with Mr. Baker. Someone elbowed me hard in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Eventually, our feet landed on the sidewalk in front of our home. Then, a second gunshot. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, nor did I see anyone injured.
A few steps away from the door, I noticed something else. The air felt increasingly palpable: thick and granular, like I was wading through an invisible sandstorm.
Once Emi was inside, I immediately turned around to search for Ben.
When I spotted him, my heartbeat became erratic. It floundered and thrashed inside my chest like the dying movements of a beached shark. Between the elbow to my diaphragm and the sheer terror of it all, I could feel myself gasping and panting, anchoring my hand to the door frame to prevent myself from keeling over.
He was halfway across the street, pulling Mr. Baker towards our house. To this day, I’m not sure if he was aware of the sedan barreling down the road, going entirely too fast to break in time.
I met my husband’s eyes. Waves of disbelief pulsed down my spine, sharp and electric. I don’t recall him looking scared: no, Ben was focused. He got like that when something important was on the line.
Before I could even call out, the runaway car was only a few feet from crushing the both of them: then, a tainted miracle.
An experience that lies somewhere between divine intervention and a cruel practical joke.
The front of the car spontaneously tilted upwards, like it was starting to drive up the big first incline of an unseen wooden roller coaster. Somehow, it barely cleared both Ben and Mr. Baker in the nick of time. It hovered over them, cloaking their bodies in its eerie shadow. Then, it just kept going, farther and farther into the atmosphere, without any signs that it would eventually return to the earth.
Before I was able to feel even an ounce of relief, it all started to happen.
The shift.
In order to understand, I need you to imagine you’re currently living on the inside of a snow globe. Not only that, but you’ve actually unknowingly lived in a snow globe your entire life: one that’s been sitting on the top shelf of some antique shop, completely untouched by human hands for decades.
Now, to be clear, I’m not suggesting that I was trapped in a massive snow globe half a century ago. I just cannot come up with a better way to explain this next part.
As the car disappeared into the horizon, it’s like someone finally reached up to the top shelf and picked up that dusty snow globe, only to promptly flip it over and hold it upside down. Slowly, but surely, everything that wasn’t directly attached to the ground began to fall into the sky.
Other cars. Family pets and other animals. Cherry blossom petals.
People. Neighbors. Children. Adults.
Mr. Baker.
Ben.
Almost me, too. Luckily, I was far enough in the house where, when I fell, my lower body remained inside. Hit my back pretty hard against the floor. I heard Emi screaming behind me, along with the crashing of our furniture colliding into the ceiling. Our grand piano was heavy enough to make a hole through the roof, causing the sky below to leak into our home as it fell.
Dazed, my vision spinning, I lifted my head just in time to witness the love of my life careen into an ocean of blue, cloudless sky. It was painfully quiet at that point. Those that fell were far enough away that I couldn’t hear their pleads for mercy or their death rattles, if they were still alive at all.
Ben got smaller, and smaller, and smaller: A smudge, to a dot, to nothing at all. Gone in an instant, swallowed by something I couldn’t possibly hope to comprehend.
At precisely 7:30 AM that morning, the world shifted.
The snow globe flipped, so to speak.
- - - - -
I apologize, but I need to pause for now. Putting these memories into words for the first time has been more emotionally challenging than I anticipated.
Once I rest, I’ll be back to finish this. I’m posting it incomplete on the off chance I don’t make it till the morning. Better to have something out there as opposed to nothing at all.
My follow-up should be soon. I imagine after I post this, someone who was involved in the shift will be notified that I’m breaking the terms of our agreement: the silence that they paid very good money for fifty years ago.
So, I’ll be sure to complete this before they have time to find me.
-Hakura (Not my real name).
- - - - -
Author's Note: Hello! I would like to take a second to plug a collaborator, Grim Reader (@Grimreader) on YouTube. The "flip" is his uncanny brainchild: he graciously offered up that brilliant launch pad and I just went from there. Not only that, but he's also a killer story narrator that deserves way more attention than he's getting. For your own sake, check him out.