Who is Mr. Beads?

“The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.”

An elegant female voice crackled on a phonograph. She immediately recognized it as her own voice.

“And what stands out to you?” said a less appealing voice. Just the sound of it made her mind swim.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Do you care how you got here?”

“No.”

“Do you care who I am?”

“No.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“No, you are the only one with the questions.”

The young woman crouched over the phonograph, her hands trembling. Only a few weeks ago an old cottage with ivy crawling up the sides and quaint windows with chipping white paint had intruded into her memory, but someone was missing. The occasional smile and echo of laughter sounded in her mind, and she needed to know who they belonged to. An investigation fueled by suppressed memories and newspaper articles had led her to the home of her youth: a large Victorian style sitting room in a large Victorian style house, with a large golden phonograph collecting dust in the corner. And as she listened to the voices on the record, a picture of a stocky man in suit and spectacle flashed into her memory, his voice like a heavy pressure on her skull. She pushed it away, pressing further into her mind, trying to remember. The phonograph played on.

“Now, focus on the sound of my voice. When I reach the count of five, you are going to enter into your memories. Answer only the questions I ask you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. One, two, three, four, five. Now, how do you know Mr. Beads?”

“He was my friend.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“We were neighbors. He helped me move in.”

“What is an important memory you have of him?”

“We were by the river. It was a picnic. We kissed.”

“So, you knew Mr. Beads quite well?”

“Yes. I loved him.”

“And he loved you?”

“Yes. He trusted me too.”

“Is that why he came to you that day in your garden?”

“Yes.”

“And what did Mr. Beads tell you?”

“He told me he was scared.”

“What else?”

“He told me he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

“Did he say what it was?”

“He said it was horrible how anyone could do that to another human being.”

“And then what happened?”

“He went inside my house to phone the police.”

“Where did you go?”

“I stayed in the garden.”

“And what happened while you were in the garden?”

There was an abrupt silence on the recording, leaving only the sound of the needle scratching against the disc.

“I repeat, what happened while you were in the garden?”

“I heard him scream.”

Realization hit her like a splash of cold water to the face. Mr. Beads. Mr. Alfred Beads. The nice young man across the street, dashing and charming in equal portion. His fine-tuned jaw and bright eyes that had wooed her from the beginning worked their way back into her memory. But before she could enjoy them, they were replaced by a picture of him lying motionless on the floor of her dining room, his once grand expression now dull and stained dark red.

“And what did you do?”

“I went inside. I wanted to make sure he was alright.”

“And was he?”

“…No.”

“What had happened to him?”

“Someone struck him.”

She approached him in her mind, breathless with horror, as if reliving the moment all over again. His hands were still warm in her memory, but his eyes were cold and empty. In her daydream she brushed his rusty brown hair out of his bloody face, choking on a sob.

“Did you hear anything else?”

“I heard a man. Upstairs.”

“Did you do anything after checking on Mr. Beads?”

“I ran across the street to Mr. Beads’ cottage to call the police.”

“Why Mr. Beads’ house?”

“Because the man upstairs was in mine.”

“And what happened when you got to his house?”

“I got to the phone and the police answered.”

“Did you say anything back?”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“The man from upstairs was there. He wouldn’t let me.”

“Did you know the man from upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he to you?”

Her stomach dropped as a picture of an older man with graceful features appeared in her mind, only the expression he bore was full of hatred and malice.

“My father…”

“And what happened after that?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Good, good.... Now, I want you to look deep into my eyes. Think hard on every event you just told me. Once you have them, take each one, and eliminate them from your memory. Those things never happened.”

Her voice pushed back. “But they did happen.”

“No. You never knew any Mr. Beads.”

“I-

“Listen closely. Only answer the questions I ask. I am here to tell you, that you were never friends with any Mr. Beads, you never became neighbors, and you never shared a kiss.”

The lower voice repeated it slower and more intentionally.

“Now, do you know any Mr. Beads?”

There was a pause, and then, “…No. I never knew any Mr. Beads.”

A gasp of horror escaped her throat. This was all wrong! She did know a Mr. Beads!

“So, seeing as you don’t know any Mr. Beads, there’s no way you could have talked with him that day in the garden?”

“No, there’s no way.”

“And since you don’t know any Mr. Beads, there’s no way you could have heard him scream?”

“No, there’s no way.”

“And since you don’t know any Mr. Beads, there’s no way you could have seen him dead on your dining room floor?”

“No, there’s no way.”

There was a momentary pause, and then,

“Very good, Candace. Now, when I reach the count of five, you are going to remember that you came to call on your father and stopped to say hello to a friend of his. One, two, three, four, five.”

Distant sounding salutations could be heard on the recording as Candace shuffled out of the room and bid the man a good afternoon. There was the scrunch of a cushion depressing and the shuffle of a few papers.

Finally, the man’s voice spoke up again, “Today’s date: August 4^th, 1923. Method used: an experimental hypnotic procedure titled, ‘Vanescology’ from the latin word ‘vanesco’ meaning ‘to vanish.’ Beginning the clock… now. Time started, 3:44 p.m., Monday afternoon.”

The needle bumped and the phonograph reverted to an empty scratching noise, indicating the end of the recording.

Candace clutched the edge of the small table on which the phonograph sat. Her face had turned a milky white and her breaths were shuddered and shallow. Water collected in her eyes, spilling out in streaks. Why did she have to mourn Alfred all over again? Why did it have to be her father?

Suddenly, a soft tap-tap-tap of footsteps echoed in the hallway behind the closed door. She could almost feel her mind beginning to slip again. Her eyes shot around the room, searching for a lifeline. A note. She would leave herself a note. A small pad of paper with sloppy rips at the top lay on a smooth mahogany desk to her right. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve and ripping off a piece, she grabbed a dull pencil and wrote, “Remember Alfred. Remember it wasn’t an accident.”

The footsteps were almost to the door now. She was out of time. Looking down, she spotted a thin drawer in the front of the desk with a small round knob protruding out from its center. It would have to do. Grabbing it, she tore the drawer open to hide her note. But looking down at its contents, her heart stopped.

It couldn’t be. No, this wasn’t right. Impossible. How many times had this happened?

Blood thundered through her ears as she counted how many identical pieces of paper lay in the drawer. Some read, “Remember Alfred Beads. It was your father.” And another said, “Don’t forget about Mr. Beads. He was killed.” One even more succinctly stated, “Alfred was murdered.” There were 22.

The doorknob turned. She froze. It was too late. For behind her, stood a stocky man wearing a stiff suit, and a spectacle that glinted in the light of the dim lanterns. In one swift movement he had crossed the room and stuck a needle into her neck. She fell to the ground, her vision blurring into colors and lights.

She wearily watched the man hover over her, clicking his tongue admonishingly. “Your father is very disappointed in you. You just have to keep remembering.”