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“Please state your name for the record.”
“You know my name, I've been here for eight hours, when am I going to be able to go home?”
“I understand you've had a very trying couple of days, please just go over it one more time for us and we’ll let you go home. If you could please state your name for the record.”
“Alex Callingham.”
“Miss Callingham...”
“Mx.”
“Mx. Callingham, what is your age?”
“26.”
“And where do you live?”
“Harveysburg, Ohio.”
“Have you lived there long?”
“A couple years. Since I finished college.”
“And your place of employment?”
“The diner by I-75, across from the flea market. Although I work the flea market too on weekends.”
“Yes, I understand you’re an aspiring artist?”
“Of a sort. The diner pays more of my bills than the art does. I’d rather move to Chicago or New York but I had to move back in with my parents so…”
“No shame in that, it’s a tough world out there. Now, I want to talk about the events of November 11th, but I want to start at the beginning. When did you start working on this piece?”
“Oh that piece. I want to say I started working on it about….July? Late July, early August. I don’t remember the exact date. I remember I was having trouble sleeping because the AC was out and I was just sweating in my bed, wishing that I could fall asleep, staring at my alarm clock as the minutes crawled by, doing that ‘if I fall asleep now I’ll have five hours and forty-five minutes of sleep for work tomorrow’ thing. Anyway, I must have drifted off because I remember dreaming, but I don’t remember what I dreamed. And then I woke up and I felt the need to...create. Like I was struck by inspiration.”
“What happened then?”
“Well I went to my shift at the diner but I couldn’t concentrate all day. I was lucky it was a slow day because I was sketching shapes on paper napkins all through my shift. I felt like they were inside my head and they would burn their way out if I didn’t put them to paper.”
“Did you keep any of these napkins?”
“I took them home with me at the end of my shift, they’re probably in the folder with all the other sketches.”
“Your sketches of these shapes?”
“Yeah. When I got home, I wanted to start copying the shapes into my sketchbook, something more permanent. Just quick pencil sketches. But it didn’t feel as intense when I copied them. Like I had gotten them out the first time and that was that.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, I copied my napkins and when it was done I just...fell asleep I guess. Put my sketchbook away and didn’t think about it for a couple weeks.”
“When did you next work on the piece?”
“Sometime in the middle of September. I had another dream about the shapes again.”
“You say again? But you don’t remember the first dream?”
“What?”
“Your first dream that made you sketch on the napkins, you said you didn’t remember what you dreamed about but you just said you dreamed about the shapes again.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I guess I must have dreamed about them since I drew them.”
“That does make sense. Please, continue. The second dream.”
“Right, yeah, so I woke up and I realized my sketches weren’t right, they needed to be fixed. So I pulled out my sketchbook and I spent the whole day making new sketches. I realized where I’d gone wrong and I could make them right again.”
“And that’s when you started painting?”
“Yeah, not that one originally. I was working with a canvas that I had with me but as I kept working I realized it wasn’t big enough. It was too small to contain what I needed to...express I guess.”
“And so you obtained the canvas for this piece?”
“No, I bought a couple of other canvases first. I mean pretty much anything is bigger than an eight by eight. But even when I got a sixteen by twenty it wasn’t big enough. I ended up having to make a canvas big enough.”
“And where are these other canvases? Are they also at your house?”
“Yeah. I burned through them pretty quick. I figured because I got them from the craft store for cheap it wasn’t a big deal, but each one just kept being too small for what I needed to make. I’d just start painting on one and before I knew it I’d reached the edge.”
“So when did you start working on this piece?”
“That was October. I had a couple busy weeks at the diner so I forgot about the shapes for a bit, but then we got to a slow week and I was able to spend time getting canvas and stapling it to the wood so I could actually work on it. I spent way too late one night fighting with it but I got the canvas ready and then I just sort of collapsed in bed.”
“And that’s when the third dream happened?”
“Yeah. I woke up in the middle of the night, I remember my alarm clock said it was three A.M. or something like that and I just needed to paint again. And so I got my paints and I started making the shapes on the canvas. And it felt right. It felt so right. I finally could get everything onto one canvas, all the shapes, everything in the right place.”
“And did you finish the piece that night?”
“No. I got most of it finished but I must have passed out or something because the next thing I remembered I was face-down in my palette and my alarm was going off to go to work.”
“And then you didn’t come back to it?”
“Yeah, I guess I just kind of forgot about it with one thing and another. Had a Halloween party with friends and a lot of other stuff going on.”
“So you finished it on the 11th?”
“I mean, I guess? I don’t really remember finishing it.”
“Walk me through your day. Start when you woke up on November 11th, what do you remember?”
“I mean it was a pretty average day I guess. Woke up, showered, went to work my booth at the flea market and try to sell some art.”
“Do you remember taking this piece with you?”
“I didn’t take that piece with me.”
“You’re certain? Multiple witnesses said you brought it with you.”
“How? It’s too big to fit in my car!”
“You didn’t roll it up?”
“You don’t roll a canvas up when you’re working on it. You shouldn’t roll it up at all, really.”
“You have no memory of rolling this piece up and bringing it with you to the flea market?”
“Clearly not. What are you implying anyway? You don’t believe me?”
“Just trying to get the facts straight. I’m sorry, I’ve derailed you. Please, continue talking about your day. You went to your booth at the flea market.”
“Right. Went to the flea market. Made a couple of sales. Ate lunch. Made a couple more sales and then I...then I…”
“Take your time.”
“I...I don’t know what happened.”
“You don’t remember working on this piece?”
“I told you, I didn’t bring it with me to the flea market, I couldn’t have worked on it if it wasn’t there, now could I?”
“No, you couldn’t have. Who is the Glutton?”
“Who?”
“The Great Glutton Who Consumes the World?”
“Is that some sort of Lovecraft thing?”
“The name doesn’t ring any bells?”
“Listen, I’m not really into Lovecraft. It’s just weird. Not good weird, annoying weird.”
“You don’t have any memory of this?”
“That’s...me...at least it looks like me. Have you guys been spying on me?”
“This is a still from cell phone footage someone took at the flea market on November 11th. You don’t remember this incident?”
“I’m pretty sure if I was screaming in the food court with my tits out and covered in paint I’d have remembered it. Is this some sort of deep fake or something?”
“Hang on, let me pull the video up.”
“The time of judgment is nigh! Your reckless consumption has pleased the Great Glutton Who Consumes the World! You have filled the air with poisons! You have tainted the seas with plastics! All in your desire for more. More. MORE! ENJOY THE END OF YOUR FEAST FOR THE GLUTTON KNOCKS AND NO DOOR SHALL BAR-”
“You don’t have any memory of that?...Mx. Callingham? Mx. Callingham? Hey, Steve, get a doctor, would you? She’s passed out. Let the record show that person of interest Alex Callingham went catatonic at approximately 17:15 on Tuesday, November...”
“Alex isn’t here right now, Agent Baker.”
“What?”
“Oh, you think she’s playing a game with you. Or she suffers from DID and doesn’t realize it. That would be comforting wouldn’t it?”
“Am I...am I speaking with the Glutton?”
“Oh no. No, I am merely a harbinger. The herald of destruction. You cannot prevent what is to come, Alex was only a key to an already rusty gate. The Glutton is coming, Agent Baker.”
“What does he, what does it want? Can you tell me that?”
“What does any glutton want? To consume. To possess. To devour. Your orgy of excess on your world has brought His attention. You should be honored that your depravity should be so exceptional that He noticed.”
“How do we stop this? How do we keep him…”
“You cannot stop Him any more than you can stop the stars from burning, Agent Baker.”
“Surely he can be reasoned with.”
“Did you reason with the turkey you ate for lunch, Agent Baker? Or the cow your lovely wife made for dinner last night? They did not want to be consumed, Agent Baker, any more than you do. But consumed they were. Just as we all shall be.”
“…”
“Go home to your lovely wife, Agent Baker. Hold her and your children close. The Glutton is coming and the end is nigh.”
“Steve! Steve! I need you in here right now, with twenty-five milligrams of thorazine…”
“Doug? What the hell’s going on here?”
“I don’t know! I thought that table was bolted down!”
“It was bolted down! How did she...”
“A shame your wife will have to die alone, Agent Baker. She had such a lovely dinner waiting for you.”
“Code Gray! This is Agent Doug Baker, we have a Code Gray in Room 204, I repeat Code Gray!”
“Get down you crazy bitch!”
“Why won’t the door open?”
“Code Gray! Any and all assistance to Room 204, I repeat Code Gray!”
“…”
“Hello? Is anyone there?… Please, I don’t know where I am. Is anyone there?”
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