Supernatural Sweatshop

The party was mostly about his friends 25th birthday, but he was also celebrating a small triumph of his own. After several months job hunting to no response, “I just got a job interview on the 22nd!”

“Hey! Congrats, man.”

“Hey! Celebration. Wooo! I'll drink to that!” His friend, who had just turned 25, screamed. They all clinked glasses.

“So, the weirdest thing happened to me on the way here. 

So, Paul, texted me the address was 361 Eldridge Street, not 391 Eldridge Street. I’m up the steps, but I don’t hear any noise. And when I walk in, it’s a completely empty sweatshop. 

I’m there for a few minutes, playing with some of the machines, took a couple pictures. Hold on.” He browsed through his phone.

“Wow. So old school,“ Paul said looking through the photos.

“Yeah, I shot one in black and white too, it should be there. But, yeah, suddenly, one of them started up, and began mowing down on the thread underneath it, like crazy. And the light above it also came on. I made out of there, like, man! It was a ghost!”

“A ghost? Sounds more like a broken fuse,” Paul added.

“A broken fuse? Hell no, that was a ghost. I know it.”

“Well whatever,” Steven said. “It’s my 25th birthday alright. Drink, motherfuckers, drink!”

—

The next day woke up painfully. Sean’s time-tested personal hangover cure after a night of excessive drinking was to eat several eggs. Paul called up in a similar mood, and they embarked on their hangover routine at a nearby diner.

There he ordered the deviled eggs, and Paul ordered three triple decker sandwiches.

“Let me go to the bathroom, I gotta wash my face,” Sean said.

The bathroom was small but cozy, a waist-level wicker basket provided lotion and toilet paper rolls. When he splashed the water on his face, a piercingly cold sensation washed over his face, and with his eyes closed, and perhaps still dazed from last night, he would’ve swore he blipped back to the table, next to Paul, who was attacking his sandwiches without pause. For Paul, the foolproof way to treat a hangover involved scarfing down carbs and preserved lunch meats, with an emphasis on scarfing. 

Sean looked down at his plate. “There’s only four here. The menu says the deviled eggs come with five right?” He grabbed the menu.

“Maybe they made a mistake,” Paul said through his food.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Sorry, the menu says that there were supposed to be five deviled eggs per order.”

“Yes.”

“Well, mine came with four.”

“Did you... eat one?”

“No, it came with four on the plate. That’s why I’m complaining.”

“Alright, okay. But when I brought the plate there were five deviled eggs on that plate.”

“No, there were four. When it got onto our table, there was four. That’s why I’m complaining now.”

“Look, sir. I brought the plate over five minutes ago, and just now you’re complaining?”

“I was in the bathroom.”

The waitress sighed. “I’ll get you a new order of deviled eggs. But there’s eight items on our menu. The cook has been plating these deviled eggs all morning. If you think he decided to spite you and put only four deviled eggs on your plate when he, you know what,” she walked away and came back with a scruffy man wearing a hairnet. “Hey Chett, this man’s saying that he only received four deviled eggs here.”

“Why are you dragging me into this. I’ll just plate him five more deviled eggs,” he said as he huffed back into the kitchen.”

“Alright, then.” The waiter grabbed Sean’s plate.

“Wait, you’re going to throw these away?”

“Well, yeah. We’ll get you a new plate of five deviled eggs in no time.”

“But, what a waste.”

“You want to eat these five deviled eggs? And then get another free order of five deviled eggs?”

“No, I’ve only ordered these four deviled eggs. And I just want one more deviled egg so I can have the five deviled eggs I ordered.”

“Alright. Whatever. Sir. Chett, get this mooch his deviled eggs!”

“What’s going on with you man.” Paul asked between chews.

“I’m telling you. I got only four deviled eggs. Right? You saw me.”

“It’s just one egg.”

“You saw me though, right?”

“To be honest, I was so focused on my own meal, I don’t even remember you coming back.”

“I’m telling you! I was in the bathroom, and I washed my face. And a cooling, tingling sensation came over my entire face. I had my eyes closed for one second, and then I was back at this table. Ever since that night in the sweatshop, it must have been cursed—“

“Don’t go on about the sewing machine!”

“But the sewing machine! It turned on by itself. And the light above it to too. Like the worker who,” he said the next words in a whisper, “died there.” He continued, “just started his shift and began working.”

“It’s a breaker. The fuse must have gotten switched back on somehow. Did anyone ever even die in that place?”

“How am I supposed to know? It’s a sweatshop right? And that was before they had proper working conditions.”

“That factory closed down in 2002. You’re so obsessed with this ghost story, you keep raving on about it like a lunatic.”

“Like a lunatic? You don’t believe me either.”

“I’m not saying that. It was just a fuse that must have been switched on somehow. Maybe a rat—“

“A rat. You don’t believe me either! I knew it! First the sewing machine turns on. Then, now, I get teleported from the bathroom here. And one of my deviled eggs disappeared!”

“I believe you, I mean about the sweatshop... It’s just, unlikely. I work code for the city. I actually looked it up. That building shouldn’t have had running electricity since 2002... It also didn’t have any deaths on the job by the way... But that’s not saying that what you saw didn’t happen.“

“Whatever man.”

Three weeks later, the interview site was on the fifth floor of a decrepit five-story building, Room E, about 15 by 10 feet. A small block window provided the only sunlight into the supposed office, shining on one plastic folding table in the corner, and another in the center of the room where two men were seated. One wore a grey hoodie, with a red cap. The other wore an oversized dress shirt and shorts. Sean took the seat opposite them and discussed the position.

“And how are you with people, Sean?” The interviewer in the dress shirt, David, had been doing most of the talking.

“I mean, people. Yeah I like them. I work, I coordinate with them. No problem with people on my end.”

“Great, I like to hear that. Look you sound and look real smart. We just need you to fill out this form, and I think you’re a perfect fit for this position.”

“Wonderful!” Sean was ecstatic but tried to keep it cool. “Amazing.”

“Yep, just fill out this form and we’ll be in touch.”

Sean grabbed the form and headed to the corner table. He entered his name, address, and social, but paused when asked for his credit card number, it’s expiry date, and cvv.

“Hey, the position looks really promising. I’m just not sure why you guys need my credit card information for it is all.”

“Look, here’s the rub. This is an entry level position. We’re like a family here. So sometimes you’ll be asked to buy something or bring something in like coffee, or paper, or printer ink. You’ll get paid back, for sure. It’s just easier for everyone if we can make those purchases hassle-free, easier for you!”

“Oh, okay. I want to reiterate my enthusiasm for this opportunity. But I can’t just give away my credit card information like this.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being so fucking annoying. Just fill out the form, man,” the interviewer with the red cap interjected.

“Alright. While I appreciate your consideration of me as a candidate I don’t think this opportunity is the right move in my career at this time.” He rose to leave.

The lobby was empty. Before the elevator arrived, he heard a man bath “hey.” The man with the red cap came out with a gun. 

“Just... give us your wallet, don’t make things difficult. 

His wallet was there, but had become just a cardboard cutout sometime during the interview.

“You don’t got your wallet on you —“

“I mean I do, but it’s just... empty.”

“What about your credit card.”

“It’s,” he fiddled with his wallet without taking it out, “not there anymore...”

“Then, how’s about your phone.”

His phone was there too, but also turned into a piece of cardboard. He wasn’t sure if he felt it transform, he had definitely checked before leaving that he had his phone and wallet. He also knew for sure that he did not bring cardboard cutouts of a phone and wallet on him.

“Hey, look, you’re not going to believe this. So I was at a sweatshop factory a couple weeks ago. I don’t know if it was a Chinese curse or something, but one of the lights, and, “he said emphasizing the last word, “the sewing machine underneath it started up too—“

“What’s this fool saying?”

“Listen, we’ve been friendly long enough. Put up or shut up. We don’t wanna hear about this sweatshop in midtown, what the hell are you talking about.”

“It’s... I can’t really explain it without talking about the sweatshop in midtown and the Chinese curse. All the sewing machines started up—“

“I’m getting tired of listening to this smartass frankly.” He raises the glock at Sean. “I promise you, you don’t wanna be talking about sewing machines and curses right now.”

“Look, it only makes sense if I go back to that night at the sweatshop.”

For Sean, the gunshot definitely registered, everyone heard it. But though the nuzzle wasn’t 10 inches from Sean’s chest, nothing came out. Not smoke, or a bullet racing towards him.

“What’s going on.”

Sean, seizing the opportunity, ran toward the exit. The rest of the barrel just clicked helplessly. The man with the cap raised the Glock to his face.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“What was he saying about a Chinese curse and sweatshops or something.”

“Man, you believe that shit? You’re as dumb as that guy is. This thing must be jammed or something.”

He raised the gun at David and pulled the trigger. Bang!