Tim the Bookie

I try to keep to myself at work. I don’t like small talk, and I don’t especially like the people I work with. Each day is the same – write a list, complete my tasks, and check them off. Most people know this, and they tend to let me be. Everyone, that is, except for Tim. 

I should’ve known better when I realized I was the last one in the office – the last one aside from Tim.

Tim leaned against the desk, fiddling with the replacement iPad he'd brought for one of the students. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, their hum blending with the eerie quiet of the office after hours.

"I just have to give it up," he began, his voice gravelly, like it carried the weight of too many late nights and bad decisions. "It’s been 36 years. And my wife, Missy, she says, 'Tim, if you end up in the hospital, I ain’t gonna know what to tell these people coming for their money.'"

His laugh was hollow, echoing off the bare walls. He looked at me, eyes dark, shadowed, and tired—but with something else lurking beneath. A tension.

Tim wasn’t just the tech guy at the school. Everyone knew that. He was the guy you called when you needed something fixed—an iPad, a laptop, or even your gambling debts. But it wasn't until tonight that I saw the cracks in the mask he wore every day.

"See," he continued, "being a bookie, you gotta be organized. And, well, you know me—I speak Excel like it’s my native tongue."

He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Tim," I said carefully, "if it’s killing you, maybe it’s time."

"Yeah, but—" He cut himself off, glancing toward the window, where shadows from the streetlights danced across the walls. "There’s this one thing that keeps me up at night."

I stayed silent, sensing that he needed to talk.

"There was this guy I used to run with, years ago. He was into some shady shit. But I liked him. He always had these good pools. So me and three other buddies—don’t worry, you don’t know them—we get in on a $1000 square for the Series. My buddy, though... he gets sick. Kidney infection. Lands in the hospital. Says, 'Don’t worry, Tim, I’ll get the money in when I’m out.'"

"Only, he doesn’t. He takes the meds, gets out, and we think everything’s fine. Then he gets sick again. And his brother steps in."

Tim paused, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"That brother... he’s not right. Took $60,000 from the guy while he was laid up. Sold his dogs. Blew it all on some boat he didn’t even know how to drive. Worst of all, when my buddy finally kicks the bucket? That brother takes over the book."

The room seemed colder now, the air pressing in like unseen hands.

"And here’s the thing," Tim said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My buddy owed us—owed me. Thousands. And that brother? He swears he doesn’t know where the money went. But I don’t believe him. I think he’s still got it. And I think he’s watching me."

He glanced at the door, his fingers drumming nervously on the desk.

"It’s been years, but every once in a while... I see him. At the grocery store. At the gas station. Or I’ll hear a knock at my door late at night, and no one’s there. I can’t shake it. I can’t stop thinking that one day, he’s gonna come collect. And not just from me."

The room seemed impossibly quiet now, the faint hum of the lights replaced by the pounding of my heartbeat.

"Tim," I started, but he cut me off.

"Anyway," he said, straightening up and forcing a grin. "If you ever need a fix, you know where to find me. Or maybe you don’t."

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the office. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence was deafening.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the replacement iPad he'd left on the desk. The room felt different now—darker, heavier, as if Tim’s story had left something behind.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” I said to myself as I began to gather my things for the day.

Then, faintly, I heard it. A knock at the door.

When I turned, no one was there. The soft sound of footsteps was barely audible over the hum of the lights, which continued to flicker intermittently.

I walked to the hallway, and on the ground, I found a business card. One side had the name of a random contractor – Odon Smarts with a simple image of a pipe. I flipped it over, and on the back, “Help a buddy out” was written in a neat, tight script. 

After looking down the hall again, I put it in my pocket, wondering if this had fallen out of Tim’s pocket as he slinked away, or if the phantom knocker had left it to be found. Why had he shared this? Why did he share it with me? These questions ran through my mind as I quickly collected my things and swiftly made my way to my car. The entire way there, I fought the strong desire to check behind me, though I knew I was the only one left in the building. Or, at least I hoped. 

******

The next day, Tim did not show up for work. That in itself wasn’t unusual, because when you have as much time in as someone like Tim, you have days to use up before you retire, and he was about two years out, I thought. Still, considering the conversation we had yesterday, and the card I found, it gave me pause. The day got busy, though, and there were more pressing concerns to handle. 

The same thing happened the next day. And, the next. I checked in with our district office, to see if I could get any information. As I dialed the phone and listened to the ringing, I began to sense the gentle hum again of the lights as they began to flicker, as they had the other evening. Apprehension grew, and I had a feeling the news I was about the receive was not going to be what I wanted or needed.

“He does that sometimes – just takes off. I know he had some sick family or something,” his supervisor said. 

“Well, have you talked to him?”

“No – I don’t bother him. He’s kinda high strung these days. Can’t have him quitting, you know? He’s still running pools, though – he cashed my check and put me on a square.”

“Did you call Sandy?”

“No – I’m not a weirdo who calls people’s wives.” With that, he hung up on me.

I found myself turning that business card over and over on my desk.

It wasn’t my place to find Tim, and I definitely wasn’t interested in connecting with this character Tim described. Since he never mentioned the name, I wasn’t sure if we were talking about this Odon, or if this was someone else entirely. I decided to give it a couple more days – the weekend, and then tackle it first thing Monday morning. 

******

Monday arrived, but still no sign of Tim. I busied myself with morning tasks, but an unease clung to the air like static. Finally, I pulled the business card from my pocket. As I did, the overhead lights began to hum—a low, pulsing sound that seemed to vibrate through my chest. They flickered erratically, throwing shadows that danced on the walls.

I dialed the number. The line rang, each tone echoing louder than the last. Just as I was about to hang up and devise another plan, a click broke the silence. Someone had answered.

“Hello?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the now-unsteady hum of the lights.

No response.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I asked again, louder this time.

The room plunged into darkness. The hum swelled to a deafening crescendo before suddenly cutting off. My heart pounded in the silence.

“What can I do for you?” a gruff voice asked, raspy and unfamiliar, crackling through the line like it was being dragged from somewhere deep underground.

The lights sputtered back on, brighter than before, humming so violently they seemed ready to shatter.

“Well,” I stammered, my throat dry. “I found this card, and I… I’m looking for someone. Tim. Do you know him?”

The voice on the other end gave a low chuckle, the sound sharp and grating. “Oh yeah. Tim. I know him. We go way back. He’s a buddy of mine. Funny thing is… I only help buddies out. You a buddy?”

“I… I don’t even know you.”

“No, but I like your voice,” the man growled. “How about this? You show up at 324 Grace Street. Tonight. Eleven o’clock sharp. Bring a deck of cards. And some cash.”

The line went dead before I could respond, the dial tone buzzing ominously in my ear.

Now, I pride myself on being rational. I don’t talk to strangers. I definitely don’t call mysterious numbers. And I never show up at strange locations at ungodly hours with money and a deck of cards. But as the day stretched on, the options for finding Tim dwindled.

The lights in my office had started humming again—louder now, a maddening drone that crawled into my skull. I tried to drown it out with busywork, but as night fell, it was all I could hear. By the time the clock inched toward eleven, my nerves were shot.

I sat in the dim light of my living room, turning the business card over and over in my hands. Who was this man? Was Odon the man Tim had mentioned days ago? Or was this something else entirely? The events of the past few days had twisted into something unreal, and the idea of walking into a poker game seemed just as likely as stepping into a trap.

But as the hands on the clock ticked closer to eleven, one thing became certain: I was going to 324 Grace Street.

******

The house was an old Victorian, its paint peeling and windows dark. A single street lamp flickered nearby, casting shifting shadows across the porch. I hesitated, the hum of the streetlight above echoing the one that had plagued me in the office. My breath fogged in the cold night air as I reached for the doorknob. It turned easily, and the door creaked open.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and something metallic. The faint murmur of voices drifted from somewhere below. My pulse quickened as I moved through the dimly lit hallway, the hardwood floors creaking underfoot. A staircase to my left led down into the basement, where the voices grew louder—laughter, low murmurs, the clink of glasses.

I reached the basement door and pressed my hand against its cold surface. Steeling myself, I pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase descending into an orange-hued glow. The light flickered as if coming from a dozen mismatched bulbs, and shadows danced along the walls.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused. The room was surreal. A long table dominated the space, strewn with poker chips, cards, and empty glasses. Around it sat a cast of characters so strange, I had to blink to believe what I was seeing.

Tim was there, slouched in his chair, his face pale and gaunt, his usual weariness replaced by something darker. Sandy, this wife, sat across from him, her hands trembling as she shuffled her chips. But the others...

The others weren’t entirely human.

A man with hollow eyes and skin that seemed to sag off his bones stared at his cards intently. Beside him, a woman in a tattered dress moved with an unnatural fluidity, her fingers unnaturally long as they toyed with a stack of chips. Another player, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, exhaled smoke from a cigarette that seemed to burn without end. And there were more—shadowy figures whose forms wavered like smoke, their presence chilling the air around them.

Tim noticed me first. “You came,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of surprise. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“What is this?” I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the din of the room.

“It’s a game,” Tim said, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “And now that you’re here, we can finally start.”

“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Tim leaned forward, his eyes hollow and desperate. “We’re playing for everything,” he said. “Our lives. Our souls. Whatever we’ve got left. And you’re in it now.”

Before I could protest, one of the ghoulish figures spoke—a deep, guttural voice that resonated in the pit of my stomach. “The new player sits, or the game ends now.”

Tim grabbed my arm, his grip icy cold. “Please,” he whispered. “You can’t leave now. If you do, they’ll come after you, too.”

I sat. The cards were dealt.

The game began, the stakes unspoken but understood. Every hand felt heavier than the last, the air thick with tension. The ghoulish figures played with eerie precision, their inhuman gazes boring into me with every move I made. Tim, Sandy, and I struggled to keep up, each of us losing more chips—and more of ourselves—with every round.

“This is insane,” I hissed at Tim during a brief pause. “What happens if we lose?”

Tim didn’t meet my eyes. “You don’t want to know,” he said. “But you won’t leave here alive.”

The game stretched on, the minutes bleeding into hours. My stack of chips dwindled, and the room seemed to grow darker with every hand. Sandy folded on a critical round and was immediately dragged from her seat by shadowy hands that emerged from the darkness. Her screams echoed briefly before the silence swallowed them whole.

I turned to Tim, my heart pounding. “We have to stop this!”

Tim’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “You think I haven’t tried?” he said. “The only way out is to win.”

The cards were dealt again. My hands shook as I picked them up. The flickering lights cast long shadows over the table, and the other players watched me with expressions that ranged from predatory to apathetic.

The final hand was a showdown. Tim went all-in, his face grim but determined. I followed suit, knowing I had no other choice. The otherworldly players matched us, their movements unnervingly calm.

When the cards were revealed, my breath caught. A royal flush. The others groaned, their forms flickering, fading like dying embers. Tim stared at me in disbelief as the shadows receded.

“You did it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You actually did it.”

The room began to dissolve, the ghoulish figures evaporating into the dim light. The table, the chips, and even Tim began to fade, leaving me alone in the dark.