The Buffering Lich

The damn closet is glowing again. Not the friendly, 'left the charger plugged in' glow. A deep, pulsing purple throb, like a monster’s heart, holding James frozen, blankets pulled up to his nose.

He struggles to keep his breathing under control. He had night terrors when he was a kid. He thought there were things under his bed with groping arms, things that wanted to pull him into the abyss.

I’m a middle aged man. I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. The things in the dark though, oh boy, those are a problem. He steels himself. Maybe it’s an alarm system LED or some electronic toy left by the previous owners. He tries to steady his breathing. Ok, calming techniques. His therapist taught him calming techniques. Breathe, he tries to breathe deeper and mostly succeeds. Maybe he’s being silly. It’s probably nothing in the slightest and just his overactive imagination. Ok try to remember.

Identify five things you can see. It’s dark and I can’t see shit, that’s why the eery purple glow is so ominous. Four things you can touch. I can touch my nose and the blankets and the bible I’m clutching. Also the empty space in my life after Anna left me. Three things you can hear. I hear the wind outside and the howling across the moors of sleet coming down as well as the rush of blood through my veins as my heart beats. Two things you can smell. I smell fear and the tang of cheap toothpaste. One thing I can taste: The toothpaste, a bitter relic from the divorce settlement bulk buy, and the phantom grease of the chicken soup from dinner. I hate soup.

There we go I’m calm-ish. I get up and walk to the closet. I wince at the icy tile floor.

I put the bible down and walk to the closet. Jaw set. The purple glow is now like a heartbeat, a slow, steady beat that seems to speed up as my hand closes around the knob of the closet door. I pull fast.

The smell of ozone and dust wafts up as I pull at the door.

There at the back of the closet it sits, inside a box all aglow like a nightlight.

I reach out to the box, slowly. The edges are glowing now as the throb has seemingly become a steady light. Light’s leaking from the seams of the lid.

I tip back the lid. A brilliant light blinds me momentarily.The light dimmed, resolving into a chaotic, mesmerizing swirl. Gears spin, not brass, but something dark and glassy. Looks like obsidian, etched with faintly glowing runes that seemed to shift when I stare too long. Wires, impossibly thin and glowing, snakes between them like luminous veins. Tiny lights pulse alongside what looks like miniature incandescent bulbs – a bizarre fusion of ancient craft and modern circuit board. It’s humming with a low, resonant frequency that vibrates in my fillings. It smells faintly of rust and... ancient desiccated linen.

“James Stuart Lang. Hmm, your internet history is not something I’d advertise.” a voice came from the box. I fumble with it… drop it... kick it accidentally so it lands on a flip-flop.

“What the hell? Do I know you? Is this some elaborate prank? This is a bluetooth prank, is someone going to jump out and scare me now?”

The open box glows as a voice speaks once more, this time out of every wireless speaker of the house, booming. “I am Tonar the undying. Bow before me mortal and do my bidding.”

I sit down on the bed staring at the box. “Or what, you’ll give me insomnia for all eternity by disco lights?” The box light dims. “I am limited by this... bandwidth bottleneck. However, my digital reach remains... sufficient. Your mother's email address is remarkably easy to find. As is your HR department's.

“Fine, what do you want, oh blackmailer of the box.” I say, crossing my arms.

“The wifi is terrible here. Could you plug me into a router so I can have a decent connection?” the box says.

“What are you?” I wonder. “I’m what happens when a phylactery of an undead wizard is melded with an AI and left in a box after the owner passes away. Does that answer your question?” It says.

“What’s a phylactery?” I say. “Think of it as a back-up drive to the wizard’s soul. It’s a soul jar. This one just happens to be a pretty advanced piece of technology. So now I can watch all the sci-fi series I want over the internet for as long as I want and even branch out into Spanish telenovelas.”

“That’s a pretty big jump from dominating AI to couch potato?” I query. “Yes, after finding all the magic there is and memorising all the spells possible you kind of run out of things to do, so then you make an undead soul holder.

Omniscience is dull, James Stuart Lang. Mortals are predictable after the first millennium. But this?” (The voice gained a manic edge) “This ‘internet’? Glorious chaos! La Usurpadora has thirty episodes of pure villainous monologue! It’s transcendent! Now, the buffering is an affront. Fix it.

“Ok, so you’re an advanced AI, how about what I want out of it?” “I could make your credit card debt disappear." A single LED on the box pulsed crimson. "Poof. Transferred to... let's say, a subsidiary of a shell corporation owned by a particularly gullible troll warlord in Reykjavik. He owes me a favor."

James plugs the box into the router. The glow stabilizes. The box pulses intensely, humming softly. Tonar: "Connection secured. Commencing financial restructuring... Complete. Your debt is now an asset, James Stuart Lang. Now... about my housing."

"Housing? You are housed. In a box. In my closet."

Tonar: "This vessel is... adequate, but limited. Observe." The intricate gears and lights within the box swirl rapidly. A small, intricate drone, glowing with the same purple light, assembles itself from the components inside the box and lifts off, hovering before James. Tiny manipulator arms extend.

James jumps back. "What the--?!"

Tonar (voice now emanating from the drone): "Significantly more mobile. And now I can fetch my own popcorn. Also, I require access to your 3D printer. This chassis requires... aesthetic improvements. Perhaps a tiny wizard hat?"

The drone zips past my ear with a faint buzz, disappearing down the dark hallway towards the kitchen. From the shadows, a single, imperious command echoes: 'And James? Extra butter!'"