The Scanner
This short horror tale appeared in issue number one of Enter The Realm. Story copyright 1994, William
D. Cissna.


     The machine lurked in the dim, below-grade, concrete-blocked room like a
square-faced monster from a 1950s movie when Hollywood believed television was a
more despicable enemy than the Reds. In the early mornings and late evenings, when
the rest of the building was dark, it hummed conspiratorially and splayed the rainbow
colors of its screen-saver pattern across the room until the eminations were swallowed
by the dingy tweed carpet.

     It was so typical of the half-assed, style-over-substance thinking of the company's
owner: spend thousands of dollars for the very latest technology, then cram it into a
room resembling a medieval dungeon and force it down the workers' throats like some
kind of computer horse pill.

     But that's Al Tarkitt, she thought. Dictatorial. Moody. Sexist. Convinced of his own
perfection. And essentially slimy, ignorant, inconsiderate and perhaps even diabolical.

     The arrival of the machine had pushed a living hell of a working environment over
the edge into the abyss of anarchy. A benign madman at the best of times, Tarkitt had
become a shrill, screeching lunatic as his unannounced and undiscussed plans to thrust
his company into the forefront overnight faltered against the reality of his employees'
basic computer illiteracy.

     So, as cowed workers scrambled to learn what amounted to a foreign language,
Tarkitt roamed the hallways scowling and making life intolerable. Considering that he
already held his opinion the only valid one, his talents to outdistance all others, his style
and patter to be irresistible to the opposite sex and his judgment unparalleled in modern
times, the attitude shift from obnoxious to unbearable effectively minimized staff
morale.

     And she could have somehow lived with all of it, Eileen thought as she stared at the
screen, hoping it would give her a clue as to what she should do next, if he hadn't chosen
the same time to start coming on to her.

     The legend of Tarkitt's attempted conquests had reached her just hours after she
started the job, a little over three months earlier. Like the other female employees, she
struggled to hide her femininity during working hours, resenting all along that certain
kinds of dress were considered "asking for it." With no money in the bank, monthly car
and rent payments, and the recession in full bloom, her options were temporarily
limited. She took it and shut up.

     Tarkitt, apparently, never learned. Rumors of narrowly-averted sexual harassment
suits, an infuriated wife and numerous rejections didn't seem to faze him. Eileen
suddenly, unexpectedly, had become the new focus of his snakelike attentions. It turned
her stomach to think of it.

     She had creativity and a quick mind on her side, attributes that had saved her before
and would save her again. When the computer arrived, she threw herself into learning
it, as much as a way to escape him as to gain benefits from the system. For, although he
would occasionally visit the room to stare over her shoulder (and down her blouse, which
made her change to turtlenecks after the first time), he mostly stayed away. It was a
more neutral place than her office, which she had come to consider nearly as dangerous
as his office. Both places had doors that could be closed.

     And slowly, as the days stretched to weeks, as she learned more about the computer
and spent hours avoiding his bogus affections, a vague thought formed in the back of
her mind: Al Tarkitt does not deserve to live. And no one -- no one -- would miss him.

     As such things will, the thought, though dormant, grew in size until it quietly drove
her days and nights.

     Whenever she could -- even after hours, if she could be sure he wouldn't be in -- she
studied, worked, read about and practiced on the computer. At every chance, she talked
with the service people, toyed with the manuals, added to the software, manipulated her
knowledge. If there was an out from the company, she knew, it would be through this
emerging technology.

    Then, one day in a propitious chat with the company secretary, she heard a stunning
tidbit: employees owned about 25%  of the agency's stock. The remaining 75% was
Tarkitt's -- but a clause left it open for an employee buyout if he were to die or
otherwise be unable to carry out his duties as agency leader.

     As she studied the manual for the computer's artistic heart, the scanner, late that
night, one brief piece of copy leapt from page to brain. Could it be? If only the
technology could be stretched, be altered.  If only.

     At 3:22 in the morning, after endless fiddlings and reconnections inside the body of
the scanner, she tried one last time. Lifting the lid of the machine, she placed a simple
sheet of typed paper face down, dropped the lid and punched a button. The machine
emitted a short buzz, then a burst of light shot from underneath the lid.

     She paused for a moment, then lifted the lid. Nothing had changed, except the paper
was gone.

     She stared in disbelief, then hugged herself in joyous exhaustion. The technology
could indeed be stretched.

     The next morning, having barely slept, she pulled from her closet one of the outfits
she would never have worn before. But today was different. Today she wanted him to
look.

     She arrived when the doors were still locked and the building dark in order to
commandeer the computer room. She hunched over the keyboard, feigning work, when
she heard him enter the room.

     "Boy, you sure are at it early, honeybun," he wheezed in his mock-sexy voice. "And
I sure do like that dress! Bet your boyfriend does too." He smirked at her and tried to
position himself to see more.

     She looked up at him with a pretense of concern and put a light whine into her tone.
"Oh, Al, I'm so glad you got here," she lied. "I've had so much trouble with the scanner
this morning. It just won't take anything I give it."

     "I'll bet you'd take anything I gave you," he said, and she nearly moaned out loud.
"But let me take a look at this thing."

     She had depended on his belief that there was nothing he couldn't make better. She
rose slowly as he turned to the scanner and lifted the lid. "Don't see anything
particularly wrong," he mumbled as he leaned over.

     With all the strength she could muster, she pushed his shoulders downward. His face
smashed up against the flat glass as she shoved the lid over the back of his head and
punched the power button with the heel of her other hand.

     With a blinding flash, the light inside shot out and enveloped first his head, then ran
down the length of his body as she pulled her hands away. For a brief moment, she
dreamed she could see his bones, before the body shriveled upward and disappeared
beneath the lid. Only split seconds had passed, but the room was suddenly absolutely
still.

     She lifted the lid cautiously, but saw only a slight smear on the glass surface where
his greasy skin had first made contact.

     Working quickly, she popped the back of the machine and made vital readjustments.
Wiping sweat from her brow, she screwed tight the cover and walked shakily to the
monitor.

     DO YOU WISH TO SAVE SCANNED MATERIAL? the machine asked her. She
typed N for NO. DO YOU WISH TO EXIT THIS PROGRAM? She typed EXIT.

     For a moment, when the screen saver with its rotating cylinders and curlicues popped
on, she thought she saw a face, open in a mute scream, floating up near the screen's
edge. Then it was gone, and she broke into the first natural smile she'd had in, it
seemed like, years.
Horror shorts -
by Bill Cissna