Ink Drift - July

The Creep Factor
Issue 12 - Fear
The Creep Factor
DC Diamondopolous
Tammy had nightmares of the man she saw
in her store window. His elongated face
chased her through the streets of the San
Fernando Valley, her terror mounting like
a progression of staccato hits rising up the
scales on an untuned piano. She always
woke up screaming before the crescendo.
It all began after Rachel had a gun held
to her head for a measly fifty dollars. How
dumb could the thief be, holding up a pillow-and-accessory
shop when Dazzles,
Tammy’s store three doors away sold jewelry?
It was costume, plastic, some silver, a
few pieces of gold, but, a pillow store?
After the police left, Rachel came in
screaming and crying, “Why me?” her eyes
red and twitching, mouth pinched. Tammy
knew what Rachel was thinking: you take in
more money than I do, why didn’t he put a
gun to your head?
She felt that the robbery at Rachel’s had
been a prelude to something bigger, a feeling—dread.
It all came back to the dream.
She was at the Pacoima county-fair, at an
old-time taffy-pulling contest where the
taffy wasn’t taffy but the face of the man
she saw outside staring in at the window
display, his phantom shape morphing into
multiple cells until a valley of identicals
hunted her.
Tammy had a panic button under the
cash register. The counter was next to the
back door for a fast escape. A six-foot bank
of back-to-back showcases stretched down
the middle of the long, narrow store, and
ten others lined the east and west walls. The
glass doors reflected whoever looked into
them and gave her time to assess people.
Still, she thought of buying a gun.
Tammy stood at the counter with the
computer on. She was browsing through
listings of Bakelite necklaces on eBay when
the door swung open, the buzzer alarmed.
Since the robbery, Rachel entered her store
like a bull in search of a red cape.
“They caught the asshole that held me
up!”
“That’s great.”
“The douche spent my money. Cops said
I won’t get it back.” Rachel stood just inside
the door, her arms crossed, and her attractive
face gaunt.
“At least he’s off the streets,” Tammy
said.
“He’ll be out soon enough. And probably
come back to rob you.”
Tammy sucked in her breath.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I
hate coming to work. I’m so afraid.”
“I understand.” Tammy walked down
the aisle. “At least you weren’t hurt.”
“Emotionally, I was.”
Outside, two women looked at the window
display. One held a manila envelope,
the other several letters. Three months
earlier, new neighbors moved in with a
shipping and PO Box store. Tammy’s walkin
business increased. The customers were
a mix of drifters, aspiring actors and models,
hopeful reality stars, and self-published
writers. They talked about themselves and
shared intimate details, as if she were someone
without judgment, and perhaps that
was the reason, for Tammy saw the best
in people, and she had to admit; it made a
slow day go by faster.
The two women left.
Tammy was about to speak when the
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