The Pale Aisle

July 31, 2012

by Adalberto

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (565 words)

"My grandmother called it ‘the veil,’ a thin membrane between our world and the next. I always thought it was a metaphor until I turned thirteen and started seeing faces in the static of old TVs. I kept it to myself, of course. I wore headphones, avoided mirrors, and never, ever looked directly at the […]"

My grandmother called it ‘the veil,’ a thin membrane between our world and the next. I always thought it was a metaphor until I turned thirteen and started seeing faces in the static of old TVs. I kept it to myself, of course. I wore headphones, avoided mirrors, and never, ever looked directly at the dark corners of rooms. I was a cartographer of avoidance, mapping my life to steer clear of the cracks.

That all changed on a Tuesday, in the fluorescent glare of a mid-sized grocery store called ‘Fresh Vale.’ I worked the evening restocking shift, my back to the cereal aisle, my mind on autopilot. A woman with a frayed beige coat and a permanent frown glided past me, her shopping cart wheels squeaking a rhythm that felt almost deliberate. I ignored her, focusing on the box of oat rings in my hand. But I felt it – a cold draft that smelled of wet earth and something metallic. And then, the air thickened, like walking through a spider web of the spirit.

She was there again, the woman in beige, but now she was standing at the end of the aisle, perfectly still. Her face was blank, not angry, not sad, just absent. Her eyes were fixed on me, not through me, but at me, and I felt a pull in my chest, a yank on something I’d buried deep. I dropped the oat rings. She turned, with a mechanical stiffness, and walked away. I followed, not by choice, but by some invisible leash. She led me past the dairy section, past the frozen foods, and into the employee break room, a cramped space with a flickering light and a stained microwave. She didn’t close the door fully, just stood by the sink, her back to me.

‘I see you,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. My blood ran cold. I hadn’t heard a spirit speak in years, and I had trained myself to ignore the whispers. She turned. ‘You’re marked,’ she continued. ‘There are two of them. A man and a woman. They’ve been following you since you entered.’ I tried to laugh, but it came out as a choked sob. My hands were trembling. I looked around the break room, half-expecting to see the pair she described materialize from the coffee machine. ‘They’re not hostile,’ she said, her expression softening into something I can only call pity. ‘But they’ve been trying to reach you. They’re the ones who sent me.’ I wanted to run, but my legs were lead. ‘They want you to know,’ she said, taking a step closer, ‘that you’re not imagining it. And you’re not alone.’

I didn’t sleep that night. Or the many nights after. I quit the grocery store, switched my major from accounting to art, and started painting from memory – the faces of strangers. I never spoke to the woman in beige again, though I sometimes see her in my peripheral vision, standing at the end of other aisles, in other stores. I never saw the two spirits she mentioned, but I feel them, a gentle pressure on my shoulder when I’m about to make a mistake, a warm gust in a cold room. I’ve stopped trying to suppress the veil. I’ve started exploring it. But I’ll never step into a ‘Fresh Vale’ again.

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