BETA: A Technological Nightmare, page 1
BETA: A Technological Nightmare
First edition: September 2023
Copyright © 2023 Sammy Scott.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this collection are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Contact the author here:
ScribeSammyScott@gmail.com
On Facebook:
@Sammy Scott – Author
ALSO BY SAMMY SCOTT
At Home with the Horrors: 14 Chilling Tales (2022)
“Sammy Scott cements his status as a rising voice in horror fiction, and an author to watch—and to fear—in the genre.” — Ronald Malfi, bestselling author of Come with Me
“The finest horror anthology I’ve read in a decade. Sammy’s work elevates the craft to a literary tier seldom reached by new authors. As a reader, this collection fascinated me, and as a writer, it intimidated me.” — Felix Blackwell, author of Stolen Tongues
“Disturbingly terrifying. A masterpiece of
short-story suspense. Five stars.” — ML Rayner, author of Echoes of Home
“Sammy Scott is one of those rare talents able to craft tales so chilling that they needle their way under your skin and turn to ice in your veins. I can honestly say that his debut short story collection, At Home with the Horrors, is the best I’ve read to date. — Elizabeth J. Brown, author of The Laughing Policeman
“Sammy Scott doesn’t rely on familiar tricks to disturb you. Each one of his chilling tales burrows into your psyche and refuses to leave, leering over your shoulder long after you’ve left its pages. The horrors in his writing are of the uncanny variety, making him as much Stanley Kubrick as he is Rod Serling. This is one author who knows how to terrorize.” —Nick Roberts, author of The Exorcist’s House
For Cole:
Never stop imaginationating
Contents
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
DAY 1
The house was a rectangle of glass and glossy white paneling, resting like a massive box in the middle of its sparse, flat, multi-acre lawn. Five rectangular windows, devoid of any shutters on the exterior as well as any apparent shades or curtains on the interior, gaped black and yawning. There was a solitary front door and a single front-facing garage door, both closed, both as flat, shiny, and white as a marker board. The roof, like the lid of a shoebox, was a level plane that overhung the structure by mere inches, providing but a sliver of shade from the noonday sun.
Michael Danvers stood on the curb and studied the house.
And the house studied him back.
The street was devoid of any other residences besides this one. The paved road in front of it stretched out several hundred yards in both directions, well beyond Michael’s view. There was room enough, he assumed, for more houses to be built over time and the neighborhood to expand. For now, however, it was just the one, and it was to be Michael’s home for the next three months.
Michael detected a slight thrumming, a gentle pulse emanating from the house itself. It was nearly imperceptible, yet he could feel it from several feet away, tickling at the fine, invisible hairs on his upper cheeks and forehead. The faint sound touched him, pushed at him gently in rhythmic waves. It held him at bay no more than a light breeze would, but he could not deny a sense of foreboding, an insinuation that perhaps he should leave.
The garage door lifted. Behind him, the driverless car—sleek and silver with opaque windows—turned into the driveway and pulled inside, its motor quieter than the buzzing of hummingbird wings. Once the car was tucked away, the garage door lowered again.
Michael stepped onto the sandy white sidewalk that led to the front door. The grass on either side of the cement was perfectly manicured, every blade standing at uniform attention, but there were no bushes, flowers, or trees, no other natural landscaping of any kind. The house looked as if it had simply been dropped in the middle of a level green field and could just as easily be plucked up again at a moment’s notice without leaving much evidence that it was ever even there.
The starkness of both the house and the ground around it existed in harmony with the heat of the day; there was hardly a shadow to be found anywhere. The sun blazed unforgivingly in the cloudless blue sky above and the white house unapologetically reflected much of its light.
The building was so tall, looming over Michael as he took his first steps toward the front door, that at first he thought it might be two stories. But looking again at the front windows, which were long and narrow, extending from the base of the wall to nearly the roof’s edge, he determined that no, it was in fact only the one.
Michael felt strangely naked as he approached the house. He carried nothing on his person except the clothes he was wearing and his driver’s license, which was tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He had been told to leave behind his cell phone, his laptop, toiletries, any additional items of clothing—all of the things that would be at the top of a list if one was packing for an extended stay away from home. Lacking all of these necessities, Michael was acutely aware of the emptiness of his hands, and he could not shake the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something, even though that was exactly what he had been instructed to do. He wondered with dark amusement if this was how convicts felt when beginning a stint in prison.
He stopped at the door. There was no knob to grasp. He put his hand on the glossy white surface, which was surprisingly cool to the touch, and pushed gently. It didn’t move, but he sensed a slight vibration in his fingertips when he touched it, turning them mildly numb. He cocked his head to the side to look into the adjacent window, but saw nothing except his own reflection: his short-cropped brown hair, his furrowed brow (now beaded with sweat), and a confused look in his eyes.
“Hello?” he said, rapping lightly on the door.
A whirring sound drew Michael’s attention upwards. A circular panel the size of a fist opened above the door. A camera lens emerged, mounted on a thin finger of metal and wire, and turned to look down on him like a large blue eye.
“Hello, Michael,” said a voice. Its tone was deep but feminine, as warm and silky as mother’s milk. “Please come in.”
There was a soft click, and the door in front of Michael opened slowly with a pleasant hiss. He stepped inside, hearing the camera retract and its panel close behind him. Lights dawned as he entered the room, revealing a grand kitchen. The air was pleasantly cool inside, almost chilly after the heat of the summer sun. He pulled rapidly on the front of his gray t-shirt, fanning himself. The soaked-in sweat turned icy.
The room smelled fresh, but not with the expected scents of plywood and plaster like most new constructions. The air was permeated by the odor of plastic accompanied by a hint of something slightly antiseptic, an aroma reminiscent of a hospital ward.
As Michael stepped over the tile floor, which was immaculate and highly reflective, his sneakers did not make a sound. In the wall to his left was a tall panel that he assumed was the door to a closet or pantry, next to which was a floor-to-ceiling opening that led further into the house. Across from him was a U-shaped counter that wrapped from the left of the room all the way around to the other side, broken up only by a large sink in the center that sat under a row of windows extending from the countertop to the high ceiling. Above the counters on either side were a series of cabinets. Under one of these cabinets was what appeared to be a microwave, only it had no window and no handle. There was in fact not a handle anywhere in sight, not on the cabinet doors nor at the sink.
In the center of the room was an island lined on one side by four bar stools on silver pedestals. The island itself appeared to be floating about a foot off the floor, and Michael tipped his head to see if he could spot what it was actually resting upon. Whether it was a trick of the light or perhaps a reflective base, he couldn’t be certain, but he could distinguish no physical supports. The illusion of levitation was flawless.
To Michael’s right and just inside the front door was a large t
Within the box were two more boxes: one small and square, the other flat and rectangular. The flat one contained a cell phone, its black screen framed in white plastic. As Michael picked it up, its display glowed the time (12:08 p.m.), the date (Sun, May 23), the outside temperature (91 degrees Fahrenheit), and the battery level (100%). He regarded it only for a moment before sliding it casually into his back pocket. The second box contained what appeared to be a bracelet. White and rigid, it held its oblong shape even when not being worn. When he picked it up, a glowing blue digital readout displayed the words, “Wear me.” Michael put it over his left wrist, and as it latched together of its own accord with a muted click, it conformed perfectly to the size of his wrist, one end disappearing into the other like a snake eating its own tail.
Beyond the dining table on the right were two more doors, both closed. Michael knew from seeing the exterior of the house that one of these doors must lead to the garage. The other remained a mystery. A bedroom, perhaps.
Everything in the room with the exception of the dining table was either silver or the same stark white as the house’s exterior. What little wall space that remained held no paintings or decorations of any kind. The room was almost completely devoid of color save for the blue sky visible through the windows.
“Hello, Michael,” the voice said again. It seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “How are you today?”
Michael smiled. “I’m good.” He paused for a moment before asking, “How are you?”
“I am fine, thank you. My name is Ella. I am your Electronic Life Assistant. I am happy to finally meet you.”
“Me too.” He felt awkward, as he often did anytime he interacted with the likes of an Alexa or a Siri. Like he was pretending. Play-acting.
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.
Michael considered. “I would love some water,” he answered.
“Certainly,” said Ella. “It is quite warm outside today. Unseasonably so.”
Across the kitchen, there was a gentle mechanical sound. Below one of the cabinets, where Michael had spotted what he assumed to be a windowless, button-free microwave, a panel popped open. He walked over and found inside it an unlabeled bottle of water, so cold that there were slivers of ice floating at the top. He unscrewed the lid, which he flicked with his thumb onto the counter, and drank. The water was smooth and frigid with only the slightest mineral flavor—exactly how he liked it. He downed half of it and sighed, then winced against a brief cold headache. “Thank you,” he said, squeezing his left eye shut until the pain abated.
“You’re welcome,” said Ella. “Is it to your liking?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Noted,” said Ella. “Do you require anything else at this time? Lunch will be served promptly at one o’clock p.m. Today’s menu includes a chicken and pear salad with goat cheese and candied walnuts. But if you are hungry now, I can provide a light snack.”
“I’m fine.”
“How was your trip?”
“It was… good,” he said, considering, silently realizing that he couldn’t actually recall much of it, as he had inadvertently nodded off at various points along the way. He had no idea why he had been so tired.
“Very good. Do you require anything else at the moment?”
“I’d love a tour.”
“Certainly,” said Ella. “This”—a pause—“is the kitchen.”
Michael hesitated, uncertain if the AI was attempting humor or simply stating the obvious. “The Sterling Corporation certainly likes white,” he observed.
“I’m sorry. I do not understand,” said Ella.
“I said, ‘Everything is very white.’” He enunciated, the same way he found himself doing whenever he spoke to his more primitive AI at home.
“Yes,” said Ella, “but keep in mind this house is a prototype. Future models will feature different designs and color choices. And I can certainly adapt this model to your tastes as our time together continues.”
Michael was taken by her voice. It was just as rich and warm as it had sounded outside on the porch, welcoming and friendly while remaining steady and serious. But it was also somehow both vaguely artificial and, strange as it was to admit to himself, sensual. To Michael’s ears, Ella sounded like the most beautiful woman in the world.
“You will see that there is plenty of cabinet space in this room, as well as a table with seating for eight.”
Michael processed this information briefly. A table in the kitchen was expected, of course; its absence would have made the room incomplete, and yet Michael noted that seven of the eight chairs would never be used, at least not while he was staying there. Their presence was nothing more than ornamental.
“I noticed that nothing has a handle on it,” Michael said.
“There are no handles anywhere throughout the house,” Ella responded. “Everything is either automatic or voice-activated. Or, if you prefer, can be activated with a gentle touch. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”
The cabinet closest to Michael’s left popped open slightly. He reached out, pulling it open the rest of the way with his fingertips. It contained three shelves stacked with small dishes, dinner plates, and bowls. All white. He pushed the door shut. He then pressed gently on the panel’s surface, which glowed blue under the pressure of his touch, and when he pulled his hand away, it opened again while at the same time emitting a gentle digital tone.
“Can you also close it, Ella?”
The cabinet door swung shut silently.
Michael turned. “And the sink is voice-controlled as well?” he asked.
Water began to pour from the waterfall faucet the instant he finished his question. He looked at it, grinned, and watched as the water shut off again.
“So, I see cabinets and a sink,” he said, looking around and pointing casually with the same hand holding the bottle of water. “But there’s no oven or fridge?”
“There is no need for either appliance. Nor a dishwasher for that matter. Everything is internalized and automated,” said Ella. “I will manage all of your cooking, cleaning, and grocery shopping. These tasks will happen automatically, but you can also make special requests. My routines can be altered to suit your preferences.”
Michael’s eye was drawn to a circular opening, framed by an embossed silver rim, in one of the countertops. He stepped toward it and passed one hand, palm downwards, over the cavity. He felt a pulling sensation, a firm but gentle suction, drawing his hand toward it. “Trash receptacle?” he guessed.
“Yes,” Ella answered. “You will see them sporadically throughout the house. I take care of all waste management. There are similar receptacles in the bedroom closets for laundry.”
“I will try not to get those mixed up. I wouldn’t want you incinerating my clothes and washing my Kleenex.”
Michael stepped forward to the sink, resting one hand on the edge, and looked out one of the three large windows. Through the glass he saw a manicured lawn and a long stretch of grassy field that ended in a line of trees maybe a mile away, behind which stood a row of tall rolling hills. Looking down and slightly to his left, Michael discovered a nicely designed patio area that included a hot tub and a massive in-ground pool. The sight of this quietly delighted him, yet the nondescript stretch of flat green behind the house really did not offer much in the way of a view at all.
“You look displeased,” said Ella.
Michael exhaled a soft chuckle. “Do I?”
“Yes. When you looked out the window, you lowered your shoulders and your eyebrows. You squinted your eyes. You pursed your lips. These are all indicators of displeasure.”
“You can see me?” Michael asked, then immediately felt foolish. He had walked into the house knowing that he would be observed at all times, but the closeness with which he was apparently being studied surprised him nonetheless, as did Ella’s accurate interpretation of his body language. He turned and looked around the room.
