At this Time of Night

by Doug Cornett

One by one, they rise from their beds, pad softly down stairs and push out their front doors, feeding themselves to the unknowable darkness of the small town. An intangible longing pulls them from their homes at this time of night. There are eight wanderers in all, each unaware of the others, each under the same spell. They gather in front of a house at the edge of town. It is almost completely empty, save for a room with photographs hanging on the wall that show the wanderers, together, in far-off places. In every picture, they wear dazed, hollowed-out expressions.

None of the wanderers can recall ever being together in these strange places. What’s more, they don’t recognize one another, despite living in the same place. It’s odd, one of them remarks, for such a small town.

In the room with the photographs in the abandoned house, each of the strangers crinkles their brow and concentrates. They decide it is a trick. But who? they ask, and how? They narrow their eyes at the person next to them, ball their pocketed hands into fists. One of them chuckles in a limp, humorless kind of way.

They stay like this, a clump of uncertainty, until one of them sighs and throws up her hands. It’s late, she says, and this is not the place to be at this time of night. The others nod and shrug their shoulders.

We can’t leave, one man pleads. I felt it. He sweeps a desperate gaze over the blank faces. Didn’t you feel it?

But they are already turning for the door, for their homes, their beds.

The pleading man acts quickly. From his pocket he removes the camera and clicks.

The faces barely react; they are dazed, bored, and dreaming of tomorrow.