The Chain

By Rachel Dib

I eyed Tira as she stumbled across our living room. Dressed in a sparkly pink thigh-length dress, zebra-print high heels, and bunny ears, I almost didn’t recognize my usually reserved roommate.

Tira yawned and tossed her purse toward the futon. It bounced off the cushion and dropped to the floor.

I cleared my throat. “So, where have you been all night?”

Tira jumped and spun around, eyes wide. Spotting me leaning forward interrogatively in my favorite armchair, her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, hi, Nessa. Have a good night?”

I crossed my arms. “Not as good as you, apparently.”

A timid smile lifted the corners of Tira’s mouth. “Yeah, I um…” She glanced down at her outfit and blinked as if seeing it for the first time. Her cheeks flushed.

I lifted a brow. “You do remember where you were last night, right?”

“Of course.” She shook her head. “It was just different than I’d thought.”

“What was?”

Tira’s blush deepened. “The Chain.”

My eyes widened. “The Chain. As in the most fabulous club in New Haven?”

Tira nodded.

“But how…?” I shook my head, not comprehending how my strictly no-nonsense roommate had talked her way into the most legendary club in town—or why she’d wanted to. Partying had never been her thing. “The Chain is impossible to get into.”

Tira pursed her lips. “Actually, it’s not.”

“You mean if you know the right people.”

She shook her head. “There are no right people. You can only get into The Chain on your own… merit.” Tira paused passing me a furtive glance. “I suppose that’s why it’s so exclusive.”

“Yeah?” Though I didn’t like her use of the word “merit,” I wasn’t one to shy away from a good party. I scooted forward, hands clasped between my knees. “How do I get in?”

Tira smirked. “Now, that’s the secret.”

Sighing, I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, that and where it is.”

“No, I can give you the next location.” She retrieved her purse, dug through it, and handed me a folded piece of paper. “I figured you’d want to check it out.”

Excitement welling in my chest, I glanced over the address. It was an empty office building across from a café I frequented. Odd. But that was the club’s M.O. “This is awesome, thanks!”

Tira shrugged. “If you can get in.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” She passed me another meaningful glance.

Before I could ask what that meant, she disappeared down the hall.

If not for the tattooed, six-foot, seven-inch buff bouncer guarding the door, I wouldn’t have known The Chain’s entrance was anywhere in the vicinity. No line wrapped around the building. No one dressed in slinky outfits ambled drunkenly in or out of the doors. In fact, I’d been standing across the street for twenty minutes and had yet to see anyone approach the old office building and its lone guard.

Either it’s a dead night, Tira gave me the wrong address, or I’m missing something.

Hoping for the latter, I lifted my chin and crossed the street. The bouncer straightened as I neared, and I noticed him glancing skeptically over my attire. I’d donned a thigh length black dress and matching pumps—nothing out of the ordinary for a club. So, what was with his reaction?

When the man didn’t speak, I cleared my throat. “Hi, I um… I’m here to get into The Chain?”

He lifted an amused brow. “Are you?”

“Definitely,” I replied, trying to exude a confidence I didn’t feel. I peeked at the double doors behind him. “In fact, I hear the club is right through there. So, if you wouldn’t mind moving aside…”

The bouncer stepped forward, blocking my view. Or had he grown? I eyed him again. He was taller and broader.

Ahh, he has an ability. Swallowing, I stepped backward.

“And what makes you so special?” he asked.

I blinked. “What?”

“What sets you apart from everyone else?”

I opened my mouth but closed it again. Considering his recent show of power, I knew what he meant, but I refused to comply. As a closeted lurker, tossing my talent around in public wasn’t my style. That’s how you ended up on a watch list. I hadn’t even shown Tira—though now I knew she’d kept hers from me as well. I briefly wondered what she could do.

What kind of club is this? Is it really only for those with a “special” talent? Or perhaps it’s a way to document them.

Too curious to walk away, I smiled confidently. “I know how to make playdough.”

He inclined his head. “The lost art of playdough-making. Impressive.”

“Secret recipe. Passed down mother to daughter for six generations.”

“Nice.” He nodded appreciatively. “Do you have some on you?”

I scrunched up my nose. “No.”

“Too bad. Would’ve helped me pass the time.” He seemed genuinely saddened.

“Sorry.” I glanced past him. “Anyway, The Chain—”

Again, he enlarged, blocking my view. Any more growth spurts, and I doubted he’d fit in the doorway. “I’m afraid a hypothetical playdough recipe isn’t enough. Maybe if you had some with you—haven’t seen playdough in years—but I can’t take your word for it. Anything else you care to share?”

When I shook my head, he motioned me away.

Though it’d only take five minutes to whip up some playdough, I had a better idea. While I didn’t want to reveal my secret, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t use it. Ducking into an alley, I stepped into the closest shadow—and merged. It wasn’t becoming invisible, but it was the next best thing. People stayed away from shadows. Things lurked in them.

As I crept past the bouncer, he shivered but didn’t turn around. With my heart in my throat, I opened the door and slipped inside. Fog filled the darkened space, and the air pulsed with syncopated rhythms. In the distance, hazy profiles gyrated beneath flashing colored lights.

Grinning, I joined the fray.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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