The Serulian

Before I could say anything, there was a click and a flash. The man at the door smiled. “The before picture,” he said, explaining nothing.

“Um,” I said, as he strolled past me into the kitchen.

“Who—?” I asked, and followed him. He sat down on a chair at the breakfast island as if he’d sat there a million times.

“You have a choice to make,” he said.

Jehovah’s witness? Double-glazing salesman?

“Cup of tea?” I asked.

He nodded, and pulled a huge leather book from his satchel. 

“Let’s see,” he said, and turned the heavy pages. It wasn’t a book—it was an album of photos. He stopped at a page about mid-way through.

“Here it is,” he announced, looking up at me as if I’d know what he was talking about.

I handed him his tea and sat next to him, wondering why I felt so calm. The page he’d settled on had two pictures on one side, and one on the other. 

“These are your choices,” he said, pointing at the two pictures on the left. “Your new life. Pick the one that seems the most—ah—appealing.”

“New life?” I asked.

“Yes. That’s how this works. Didn’t they tell you?” 

I shook my head. He tutted, and continued looking at me, expectantly.

“I can choose a new life? But I like my current life,” I said.

He frowned. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. You must choose. But,” he added brightly, “if you can’t choose, then you get this one.” He moved his finger to the right and pointed at the single picture on that side of the album. 

Up till now, I’d paid no attention to the contents of the photos themselves, but now my attention was drawn to it, I could see that this picture was truly hellish. Not a photo, surely, but some Bosch nightmare of limbs and fire and torture.

I pulled my attention back to the left hand side. Both photos were blurred, indistinct. The first showed me—I could swear it was me—with two teenage children. We looked happy enough. The lower picture was similar, but I was alone. Looking again at the first picture, I could see the strain in my eyes.

“How long do I have?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Until I finish my tea.”

I had too many questions. If I chose children, would there be a father? Would I go through pregnancy and childbirth? My head hurts. 

“No children,” I said, and pointed at the lower photo. 

“Sure?” 

I nodded, not at all sure.

He closed the album with a bang. 

“It’s done,” he said. “But don’t worry: You’ll forget them entirely.”

“Who?” I asked. 

“Exactly,” he said.

Sometimes I wonder if it really happened. I had no children before he visited, and have none now. Nothing changed, right? But sometimes I feel the whisper of a memory: the faintest hint of a different life. But I don’t dwell on it. One way or another, I’ve made my choice.

Ben Coppin lives in Ely in the UK with his wife and two teenage children. He works for one of the big tech companies. He’s had a textbook on artificial intelligence published, as well as a number of short stories, mostly science fiction, but also horror, fairy tales and other things. All his published stories can be found listed here: http://coppin.family/ben. Find him on Twitter: @bubbagrub.