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It was a scam. A scam I hadn’t seen before, but a scam, nonetheless. They probably sucked you in with the promise of money and then asked for you to send something, like a booking deposit, but the opposite.
I stroked Clawdia’s head as I sighed and pressed my finger forcefully on the delete key.
“If fucking only, Clawdicat,” I muttered. Her purrs were appreciative, rhythmic and softened the twinge of heartbreak.
The same address sent another email when I looked back. The subject line now read “DO NOT DELETE,” and the message had this added part:
We will arrive tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. to be exact, at a “Pigeon Park.” I realize this may not be enough time to organize accommodation. We assume you have a home and are happy to stay with you until you have somewhere more comfortable for us.
I stared at it for a moment, frozen. Then Clawdia sneezed, and my brain rebooted.
Who the fuck does this prick think they are? Happy to stay at my house?
My anger cooled to curiosity when I looked at the location. Whoever emailed me knew I lived in Birmingham and used the colloquial term for Cathedral Square.
Was this a prank?
I replied:
I’m not a tour guide, but if you Google locations you want to travel, there will be links to tour services who can help you out. Also, lower the price on that offer, or people will think you want more than guiding.
My email binged again almost instantly:
I do not know what google is, but I will request that you explain when we arrive. We thought the offer to be a reasonable one and do not require the use of your body in any other capacity than a guide. Humans are not our type.
I stumbled at that one. Who’s never heard of Google? Who refers to people as humans?
Aliens, that’s who.
I won’t lie and pretend it was my first thought. I sat on it for an hour or two. Assumed it was a crazy person, or a conman, or one of my old acquaintances.
So, I did what I do best. I went digging.
And I got nothing. Sweet fuck all. No name. No alias email. No IP address. Nothing. It was like it was written by magic.
“Magic aliens” was my working theory by lunchtime.
Sandwich in hand and Clawdia following close behind to nibble the ham when I wasn’t looking, I sat back at my desk and typed my reply:
Okay, I need you to give this to me straight. No games. Are you an alien? I can’t find you, and I can find everyone. So, who the fuck are you?
The Alien/Police/Bad Guy/Conman/Crazy Person replied immediately:
Charlie, while all of my party are strangers to your realm, we are not aliens. We are three different paranormal races from three different realms. This will come as a shock to you, but I am asking you to guide us around the human realm. We are curious and rich. What more do you need to know?
So much. I needed to know so much more because it was so fucking bizarre.
Not an alien, but not from Earth. Not human, but a paranormal race. What the fuck does that even mean?
Was this less sci-fi spaceship-traveling-green-monsters and more fantasy portal-hopping-humanlike-creatures?
Did I even believe they were telling the truth? This could be anyone. Anyone with an agenda. Anyone who wanted to make me look like a dick and have me believe this shit.
My finger hovered over the delete button. I had two options: I could delete the email and continue with my boring-ass job, or I could go along with this ruse and try to discover who or what these people were.
My curiosity and longing for entertainment and challenge won out.
I’d find this prick.
