I don’t know when you’ll be able to read these memoirs, whoever you are. By the time you read them, I could even be dead. That’s one of the reasons I’m writing them, because someone has to know these things. A second reason is that Samuel Moore needs to know what kind of man his father was and the real reason he won’t be seeing his father anymore. A third reason is that writing it will keep me from going crazy while I recover here in this facility, whatever it is and wherever it is. My mind desperately needs something to do while my body heals, which the doctors here tell me will take time, a lot of time.

Fortunately, Rachelle taught me how to encrypt files on my laptop so that they look innocuous if Control sees them and how to foil keystroke recorders. Rachelle is a computer genius. I’d call her a savant. She’ll come into the story soon enough. Do I think Control could be spying on my computer activity here, in a hospital bed, on my own laptop? I know they are. However, when Control looks at my computer logs, they'll see a history made up by one of Rachelle’s pet AIs that includes a lot of solitaire, social media convos, and movie watching. Hopefully, I learned enough from Rachelle to pull this off and write these memoirs under Control’s nose. I’m willing to risk it. Like I said, my mind desperately needs something to do while my body heals or I’ll go nuts.

It all started when a strange man, who would later introduce himself as Mr. X, came by my office after a lecture. I was a college professor back then. It wasn’t unusual for visitors to sit in for a lecture. Some people are old school and come up to me before the lecture starts and ask permission to sit in, but many times, they don't even introduce themselves or speak to me afterwards. That’s totally fine. I always hope those people got something good that day that helped them in some way.

I remember when the strange man arrived that afternoon about five minutes after the lecture had started. Most folks arriving late, even regular students who are enrolled in the class, seat themselves in the back or near the back, even if that’s not where they usually sit day to day. Mr. X walked down the steps of the auditorium to an empty seat in the very front of the room, interrupting the class with the sound of his hard, very formal dress shoes resounding on each and every step. As all eyes turned to him, the whole class became so completely silent that there wasn’t even the sound of a page of notes turning or of a pencil scratching new notes. It was like no one was even breathing. The man who would later introduce himself as Mr. X was unforgettably unique.

He was dressed as if he had stepped out of the 1800s, with a vest, bow tie, pocket watch, coat with tails, and top hat. He carried a hardback, portfolio style notebook. As he sat down, he opened the notebook, placing it on the desk-like folding armrest of his auditorium seat. Next, he produced an elegant-looking pen from inside his coat pockets. He placed the pen to the paper and leaned forward expectantly, as if planning to record every word I said, looking right up at me, making eye contact.

It wasn’t his clothes that most captivated the gaze of all of us in the room, however, it was his bodily appearance. His skin was albino white. He was bald to the extent of not having any eyebrows. I thought at first, while he was over in the seats, that perhaps his eyebrows were white and simply not noticeable from that distance, However, later, when he was in my office, I confirmed he didn’t actually have any. He reminded me very much of conspiracy theory videos about Men in Black, except that those characters were portrayed as wearing modern suits, not Victorian ones.

When Mr. X made eye contact with me, I became self-conscious enough to realize I had completely stopped my lecture and that the class had come to a halt. This snapped me out of the state of semi-hypnosis the room seemed to be in, and since I was the teacher after all, I recovered and pressed on with the rest of the class period, which went remarkably well and without further distraction by the day’s visitor.

A nice thing about the schedule I had back then was that my office hours were immediately after that class, which was good since that was the class that I was teaching at the time that seemed to generate the most students who wanted to use my office hours. I could handle questions while topics were still fresh in both my and my students’ minds. Only one person came to office hours that day, Mr. X.

My door was open. I was seated at my desk, which was placed on one of the side walls so that I could see both the door to my right and the magnificent wall of windows to my left. Mr. X stepped into the doorway, clutching his notebook and nodding his head in greeting.

“Dr. Leighton, your lecture today was most stimulating.”

“Thank you. I always enjoy it when people drop by to visit the class. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, sir?”

“I represent an organization that would appreciate a man of your diverse talents and experiences. We are hoping that you might consider doing some consulting work for us.”

This was definitely not going to be the conversation I had expected. Then I realized that coming from this guy, I didn’t know what I could have expected anyway. Who was he?

The man I would come to know as Mr. X sat down in the chair across the desk from me. He smiled cordially and seemed friendly. He certainly didn’t fit the Men in Black stereotype of being emotionless and socially awkward.

I was very intrigued by this guy, so I wanted to know everything I could about him and his organization. I didn’t really need the money. I was comfortable financially. But, with money, more is always better, so that could be a bonus, maybe a big bonus depending on what this opportunity really was.

“What sort of consultation are you looking for?”

“We’re looking for more of the same type of work you’ve already done for us, though you may not have known it at the time.”

I waited for a moment for him to continue, which he obliged to do.

“Last year, when you were consulted regarding the differences between different Native American tribal traditions regarding skinwalkers, your insight resulted in the capture of one and the saving of many lives of those who would have been its victims.”

“The capture of a skinwalker?” I was so incredulous that I caught myself being open-mouthed and shut it, quickly composing myself. This guy seemed serious, completely sincere and straight in his delivery.

“Yes, one that has become very infamous to our organization. It has been responsible for at least twenty-one deaths that we know of, probably more.”

“You’re serious.”

“The deaths of twenty-one people are very serious.”

I leaned forward, matching his posture.

“What type of consultation would you like me to work on for you now?”

Mr. X smiled so excitedly that his eyes twinkled, as if I were a celebrity rockstar and he was about to ask for my autograph.

“We’d like you to come and work for us, full time.”

“Full time?”

“Full time.”

“I don’t even know what your organization does.”

“You know we hunt skinwalkers.”

“That can’t be a full-time endeavor,” I said, humoring him. “There can’t be that many skinwalkers in existence.”

“You’re right there aren’t,” he admitted, “But we work cases that are just as fascinating, too. We believe you would be a tremendous asset.”

“As a researcher?”

“No, Dr. Leighton, as a field agent.”

My face must have betrayed my skepticism and disbelief at that point. Mr. X suddenly sat back in the chair and changed to a more serious approach. He didn’t become adversarial or mean, but he had more of the “tough love” demeanor of a strict parent or a coach rather than a buddy or friend.

“Dr. Leighton, you have tried all your life to make the choices that would make your limited lifespan in this world count for as much as possible. You started out in science, with a love of chemistry and biology, until you realized that pursuing that would leave you stuck in a lab somewhere staring at a wall while you juggled test tubes all day, away from people.

“You switched to anthropology for the human connection, and for the possibilities of addressing issues at a societal level since chemistry didn’t seem promising for you to address them at a molecular level. You also considered psychology but you didn’t want to help just one person at a time.You, all your life, have had a broader vision, one that encompasses the world.”

Here, Mr. X gestured for dramatic effect at the large map of the world behind him, which hung there before my eyes in my office constantly. He knew me. It was life he’d been following me around all his life. He continued.

“You are now almost 50 years old and feel stuck here, too. You are at a very important crossroads, Dr. Leighton. You can accept this place you are now in life as you approach mid-life, or you can seize the opportunity I am offering you to finally find a place where your vision for what your potential is, where you can make a difference for the world with your life.”

He stopped and looked at me expectantly, standing up from his chair and handing me a business card all in one fluid motion.

I took the card. It read:

Mr. X

Agent of Control

(800) 555-2141

“The choice is yours, Dr. Leighton.”

I found myself also standing up and taking the card from him.

“Good day, Dr. Leighton,” Mr. X bid me, tipping his hat to me and leaving as quickly and he’d come.

What had just happened? Was this a prank? 

I would soon find out it wasn’t.