Oil Smudges
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About this ebook
This is no time for pranks . . .
George Wishing is the middle manager for an oil and gas service company's technology department. He has a proven track record of delivering the projects under his supervision with a minimum of trouble. However, an increase in tech burps during field trials as well as outright failures in jobs that rely on his department's creations are now leaving marks on his record and smears on his credibility.
Upper management wants someone's head . . .
When smudged fingerprints begin to appear on his office door, his monitor, and his desk, George suspects a malicious prank. Fastidious attention to detail comes with a price: George Wishing has an obsessive intolerance for blotches on either his record or his world. Who is responsible? The disrespectful clown on his team? Is it one or more members of the cleaning staff who smile at George without any real friendliness in their eyes? This is not play time. Upper management is looking for a sacrificial lamb, and George finds himself in the unenviable position of delivering one to them.
Is something else happening here?
As prints appear in increasingly unlikely places, George fears something unnatural is at work. When the faces of dead contractors appear in his periphery, he suspects the supernatural. Is George Wishing being haunted or are all these strange details merely figments of an unraveling mind stressed to the breaking point?
Oil Smudges is a 10,000 word novella of ghostly terror set in the high stakes corporate world of the oil and gas industry.
Daniel R. Robichaud
Daniel R. Robichaud has lived in southeastern Michigan, central Massachusetts and southern Texas. He is a Rhysling Award nominated poet and the author of over one hundred stories, articles and poems, which have appeared in such markets as Shroud Magazine, Rogue Worlds, Goblin Fruit, Rage of the Behemoth, Green Prints, and WritersWeekly. Daniel holds degrees in both Physics and English, and his career path has reflected these passions. In addition to his numerous writing opportunities, he has been an Igor For Hire (aka a freelance research engineer), a substitute teacher, an automation engineer, and a neurophysiology lab manager. Daniel enjoys entertaining people with his words and stories. If you enjoy a good read, why not try one of his works? You might just love them.
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Oil Smudges - Daniel R. Robichaud
Oil Smudges
A Novella of Ghostly Terror
By: Daniel R. Robichaud
Oil Smudges
The small smear on the transparent protective plastic cover atop George Wishing’s desk caused the middle manager no end of irritation. That mark was narrower than a dime, oval shaped, and yet it held a world of partial whorls and broken loops. A fingerprint that made no sense. The outer perimeter was perfect, unbroken. It could not have been made any cleaner by a grubby little cop rocking a suspect’s pinky left to right on one of those cards, and yet the interior was baffling in its incompleteness. Someone equipped with a three horsehair thread brush had eradicated whole pieces of the interior. Had the impression come from a burned finger? An acid scarred one? What bothered George was the question of origins. Open door policies only applied during daylight hours, but this had materialized overnight, when his sliding glass door was shut and locked. The position suggested someone sitting in his chair, maybe playing with his mouse or leafing through his documents.
The round-bellied evening janitor with the pleasant smile and trim hair had an armload of ink, glorifying the cartels or Christ or who could say. He seemed the sort to play with acids, toxic chemicals. Would an inspection of his fingers reveal this kind of damage? George had always suspected those people to be up to anything, especially when their actions weren’t scrutinized. Code of Business Conduct prevented his saying anything, but struck dumb did not also mean blind.
The round-bellied evening janitor had keys, but then again all those people did. The squinty eyed woman responsible for the break areas, a leathery skinned, sixty-year-old woman with dead, blank eyes whose lips spread and so did her jaws when she smiled and said "Hola, Good morning sir." Hungry sharks did not open their mouths that wide.
The smear had no gender tags associated, at least nothing George could see. They were all small, those people. Any one of them could have done it. So many had opportunity, but why?
He did not have long to investigate. The first of the morning’s meetings was coming up. A notification from Outlook, accompanied by that program’s tinny rendition of clarion trumpets told him he could fetch a coffee or drain the morning commute’s hydration, but not both.
Returning with a sloshing mug of brew born from the coffee dispenser's button labeled Strong-Caffeinated, flavored with two blue sweetener packets and a teaspoon dollop of powdered creamer, he dragged the sliding door shut behind him and found both the Meeting Starting notification as well as a second smear. This other impression rested four inches to the left of the first. Just far enough to bring George a momentary thought of having missed it the first time around. Could it have been there, unseen?
No. He was meticulous. His attention was meticulous. A storied career engineering for NASA and Big Red’s Sporty Downhole tools PSL before assuming the leadership of Big Red’s BNC Technology PSL had given him an appreciation for seemingly minor details. Minor details were like those people, they could stack and breed, becoming major infestations in less time than you'd expect. Minor details were the root causes of so many operations disasters. So. Many.
He dialed into the meeting, arriving second to last in a chain