This is the fourth installment in A Haunted World. No, I still wouldn't count on it ever getting finished, if I were you.
There was a silver tray beside the narrow bed. Linda blinked and closed her eyes, tried to find a comfortable position on the narrow cot. After a few minutes she opened her eyes again.
The tray was still there. It was impossible; the cell had no doors, and the windows were high and barred. There was no way a wide silver serving tray could have been brought into this cell, but there it was: sitting on a wooden stand beside her cot. Was she dreaming all this? The thing in her closet, the horrible sense of being taken into darkness, her time in this cage? Or was it all some sort of trick? Had she been drugged and kidnapped? Was there a door here somewhere, carefully hidden?
She sat up and pulled the blanket around her shoulders, partly against the chill of the air and partly out of a fear that someone might be watching her, unseen. She approached the tray and tentatively extended her free hand. When nothing changed, she touched it: metal, solid and slightly cold. Encouraged, she lifted the lid from the tray.
Underneath it was a wide, shallow bowl. It was half-full; oatmeal, by the look and smell of it. Linda's stomach rumbled.
For a long time she just stood there, looking it at. Then she put the cover back down over it, picked the whole thing up (cover, tray, and wooden stand) and moved it to the far corner of the cell. She left it there, and went back to the cot. Even with the blanket, it wasn't particularly warm or comfortable, but it beat standing on the cold stone of the cell's floor.
She wanted to look for a hidden door. She'd been brought here, somehow; so had the food. There had to be a way in and out. Instead, she lay back on the cot and covered herself with the blanked. She wanted to see if anyone would react to her refusal to eat. The door, if there was one, would have to wait.
Later, when she looked back at that corner, the tray was gone.
Showing posts with label A Haunted World. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Haunted World. Show all posts
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Turn To Me, And The Cage Goes Away
She was at a party. She wasn't entirely sure where it was, or how she had gotten there, but it was definitely a party: rooms full of people talking, laughing, eating, drinking. She didn't know any of them, and found herself moving through them in a succession of polite smiles and nodded acknowledgements; she wasn't ignored, but she wasn't engaged, either. Seeking the fringes of the event, she drifted out of the lavish ballroom and along a short hallway. There were windows, but she couldn't make out anything in the darkness outside them. There was a smaller room ahead, and she slipped into it gratefully. Three men were playing cards at a small table in one corner, but Linda ignored them in favor of the bookshelves that lined the walls.
For a moment, she was distantly aware that she was sleeping on a narrow cot in a concrete cell, wrapped in a rough blanket. There was no door, and only high, barred windows; the air was cold and damp, and all she had with her was what she'd been sleeping in: a tee shirt and a pair of boxers. Her throat hurt from screaming and sobbing, for all the good that had done. Nobody had come, and even if they had, how could they get her out? For that matter, how had she gotten there in the first place? Was she still in her closet, somehow? Or had she been brought somewhere else?
The dream was comforting, a blessed relief from all that, and Linda sank back into it gratefully. She pulled a book from the shelves, and opened it. Then she laughed in delight as the words and images of the story spun around her. A young sorceress was setting out from her family keep, on a journey that almost certainly wouldn't end where she expected...
"Turn to me," said a voice behind her. She was back in the room, still facing the row of books. The table in the corner was empty, the deck of cards neatly stacked at its center. Linda straightened, but kept her eyes on the book. The images, the story, had collapsed back into words on the page.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Turn to me," said the voice, "and the cage goes away."
In the darkness of her cell, Linda woke up shivering.
For a moment, she was distantly aware that she was sleeping on a narrow cot in a concrete cell, wrapped in a rough blanket. There was no door, and only high, barred windows; the air was cold and damp, and all she had with her was what she'd been sleeping in: a tee shirt and a pair of boxers. Her throat hurt from screaming and sobbing, for all the good that had done. Nobody had come, and even if they had, how could they get her out? For that matter, how had she gotten there in the first place? Was she still in her closet, somehow? Or had she been brought somewhere else?
The dream was comforting, a blessed relief from all that, and Linda sank back into it gratefully. She pulled a book from the shelves, and opened it. Then she laughed in delight as the words and images of the story spun around her. A young sorceress was setting out from her family keep, on a journey that almost certainly wouldn't end where she expected...
"Turn to me," said a voice behind her. She was back in the room, still facing the row of books. The table in the corner was empty, the deck of cards neatly stacked at its center. Linda straightened, but kept her eyes on the book. The images, the story, had collapsed back into words on the page.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Turn to me," said the voice, "and the cage goes away."
In the darkness of her cell, Linda woke up shivering.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
A Child's Nightmare
Weldon Charles stood beside the crying child at the edge of the cliff. In the distance, not quite lost among the clouds, a black shape floated in the air, growing smaller as it moved away. "I lost it!" the child said, and inhaled a mucous sob. "I lost my tower."
The child looked to be about eight; a boy, slender and handsome, his face showing the first traces of adulthood. Weldon hadn't meant to help him; he hadn't meant to be here at all, and felt very much an intruder as he stood on the edge of the cliff. There were trees behind them, and trees far below; but this rough stretch of rock was utterly barren. Still, he knelt down and reached into his pack, rummaging...
His hand closed on something and he pulled it out. It was a chess piece, black like the tower, only this one was in the shape of a horse. He handed it to the boy. "If you hurry," he said, "you can still catch your tower."
The boy took the piece, but only stared at it.
"It flies," Weldon said quietly. "How else do you think it goes over the other pieces?"
The boy's eyes widened as the chess piece grew and changed, becoming a horse he was sitting on. The boy screamed in pleasure -- something that was almost a war-cry -- as his mount launched itself off the cliff.
Weldon stood for a moment longer, watching the boy and his new horse gallop away through the sky after his tower. Then he stepped back out of the dream...
...And woke in his tent. He cursed, but without any particular rancor. He didn't much like camping, and had only come this far out in order to be alone. With other people around, his dreams were never his own. He could sleep, but it was only when he was far away from everyone else that he could truly rest. It was harder every year to find some place that other people weren't, some forgotten corner of the world in which to lay his head. He didn't have the money to travel as far as he needed, or anywhere near as often. Still, it was hard to be angry with a child, who doubtless hadn't come out here alone, and certainly hadn't meant to pull Weldon into his nightmare. And with the boy dreaming happily, he might even be able to spend the rest of the night in his own dreams...
...If he could only get back to sleep.
Continued from here.
The child looked to be about eight; a boy, slender and handsome, his face showing the first traces of adulthood. Weldon hadn't meant to help him; he hadn't meant to be here at all, and felt very much an intruder as he stood on the edge of the cliff. There were trees behind them, and trees far below; but this rough stretch of rock was utterly barren. Still, he knelt down and reached into his pack, rummaging...
His hand closed on something and he pulled it out. It was a chess piece, black like the tower, only this one was in the shape of a horse. He handed it to the boy. "If you hurry," he said, "you can still catch your tower."
The boy took the piece, but only stared at it.
"It flies," Weldon said quietly. "How else do you think it goes over the other pieces?"
The boy's eyes widened as the chess piece grew and changed, becoming a horse he was sitting on. The boy screamed in pleasure -- something that was almost a war-cry -- as his mount launched itself off the cliff.
Weldon stood for a moment longer, watching the boy and his new horse gallop away through the sky after his tower. Then he stepped back out of the dream...
...And woke in his tent. He cursed, but without any particular rancor. He didn't much like camping, and had only come this far out in order to be alone. With other people around, his dreams were never his own. He could sleep, but it was only when he was far away from everyone else that he could truly rest. It was harder every year to find some place that other people weren't, some forgotten corner of the world in which to lay his head. He didn't have the money to travel as far as he needed, or anywhere near as often. Still, it was hard to be angry with a child, who doubtless hadn't come out here alone, and certainly hadn't meant to pull Weldon into his nightmare. And with the boy dreaming happily, he might even be able to spend the rest of the night in his own dreams...
...If he could only get back to sleep.
Continued from here.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Something In The Closet
There was something in the closet. Linda knew it, but she didn't know what it was. She didn't want to know. Whatever it was, it scared her.
It wasn't always there. It particularly wasn't there when anybody else was around; it didn't want anybody else. It wanted her. She knew that with the same baseless certainty that she knew it was there in the first place.
It wasn't just at night, either. Mostly that was true, but sometimes she felt it even in daylight. It got to where she wouldn't keep anything in there - nothing that mattered, anyway. Nothing that she couldn't leave behind if she ever found a new apartment. She moved a dresser in front of the closet door, while her clothes sat in neat stacks on her couch.
Her friend Debi thought it might be a ghost, which didn't help much but did make Linda feel less like she might be losing her mind completely. Debi even came over to have a look, but she never felt anything. Of course she didn't; with her in the room, it wasn't there. The closet with just a closet.
That night, as if annoyed by the intrusion, the closet door clicked open. Though the dresser was still in front of it -- Debi had helped her move it back after they checked inside -- Linda huddled under the covers, terrified, until she finally fell into an exhausted half-sleep shortly before dawn.
She made it through work, and then to class, and then went over to Debi's place and promptly fell asleep on the couch. Debi threw a blanket over her and left her there, then went to sleep in her bedroom; so neither of them saw the seat cushion rise on the big stuffed chair on the far side of the living room, or the glimmering eyes in the line of darkness beneath the edge of the cushion.
In the morning, Linda borrowed Debi's shower and then some of her clothes. She didn't have time to get back to her own apartment before class, and after class she had to go to work. It was later afternoon before she finally returned home, and found that the closed door was open. The dresser was still in front of it, but pushed out an angle to make room for the door.
"What is it?" demanded Linda. "What do you want? Are you trying to scare me? It's working." She was gesturing wildly and her voice was rising, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She stalked toward the closet, too tired and too angry to be scared of it. "Is it me? Am I what you want?" She reached the closet door. "Do something!" She stepped inside. "Do something, or go away." She pulled the door closed behind her.
Then she stood there, in the bright clean light of a single bulb, staring at the two wooden rods with their collections of empty coat-hangers, at the row of shelves along the back wall: waiting.
Nothing happened. It wasn't here.
Shaking, she opened the door and stepped back out into her bedroom. She found a piece of paper, wrote "Fuck you!" in big, black letters on it, and taped it to the inside of the closet door. Then she closed the door, so whatever was inside would be sure to see the message. She considered putting the dresser back, but finally wrestled it into place against the wall. It hadn't kept the door closed, anyway.
That night, Linda woke in darkness. She knew the closet door had opened itself again; she remembered hearing the faint click of the latch drawing back. That's enough, she thought. Whatever this thing was, whatever it wanted, she was done being scared of it. She sat up, turned to put her feet on the floor, and stood.
She was facing the closet, so she could see the thick line of darkness even before it reached up to curl around her ankle. She drew breath to scream, but another one lashed out, whip-fast, closing over her mouth: a tentacle, a tendril, something smooth and cold and foul. Her arms were taken, too, and then she was moving forward, the bottoms of her feet burning as they slid over the carpet. She tried to put her arms out as she went through the door, but her fingers closed on empty air. She had a brief impression of the door swinging shut somewhere far behind her; then there was only the rushing darkness.
Yes, this is part of a longer piece. No, I won't ever manage to get the whole thing done. Yes, it's the direct result of a nightmare - thank you, Secondborn, for waking me up at three in the morning with your coughing. No, this won't be the only part of this that ever gets written.
It wasn't always there. It particularly wasn't there when anybody else was around; it didn't want anybody else. It wanted her. She knew that with the same baseless certainty that she knew it was there in the first place.
It wasn't just at night, either. Mostly that was true, but sometimes she felt it even in daylight. It got to where she wouldn't keep anything in there - nothing that mattered, anyway. Nothing that she couldn't leave behind if she ever found a new apartment. She moved a dresser in front of the closet door, while her clothes sat in neat stacks on her couch.
Her friend Debi thought it might be a ghost, which didn't help much but did make Linda feel less like she might be losing her mind completely. Debi even came over to have a look, but she never felt anything. Of course she didn't; with her in the room, it wasn't there. The closet with just a closet.
That night, as if annoyed by the intrusion, the closet door clicked open. Though the dresser was still in front of it -- Debi had helped her move it back after they checked inside -- Linda huddled under the covers, terrified, until she finally fell into an exhausted half-sleep shortly before dawn.
She made it through work, and then to class, and then went over to Debi's place and promptly fell asleep on the couch. Debi threw a blanket over her and left her there, then went to sleep in her bedroom; so neither of them saw the seat cushion rise on the big stuffed chair on the far side of the living room, or the glimmering eyes in the line of darkness beneath the edge of the cushion.
In the morning, Linda borrowed Debi's shower and then some of her clothes. She didn't have time to get back to her own apartment before class, and after class she had to go to work. It was later afternoon before she finally returned home, and found that the closed door was open. The dresser was still in front of it, but pushed out an angle to make room for the door.
"What is it?" demanded Linda. "What do you want? Are you trying to scare me? It's working." She was gesturing wildly and her voice was rising, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. She stalked toward the closet, too tired and too angry to be scared of it. "Is it me? Am I what you want?" She reached the closet door. "Do something!" She stepped inside. "Do something, or go away." She pulled the door closed behind her.
Then she stood there, in the bright clean light of a single bulb, staring at the two wooden rods with their collections of empty coat-hangers, at the row of shelves along the back wall: waiting.
Nothing happened. It wasn't here.
Shaking, she opened the door and stepped back out into her bedroom. She found a piece of paper, wrote "Fuck you!" in big, black letters on it, and taped it to the inside of the closet door. Then she closed the door, so whatever was inside would be sure to see the message. She considered putting the dresser back, but finally wrestled it into place against the wall. It hadn't kept the door closed, anyway.
That night, Linda woke in darkness. She knew the closet door had opened itself again; she remembered hearing the faint click of the latch drawing back. That's enough, she thought. Whatever this thing was, whatever it wanted, she was done being scared of it. She sat up, turned to put her feet on the floor, and stood.
She was facing the closet, so she could see the thick line of darkness even before it reached up to curl around her ankle. She drew breath to scream, but another one lashed out, whip-fast, closing over her mouth: a tentacle, a tendril, something smooth and cold and foul. Her arms were taken, too, and then she was moving forward, the bottoms of her feet burning as they slid over the carpet. She tried to put her arms out as she went through the door, but her fingers closed on empty air. She had a brief impression of the door swinging shut somewhere far behind her; then there was only the rushing darkness.
Yes, this is part of a longer piece. No, I won't ever manage to get the whole thing done. Yes, it's the direct result of a nightmare - thank you, Secondborn, for waking me up at three in the morning with your coughing. No, this won't be the only part of this that ever gets written.
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