*thunk*
She stared blankly at the computer screen for a second before stabbing a finger at the progress bar to track backwards. Sure enough, in the middle of her interview with the author, she heard a distant *thunk* in the recording.
She sat back in her chair and glanced around the office. It was at this same desk she'd taped her podcast over Skype just the night before, in the same room in the same house she'd lived in for nearly five years, and now she found herself gazing over every door and window with the suspicion of an agent in enemy territory. She knew every nook and cranny of the little ranch, yet still her paranoia flowed.
*thunk*
She paused the playback and removed her headset, ears prickling at the air. In the darkness of her mind, the noise sounded like the crash of a claw against the front door, or a dead leg dragged up the cellar stairs behind a beast of ravenous hunger. She rose from her chair slowly, as though disturbing the air might alert the imaginary intruder, and she waited for another sign.
*thunk*
She stepped into the hallway and glanced at the door beyond the kitchen. "From the cellar, then," she thought. She wrapped her fingers around the freezing metal knob. She grimaced, shut her eyes, and waited for the mad march of her heart to slow. She turned the handled, pulled the door aside, and--
*THUNK*
She could feel the wind blowing up the stairs from somewhere down below. But how? There were no doors leading out from the basement, and the windows didn't open. From where could the draft be coming? And still it nipped at her toes and shivered up her spine. She reached for the light switch and quickly thought better. If something *were* in her house, the last thing she needed was to alert it to her presence.
*THUNK THUNK*
And so she descended the steps with her breath buried in her throat. She stared at the spaces between the slats, half-expecting a gnarled claw to pop at any moment from the shadows and tear her through. When she reached the bottom, safe and sound, she slowly turned to gaze across the shadowy walls to catch the dim light peering down through the shattered glass at the rear. The frigid February wind ripped through the hole and tossed her hair, and, again, she heard it, just as the figure stretched out on the ceiling dropped on her and shut off the world...
"THUNK THUNK!" it said with a grin.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
[#025] Interpretation
You wake in a coiled, slithering shape and stretch your length across the sun-drenched rocks. A truck breaks through the dust and careens off the road, a flash of screaming crimson in the cab as it rolls right over--
You wake in a nest of tangled twigs and dried grass. A shrieking chorus erupts around you as your new brothers cry out into the empty sky for attention. Their voices are drowned out by the roar of the saw below, and a shadow wreathed in fiery red steps to the base of the tree and--
You wake in darkness and crawl your way out into the light, emerging from a hole in the warped wood just as an enormous, burning figure steps through the towering doorway and sets a furry shape down before you, gray and hissing and--
You wake bathed in the golden light streaming through the blinds in your bedroom. You don't need to be up for a couple more hours, so you roll over and watch your partner doze. Every breath from their open mouth sings a gentle, wheezing song, lifting a single strand of their scarlet hair with the beat.
You shiver as you watch, though you can't remember why, and sleep overtakes you once again.
You wake in a nest of tangled twigs and dried grass. A shrieking chorus erupts around you as your new brothers cry out into the empty sky for attention. Their voices are drowned out by the roar of the saw below, and a shadow wreathed in fiery red steps to the base of the tree and--
You wake in darkness and crawl your way out into the light, emerging from a hole in the warped wood just as an enormous, burning figure steps through the towering doorway and sets a furry shape down before you, gray and hissing and--
You wake bathed in the golden light streaming through the blinds in your bedroom. You don't need to be up for a couple more hours, so you roll over and watch your partner doze. Every breath from their open mouth sings a gentle, wheezing song, lifting a single strand of their scarlet hair with the beat.
You shiver as you watch, though you can't remember why, and sleep overtakes you once again.
Friday, February 12, 2016
[#024] Beggar's Night
The seventh time the same group rang his doorbell, Teddy phoned the police.
He peered through the window to offer the desk sergeant a description. The pint-sized Dracula on his doorstep breathed silent words into the witch's ear, while the fifth-grade Frankenstein rocked back and forth on his feet and whistled a piercing tune like a cartoon character aggressively professing his innocence.
The tiny sheet-ghost nearly hidden in the back glanced up and met Teddy's wide gaze, and Teddy yelped and dropped the phone. He could hear the distant click when the officer on the other end hung up, and he heard the crack as the bulb blew out in the hallway and the cavernous walls shot up into the darkness above him, leaving Teddy alone in his mind.
Ding-Dong
He had humored them the first time they rang, even though he'd already turned off his porch light. He delivered his sternest frown the second time, but they met his tone with silence. Unnerved, he had simply stood behind the door waited them out the third time, and also the fourth and fifth. But had they ever truly left his property? Did they take his candy and run around the house, ducking under windows and leaping over lights like Halloween sprites to punish him for all the years he'd neglected his duties as a giver of candy? But he was new in town, and he had come from far away, and how could they possibly know about--
Ding-Dong
Teddy leaped up and glanced through the peephole again, but the children were gone, split between two raiding parties dancing and spinning along the walls and pounding as they went, ratta-tapping out their melody as their laughter echoed in the night.
He fell to the floor and clutched his head. The backdoor was locked, but had he closed the windows? A blast of frigid Autumn roared down the stairs in answer, but could they climb to the portal in his bedroom? Nails scratched on the window sill, glass rattled in its frame as Teddy held himself and collapsed in the darkness.
How could he have forgotten all those years? How could he ignore the warnings on the radio that began to sing around September, all the stories of the things that walked the streets on Beggar's Night and wore the laws of Halloween?
Tiny footfalls fell around him as they filed down the stairs and surrounded Teddy, Teddy who moaned and wept in a ball on the cold, hard wood.
How could they know? he thought to himself as plastic bags crinkled open and metal squealed on metal. I didn't carve the pumpkin. I didn't buy enough candy. I didn't pay the toll... But how could they know?
A gentle, prickly claw laid itself along his cheek as one leaned in. Teddy felt the sheet drift beneath its shivering breath as the ghost opened up its mouth and whispered:
"Trick or treat..."
He peered through the window to offer the desk sergeant a description. The pint-sized Dracula on his doorstep breathed silent words into the witch's ear, while the fifth-grade Frankenstein rocked back and forth on his feet and whistled a piercing tune like a cartoon character aggressively professing his innocence.
The tiny sheet-ghost nearly hidden in the back glanced up and met Teddy's wide gaze, and Teddy yelped and dropped the phone. He could hear the distant click when the officer on the other end hung up, and he heard the crack as the bulb blew out in the hallway and the cavernous walls shot up into the darkness above him, leaving Teddy alone in his mind.
Ding-Dong
He had humored them the first time they rang, even though he'd already turned off his porch light. He delivered his sternest frown the second time, but they met his tone with silence. Unnerved, he had simply stood behind the door waited them out the third time, and also the fourth and fifth. But had they ever truly left his property? Did they take his candy and run around the house, ducking under windows and leaping over lights like Halloween sprites to punish him for all the years he'd neglected his duties as a giver of candy? But he was new in town, and he had come from far away, and how could they possibly know about--
Ding-Dong
Teddy leaped up and glanced through the peephole again, but the children were gone, split between two raiding parties dancing and spinning along the walls and pounding as they went, ratta-tapping out their melody as their laughter echoed in the night.
He fell to the floor and clutched his head. The backdoor was locked, but had he closed the windows? A blast of frigid Autumn roared down the stairs in answer, but could they climb to the portal in his bedroom? Nails scratched on the window sill, glass rattled in its frame as Teddy held himself and collapsed in the darkness.
How could he have forgotten all those years? How could he ignore the warnings on the radio that began to sing around September, all the stories of the things that walked the streets on Beggar's Night and wore the laws of Halloween?
Tiny footfalls fell around him as they filed down the stairs and surrounded Teddy, Teddy who moaned and wept in a ball on the cold, hard wood.
How could they know? he thought to himself as plastic bags crinkled open and metal squealed on metal. I didn't carve the pumpkin. I didn't buy enough candy. I didn't pay the toll... But how could they know?
A gentle, prickly claw laid itself along his cheek as one leaned in. Teddy felt the sheet drift beneath its shivering breath as the ghost opened up its mouth and whispered:
"Trick or treat..."
Friday, February 5, 2016
[#023] Shutter
"So it's blurring the pictures or something?"
I wiped the sweat from my forehead as Taylor turned my camera over and peered through the front of the lens as though he thought he could scoop the problem out. "Or something."
"And only when it's pointed at me?" He sighed and thrust the camera back into my hands, then turned and began to pace before the mantle.
"Can we just go?"
"No, not until we've got something we can post to the front page."
"Then how about you take the photo and I'll stand with the old man."
He snorted. "No way, we had an agreement. I'm the face of this show and you're the ass. That's not changing just because you can't do your job." He paused and studied the figure above the cold, dark fireplace.
The old man in the painting wore an elegant, black scarf tucked into a red coat like something from a Revolutionary War doc. His sunken, ringed eyes seemed to glow beneath his wide straw hat, burning with a midnight energy I could feel bubbling from the canvas when I looked away.
Those eyes chilled me to the bone, but I couldn't leave. I had a contract.
And anyway, it wasn't me the old man was watching.
Taylor turned and glared at me, the scowl on his face taking longer than he probably meant to slip into his showman's smile. He placed his hands on his hips and posed before the old man who seemed to gaze down on him with hungry eyes. "Alright then," he said. "Let's have another go."
I took a deep breath to keep my hands from shaking and slowly lifted the camera to my face.
The change occurred in the split second the plastic case obscured my vision, as it had the last three times. When I gazed through the viewfinder, the painting warped. The old man had bent from his perch, gnarled claws reaching out and down from his seat towards my subject, towards Taylor, and this time the illusion seemed to stretch the frame, wood bulging outward as the predator's painted fingers sought their prey, and they were so close, so close.
A calm fell over me, and I knew this one would be the last. One more photo, one more time the shutter would obscure my view, and the painting would change again.
One more click and I would be free. No contracts. No bullies. No showmen. Perhaps I would continue running the website in his memory. Or perhaps I'd let his memory eat dirt.
I grinned. "Say cheese."
"Seriously?" Taylor whined from just beneath the old man's claws.
Click.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead as Taylor turned my camera over and peered through the front of the lens as though he thought he could scoop the problem out. "Or something."
"And only when it's pointed at me?" He sighed and thrust the camera back into my hands, then turned and began to pace before the mantle.
"Can we just go?"
"No, not until we've got something we can post to the front page."
"Then how about you take the photo and I'll stand with the old man."
He snorted. "No way, we had an agreement. I'm the face of this show and you're the ass. That's not changing just because you can't do your job." He paused and studied the figure above the cold, dark fireplace.
The old man in the painting wore an elegant, black scarf tucked into a red coat like something from a Revolutionary War doc. His sunken, ringed eyes seemed to glow beneath his wide straw hat, burning with a midnight energy I could feel bubbling from the canvas when I looked away.
Those eyes chilled me to the bone, but I couldn't leave. I had a contract.
And anyway, it wasn't me the old man was watching.
Taylor turned and glared at me, the scowl on his face taking longer than he probably meant to slip into his showman's smile. He placed his hands on his hips and posed before the old man who seemed to gaze down on him with hungry eyes. "Alright then," he said. "Let's have another go."
I took a deep breath to keep my hands from shaking and slowly lifted the camera to my face.
The change occurred in the split second the plastic case obscured my vision, as it had the last three times. When I gazed through the viewfinder, the painting warped. The old man had bent from his perch, gnarled claws reaching out and down from his seat towards my subject, towards Taylor, and this time the illusion seemed to stretch the frame, wood bulging outward as the predator's painted fingers sought their prey, and they were so close, so close.
A calm fell over me, and I knew this one would be the last. One more photo, one more time the shutter would obscure my view, and the painting would change again.
One more click and I would be free. No contracts. No bullies. No showmen. Perhaps I would continue running the website in his memory. Or perhaps I'd let his memory eat dirt.
I grinned. "Say cheese."
"Seriously?" Taylor whined from just beneath the old man's claws.
Click.
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