I went down the marble steps slowly, savoring their feel on my feet, the stone wall at my fingertips. As a little girl they seemed cold and cruel, but now, perhaps because of the relationship I shared with death, the sweeping alcoves felt inviting and comfortable as I walked along the corridor. I followed my memory of the building, which I was glad to discover was photographically accurate. I stood beside the markers sedately, reserving my feelings for the proper time. One hand holding my staff to me and the other resting on the top of my father’s gravestone, I pondered the matter carefully. It was eight years ago today when Celeste had killed him. I found it more appropriate to visit my family’s gravesite today than I did Memorial Day. There were fewer crowds, fewer hassles, and more intimacy. I felt like I could be myself here, even though I had to keep up the premise that I was not.
The crusty old caretaker was still there, just like always, sweeping the grounds in his own particular manner, and for that, I was glad. He noticed me going among my brothers’ graves and sought to deter me, getting in my way before I could make the full circle.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked brusquely, his arm barring me from my Mother’s grave, on the right hand of my father and completing the loop of my dead family, both literally and figuratively. Father had desired that we all have a place in the figurative Circle of Life, and the graves had been placed to accommodate that ritual.
“No. But thank you,” I replied, refusing to acknowledge his insistent pushing to get me away and gently removing his hand and kneeling in front of Tony’s graveside. Passing my fingers over his engraved name, I thanked God again I had had the chance to make peace with him. He had been hurt the worst . . . physically and emotionally; I was grateful to have made peace with all of them.
The old man noticed the longing expression in my face and, noting my determination not to be sidetracked, knelt at my left, the gravestone between us. His knees creaked with the motion and he spoke with uncharacteristic emotion, something he had reserved for only his closest friends.
“Good family,” he grunted slowly; I could picture his permanent scowl softening for the first time in years. “Never should have happened to them.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “It shouldn’t have. But it did anyway.” My fingers paused on the second of two empty gravestones, the first one directly to the right of my parents and the last just to their left. They both contained names . . . my brother and mine. But they didn’t possess our bodies. My breathing softened as I traced the words under my name with my forefinger. In memory of your family. You were misunderstood . . . and loved always. Wherever you are, may you find rest, joy, and peace.
My hand rested there. Yes, I thought. I have found peace.
“They never did find the daughter’s body, you know,” he said somberly, interrupting my thoughts as he had so often done before. “A sweeter girl you never met in your life.”
I smiled wistfully. “You never knew her in the years before she disappeared, did you?”
“We . . . lost contact,” he admitted grudgingly. “About thirteen years ago.”
I found his wrist and moved my hand up to give his shoulder a pat; the truth of the matter was she had slammed the door in his face. He sighed, thinking of that night; the emotions behind it were too thick to decipher. My smile turned comforting as my fingers and palm ran up his hairy neck and rested on his hoar-frosted cheek. I could tell he was staring at me, at the familiarity I could touch him with.
“Thank you,” I said, rubbing his cheek and upper lip with my thumb. “And I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked a little less gruffly, following my motion as I stood up, his knees protesting with slight, crunchy sounds. My smile widened.
“Goodbye, Frollers.”
“Eh?” he jerked in surprise. “How did you know my . . .?”
But I had already walked out of the graveyard and was moving down the street.
Graveside Service
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Graveside Service
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
The House at the End
I walked down the sidewalk slowly, losing myself in my memories and following the path I remembered so well; I was savoring the memories to the point I promised myself I’d ask Ron and Hannah to come with me next time.
There was just one more house I wanted to visit before I took the bus back home, back to Ron and Hannah. It was a small house, square, unkempt, and paled with age . . . at least that’s the way I remembered it. My pace slackened as the sidewalk rose, the hill I was cresting having been covered by road and sidewalk long ago. It was slow going, one hand sweeping my staff before me, the other cautiously fence to my left. My ankles brushed against long blades of grass poking through the chain-link fence my fingers were tracing. The neighborhood seemed to wait with bated breath as my hand touched the last fence post before the fence line drew back at a right angle, signifying the end of the property adjacent to the old manor.
I dropped my hand and took another step forward before turning and pausing; weeds and crab grass grew tall and thick, lashing at my knees as I took another pace, just shy of the property line. The wind picked up, tossing my hair behind my back. I cocked my head to the side; it had been so easy to imagine ghosts here as a little girl. Even now, the wind whistling through the trees could be mistaken for the low moan of specters issuing forth. There would be a cobble-stoned walkway a few steps further on, the only entrance through the brick-walled gates. The yard and the house within would be lower than the land surrounding it; town rumor had it there was an underground lake, and the old building would some day sink entirely into it. Such stories by older boys and girls had inspired us younger children to climb over the perpetually locked gate to play inside, searching for lost histories and treasures of yore.
I headed for the gate.
Clang.
I hesitated when my staff met the obstruction at the side of the road, up against the sidewalk. A cautious examination revealed a car’s trunk. It was far too new to have been from here. Further investigation told me it was a heavily modified station wagon . . . my fingers tentatively brushed the raised letters, ‘Volvo.’ It was dented all along the back; large pockmarks marred the front hood . . .?
I slowly stood from my half-crouch, my face turned in the house’s direction. Surely he had not come here? And if he had come . . . why?
Circling the broad car, I strode toward the gate and reached out to find a handhold to climb over.
But it was unlocked.
I gently pushed the iron obstacle aside, and the rusty hinges murmured like a bat’s wings. It squealed as it turned; taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and stepped onto the property . . .
. . . and gasped in shock at the abrupt shift in atmosphere between the two sides of the gate. The ghosts that we had imagined as children . . . .
Weren’t imaginary.
There was just one more house I wanted to visit before I took the bus back home, back to Ron and Hannah. It was a small house, square, unkempt, and paled with age . . . at least that’s the way I remembered it. My pace slackened as the sidewalk rose, the hill I was cresting having been covered by road and sidewalk long ago. It was slow going, one hand sweeping my staff before me, the other cautiously fence to my left. My ankles brushed against long blades of grass poking through the chain-link fence my fingers were tracing. The neighborhood seemed to wait with bated breath as my hand touched the last fence post before the fence line drew back at a right angle, signifying the end of the property adjacent to the old manor.
I dropped my hand and took another step forward before turning and pausing; weeds and crab grass grew tall and thick, lashing at my knees as I took another pace, just shy of the property line. The wind picked up, tossing my hair behind my back. I cocked my head to the side; it had been so easy to imagine ghosts here as a little girl. Even now, the wind whistling through the trees could be mistaken for the low moan of specters issuing forth. There would be a cobble-stoned walkway a few steps further on, the only entrance through the brick-walled gates. The yard and the house within would be lower than the land surrounding it; town rumor had it there was an underground lake, and the old building would some day sink entirely into it. Such stories by older boys and girls had inspired us younger children to climb over the perpetually locked gate to play inside, searching for lost histories and treasures of yore.
I headed for the gate.
Clang.
I hesitated when my staff met the obstruction at the side of the road, up against the sidewalk. A cautious examination revealed a car’s trunk. It was far too new to have been from here. Further investigation told me it was a heavily modified station wagon . . . my fingers tentatively brushed the raised letters, ‘Volvo.’ It was dented all along the back; large pockmarks marred the front hood . . .?
I slowly stood from my half-crouch, my face turned in the house’s direction. Surely he had not come here? And if he had come . . . why?
Circling the broad car, I strode toward the gate and reached out to find a handhold to climb over.
But it was unlocked.
I gently pushed the iron obstacle aside, and the rusty hinges murmured like a bat’s wings. It squealed as it turned; taking a deep breath, I steeled myself and stepped onto the property . . .
. . . and gasped in shock at the abrupt shift in atmosphere between the two sides of the gate. The ghosts that we had imagined as children . . . .
Weren’t imaginary.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Insults . . . Attacks
Lowering my chin to my chest and closing my eyelids behind my glasses, I could sense the ghosts pushing hard against the property line, eager to escape the prison that held them there. The gate was like a one-way street for them. We could enter . . . but they couldn’t leave. In some remarkable way, the gates kept the paranormal sensations at bay to all those without. But inside the property, I could feel it as though an oven lid had been opened.
Their thoughts scraped against mine as I stepped inside. I lowered my barriers, hoping they might instruct me to aid them.
Enter within . . . feed us and become as we are . . . lose yourself in your despair.
I think not, I replied in like manner, cocking my head to the side. Let me pass.
Instantly they whirled, realizing I, unlike the dozens of kids that had played here earlier, was aware of their presence, their whispers, and their machinations. Then they attacked me, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth on my mind as only the damned beings of the Spirit Realm can do. My defenses rose without my thinking, snapping into place with the speed of well-rehearsed instinct.
They withdrew, wary. I continued up the cobblestone path, unscathed, a rock in the middle of a churning river. The spirits settled around me uselessly; they might as well be chewing on an ironwood tree with toothless gums. I paid them no heed and found the railing to the stairs. Careful not to get splinters on the roughened wood, I climbed up seven steps and found the doorknob to the front door, ordinarily locked, free to open as I pleased.
I entered.
Their thoughts scraped against mine as I stepped inside. I lowered my barriers, hoping they might instruct me to aid them.
Enter within . . . feed us and become as we are . . . lose yourself in your despair.
I think not, I replied in like manner, cocking my head to the side. Let me pass.
Instantly they whirled, realizing I, unlike the dozens of kids that had played here earlier, was aware of their presence, their whispers, and their machinations. Then they attacked me, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth on my mind as only the damned beings of the Spirit Realm can do. My defenses rose without my thinking, snapping into place with the speed of well-rehearsed instinct.
They withdrew, wary. I continued up the cobblestone path, unscathed, a rock in the middle of a churning river. The spirits settled around me uselessly; they might as well be chewing on an ironwood tree with toothless gums. I paid them no heed and found the railing to the stairs. Careful not to get splinters on the roughened wood, I climbed up seven steps and found the doorknob to the front door, ordinarily locked, free to open as I pleased.
I entered.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
The Prisoner
The inside of the manor house was rife with cold and whispering, inarticulate voices. My staff end scraped dully across the warped beams of the wooden floor, the resulting rattle sending a further chill down my spine. But I could sense no danger. Angry spirits aplenty, but no danger. Their attention within the house was directed elsewhere.
I plodded on.
Zzzphut . . . thuurrrrk . . . scraaam . . . thud, thud.
My staff changed hands and my free hand sidled along the wall. To the left of the entrance, my fingers rubbed against the raised panels of what could pass as a doorframe. Further searching revealed . . . bullet holes . . .?
I quickly set my staff vertical against the panel and scraped it sideways. My efforts were rewarded with the snack! of wood on brass; a doorknob. Hanging my staff on my wrist and grasping the protrusion with both hands, I twisted hard. errrrrrhhngg . . . scrinh . . . chick.
Locked . . .? Somehow, I severely doubted that. The brass work was free of key holes. I rattled the door handle several times. No, it wasn’t locked . . . it was being held. I took a moment to grasp the handle harder, and then took a deep breath, and Opened myself . . .
No images, but impressions swallowed me whole. Despair washed over me, but I recognized it as not my own but the house’s. Breathing out of my lips, and twisting the handle again, the force holding the door was strong . . . but not as strong as me. Putting all my weight and strength behind it, I forced the door slowly open. It came away grudgingly, slowly . . . but the moment I was past the doorjamb, the hold lifted.
I relaxed and opened the door with one hand, the other at the ready.
creee-aaak . . .
I sensed movement immediately, accompanied by a gurgling, choking sound.
“No . . .” a hoarse voice cried out desperately. “Not here, not her . . . anything . . . but her . . . I’ll do anything . . .”
My sixth sense kicked into high gear. I ducked instinctively, wind teasing my hair, rolled, bumped into a wall and felt something hard whip at my face, my glasses, and then I came up with the combat knife I kept sheathed at my back in hand. My glasses went flying as I was struck another blow on the face. Another strike came against my eyes; I lashed out and caught something rough and fibrous in my hand.
“Rope . . .?” I sawed into it with the combat dagger as I sensed the ghostly power take control of it. It seemed to think that, if it could just get my eyes, it would have me.
If the situation wasn’t so grim, I might have smiled.
I plodded on.
Zzzphut . . . thuurrrrk . . . scraaam . . . thud, thud.
My staff changed hands and my free hand sidled along the wall. To the left of the entrance, my fingers rubbed against the raised panels of what could pass as a doorframe. Further searching revealed . . . bullet holes . . .?
I quickly set my staff vertical against the panel and scraped it sideways. My efforts were rewarded with the snack! of wood on brass; a doorknob. Hanging my staff on my wrist and grasping the protrusion with both hands, I twisted hard. errrrrrhhngg . . . scrinh . . . chick.
Locked . . .? Somehow, I severely doubted that. The brass work was free of key holes. I rattled the door handle several times. No, it wasn’t locked . . . it was being held. I took a moment to grasp the handle harder, and then took a deep breath, and Opened myself . . .
No images, but impressions swallowed me whole. Despair washed over me, but I recognized it as not my own but the house’s. Breathing out of my lips, and twisting the handle again, the force holding the door was strong . . . but not as strong as me. Putting all my weight and strength behind it, I forced the door slowly open. It came away grudgingly, slowly . . . but the moment I was past the doorjamb, the hold lifted.
I relaxed and opened the door with one hand, the other at the ready.
creee-aaak . . .
I sensed movement immediately, accompanied by a gurgling, choking sound.
“No . . .” a hoarse voice cried out desperately. “Not here, not her . . . anything . . . but her . . . I’ll do anything . . .”
My sixth sense kicked into high gear. I ducked instinctively, wind teasing my hair, rolled, bumped into a wall and felt something hard whip at my face, my glasses, and then I came up with the combat knife I kept sheathed at my back in hand. My glasses went flying as I was struck another blow on the face. Another strike came against my eyes; I lashed out and caught something rough and fibrous in my hand.
“Rope . . .?” I sawed into it with the combat dagger as I sensed the ghostly power take control of it. It seemed to think that, if it could just get my eyes, it would have me.
If the situation wasn’t so grim, I might have smiled.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Soldier Fallen
I managed to get my fingers onto the rope that wrapped around my neck before it pulled it taut, slicing through the twisted hemp in one motion with the strong blade. Then other ropes took my hands and wrists, but I kept a tight grip on the dagger as my arms were pulled away from my body. Another rope twisted around under my shoulder, and suddenly I was swinging into the air, slamming into something that moved. The gurgling sound intensified . . . Celeste had heard those exact sounds many times before, sometimes as the one causing her victim to make them, sometimes as a willing spectator, and most recently, as one trying to prevent it.
The figure was being choked to death.
Lifting my wrists as though curling my brother’s dumbbells, I managed to twist my armed wrist just enough to sever rope and not artery. The dead hemp fell away and I was suddenly unbalanced, the rope holding my underarm the only thing keeping me in the air. I grabbed ahold of the rope over my head and started rocking back and forth, using the swinging motion of a pendulum to get the proper velocity. Once that had been reached, I pinpointed the purling sound of the dying figure and bumped into the hanging body again, this time latching on.
He kicked out in surprise and shock, but luckily I was behind him, my legs wrapping about his waist and my arms hanging on to the empty pockets of his vest. I tried to whisper comfort into his ear, but he was beyond reason, lashing out at anything that moved, he was completely irrational; I hung onto him determinedly. At such close range, I was at no disadvantage through blindness. The moment I found an opening through his panic I struck, his pulsing fingers were the only thing between him and the rope choking him to death. Inserting my smaller digits into the slight space, I gave myself rope burn swinging my hand back to pull the hemp far enough away from his neck and cut the noose entwined about his throat.
Immediately we fell to the ground, some twenty feet below. He landed hard, but somehow I was able to roll just right to avoid injury. He gagged wetly, rasping in his efforts to draw a lungful of life-giving air. I put my arm around him to hold him steady and to let him know I was here. He struggled slightly, but when he realized I wasn’t trying to kill him, the tautness in his muscles relaxed.
And that gave me the opportunity to direct my full attention to the entities drawing near us.
The figure was being choked to death.
Lifting my wrists as though curling my brother’s dumbbells, I managed to twist my armed wrist just enough to sever rope and not artery. The dead hemp fell away and I was suddenly unbalanced, the rope holding my underarm the only thing keeping me in the air. I grabbed ahold of the rope over my head and started rocking back and forth, using the swinging motion of a pendulum to get the proper velocity. Once that had been reached, I pinpointed the purling sound of the dying figure and bumped into the hanging body again, this time latching on.
He kicked out in surprise and shock, but luckily I was behind him, my legs wrapping about his waist and my arms hanging on to the empty pockets of his vest. I tried to whisper comfort into his ear, but he was beyond reason, lashing out at anything that moved, he was completely irrational; I hung onto him determinedly. At such close range, I was at no disadvantage through blindness. The moment I found an opening through his panic I struck, his pulsing fingers were the only thing between him and the rope choking him to death. Inserting my smaller digits into the slight space, I gave myself rope burn swinging my hand back to pull the hemp far enough away from his neck and cut the noose entwined about his throat.
Immediately we fell to the ground, some twenty feet below. He landed hard, but somehow I was able to roll just right to avoid injury. He gagged wetly, rasping in his efforts to draw a lungful of life-giving air. I put my arm around him to hold him steady and to let him know I was here. He struggled slightly, but when he realized I wasn’t trying to kill him, the tautness in his muscles relaxed.
And that gave me the opportunity to direct my full attention to the entities drawing near us.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Dead Motives . . .
I rose to my feet, the man next to me shakily following. When the door opened of its own violation and a cannon blast of freezing air smote us, I took a protective step in front of my shivering companion.
We were pelted with a thousand voices speaking as one, a thousand entities gathered into one body.
You will stay with us. You cannot leave. Stay, and despair. Leave, and evaporate. That is the choice we give you.
I shook my head. I would prefer to let you rest.
Rest, the mental voices sneered deprecatingly. We need no rest; rest is for those spirits too timid and weak to deplore the living. Rest is for those shades too content to enter this world alongside mortals and punish themselves for their trespass! Rest is—
I shut out the voices before they could offer any more of their twisted logic; one of the risks of speaking with the dead was their offering up their “wisdom” garnered from the grave. Quite often, roaming spirits went mad because their psyche was no longer fitted for this world; compelled to move on, their minds were shaped and molded to experience the transition required to go Beyond. But when that transition didn’t happen, or didn’t go according to the proper Way . . . the transformed psyche, no longer suited for living, more often than not couldn’t return to their old way of thinking.
I raised my staff warningly in front of me. Their laughter was like an army of creaking doors being open and shut continuously. What is that to us? the mental voices mocked me. Physical weapons harm us not. What use is wood to against the incorporeal?
I shrugged and spoke vocally. “Probably as much use as it is for you to try leading a blind woman astray with optical illusions.”
The sibilant laughter ceased immediately. Do you think so little of our power? they were angry. Then let us teach you wisdom. . . the wisdom of the dead.
I took the soldier’s hand as he flinched. The core of entities were dispersing, circling us. I could sense all sorts of ephemeral shapes . . . hunters, monsters, four-legged beasts . . . we were completely surrounded in a matter of seconds.
We were pelted with a thousand voices speaking as one, a thousand entities gathered into one body.
You will stay with us. You cannot leave. Stay, and despair. Leave, and evaporate. That is the choice we give you.
I shook my head. I would prefer to let you rest.
Rest, the mental voices sneered deprecatingly. We need no rest; rest is for those spirits too timid and weak to deplore the living. Rest is for those shades too content to enter this world alongside mortals and punish themselves for their trespass! Rest is—
I shut out the voices before they could offer any more of their twisted logic; one of the risks of speaking with the dead was their offering up their “wisdom” garnered from the grave. Quite often, roaming spirits went mad because their psyche was no longer fitted for this world; compelled to move on, their minds were shaped and molded to experience the transition required to go Beyond. But when that transition didn’t happen, or didn’t go according to the proper Way . . . the transformed psyche, no longer suited for living, more often than not couldn’t return to their old way of thinking.
I raised my staff warningly in front of me. Their laughter was like an army of creaking doors being open and shut continuously. What is that to us? the mental voices mocked me. Physical weapons harm us not. What use is wood to against the incorporeal?
I shrugged and spoke vocally. “Probably as much use as it is for you to try leading a blind woman astray with optical illusions.”
The sibilant laughter ceased immediately. Do you think so little of our power? they were angry. Then let us teach you wisdom. . . the wisdom of the dead.
I took the soldier’s hand as he flinched. The core of entities were dispersing, circling us. I could sense all sorts of ephemeral shapes . . . hunters, monsters, four-legged beasts . . . we were completely surrounded in a matter of seconds.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Remember what I said . . .
Actually . . . well, remember what I said when you reminded me of this, Hannah. You are more important than finishing this.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Rush Down the Hall
That’s all right, Hannah; though I think you surprised Ron more than you did me.
Though I’m still waiting to hear the explanation on why I have to use the downstairs bathroom now. Anyway, I’ll try to get caught up . . .
I pulled the man to me, slowly backing away from the encroaching spirits. I could feel his warm, dry breath on my neck, tossing several loose strands of my hair against my cheek. He stayed put as I tried to tug him back with me; but he refused to be budged, and because of it I nearly tripped. The spirits tried biting as the end of my staff, seeming to think they could scare me with those sorts of tactics. But I wasn’t fooled: spirits rarely hurt the living with such tactile strategies.
The man next to me suddenly twirled on his heel, grabbing me by the arm and spinning me with him. “Cover your ears, kid!” he warned me in a hoarse voice I swore I knew. “This is gonna be a loud one!”
I tried to obey, but his bicep was crushing my wrist to his vested chest. I ducked my head and covered them as best I could.
He tossed something with great force which passed through the spirits. A heavy clatter followed, like someone throwing a baseball in the house. He threw himself on top of me, bearing me straight to the floor. We waited, our collective breaths huddled inside our aching lungs. He flinched . . . .
Nothing.
“Right, let’s go!” he hissed, pulling me to my feet with remarkable strength and rushing through the spirits with a limping gait that was nevertheless very fast. I held my breath again and prepared to defend us against a mental attack, but the spirits let us pass without trouble.
They were planning something.
Though I’m still waiting to hear the explanation on why I have to use the downstairs bathroom now. Anyway, I’ll try to get caught up . . .
I pulled the man to me, slowly backing away from the encroaching spirits. I could feel his warm, dry breath on my neck, tossing several loose strands of my hair against my cheek. He stayed put as I tried to tug him back with me; but he refused to be budged, and because of it I nearly tripped. The spirits tried biting as the end of my staff, seeming to think they could scare me with those sorts of tactics. But I wasn’t fooled: spirits rarely hurt the living with such tactile strategies.
The man next to me suddenly twirled on his heel, grabbing me by the arm and spinning me with him. “Cover your ears, kid!” he warned me in a hoarse voice I swore I knew. “This is gonna be a loud one!”
I tried to obey, but his bicep was crushing my wrist to his vested chest. I ducked my head and covered them as best I could.
He tossed something with great force which passed through the spirits. A heavy clatter followed, like someone throwing a baseball in the house. He threw himself on top of me, bearing me straight to the floor. We waited, our collective breaths huddled inside our aching lungs. He flinched . . . .
Nothing.
“Right, let’s go!” he hissed, pulling me to my feet with remarkable strength and rushing through the spirits with a limping gait that was nevertheless very fast. I held my breath again and prepared to defend us against a mental attack, but the spirits let us pass without trouble.
They were planning something.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
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GhostSpider
- Posts: 2755
- Joined: Fri Sep 16, 2005 2:01 am
- Location: Wherever the fight is
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GhostSpider
- Posts: 2755
- Joined: Fri Sep 16, 2005 2:01 am
- Location: Wherever the fight is
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Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Expected Ambush; Unexpected Result
He battered through the door and shoved his way past the limp frame, I was holding my staff and his arm for dear life. The weary soldier was zealous in his determination to escape, barely pausing as my foot smacked into something he had avoided; I nearly dragged us both to the floor with that one . . . nearly. He scooped my feet out beneath my and slung me over his shoulder, continuing the chase by taking us up some stairs. Something slithered up the steps with unnatural speed, the scent of magic was thick in the air.
“Behind you!” I screamed.
“Wha—hey! Let—ugh!” He shuddered and recoiled; I was jerked out of his grasp as he was bodily hurled from beneath me. I crashed to the steps below. The soldier grunted and hissed, straining against something. He gave a yell of surprise when my fingers groped blindly through the air, brushing his cheek with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand with enough force to elicit a cry of pain from me, twisting my arm.
“Wie?” he whispered hoarsely, his throat raw from strain and determination in the face of horror. The pressure on my arm relented.
“Bert?” I raised my head in surprise. It had been Bert’s vehicle I had run into on my way down the sidewalk, but I still felt inexplicably awed at the sound of his voice, at the rough edges of the calluses in his palm pressing into my hand; it was as though my mind was trying to tell me he couldn’t be real . . .
No sooner had I thought that then he was jerked from my grasp so hard I felt my arm had almost been removed from my socket. The urgency of the pull sent me down the stairs as well, my staff clattering ahead of me. I fell in a heap at the foot of the stairs, impressions of the stairs burning against my skin. I slowly released myself from the ball I had curled into and felt around, finding my staff and the walls.
I was alone.
“Behind you!” I screamed.
“Wha—hey! Let—ugh!” He shuddered and recoiled; I was jerked out of his grasp as he was bodily hurled from beneath me. I crashed to the steps below. The soldier grunted and hissed, straining against something. He gave a yell of surprise when my fingers groped blindly through the air, brushing his cheek with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand with enough force to elicit a cry of pain from me, twisting my arm.
“Wie?” he whispered hoarsely, his throat raw from strain and determination in the face of horror. The pressure on my arm relented.
“Bert?” I raised my head in surprise. It had been Bert’s vehicle I had run into on my way down the sidewalk, but I still felt inexplicably awed at the sound of his voice, at the rough edges of the calluses in his palm pressing into my hand; it was as though my mind was trying to tell me he couldn’t be real . . .
No sooner had I thought that then he was jerked from my grasp so hard I felt my arm had almost been removed from my socket. The urgency of the pull sent me down the stairs as well, my staff clattering ahead of me. I fell in a heap at the foot of the stairs, impressions of the stairs burning against my skin. I slowly released myself from the ball I had curled into and felt around, finding my staff and the walls.
I was alone.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
-
Eilonwy Solstice
- Posts: 1108
- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 3:48 pm
- Location: When I can help it, in the sunshine.
Within I Find . . .
I cautiously climbed to my feet, getting the basic feel for my surroundings. I was at the bottom landing of the stairs the unknown soldier had initially carried me past . . . but there was no sign of the soldier, and the door he had smashed open was shut securely. I could leave without him, I suppose, but would I be able to live with myself if he had been real and not just a hallucination? After all, that Volvo had been at the curb, well outside of the house’s influence. Steeling my shoulders, I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Warmth suddenly blossomed all around me like an electric blanket had been wrapped around my shoulders. The floor had suddenly become even, as though the old wood I remembered and had been going across had suddenly been replaced with new, sanded planks. I could hear many feet moving, many bodies surrounding me, and a Phil Collins love song played to my right, though speakers made the surrounding walls reverberate with the noise.
I tried to take a moment to regain my bearings. Where was my staff? What had happened to my clothes? I ran my hands along my face, neck, and body experimentally, and my face reddened self-consciously.
My glasses were gone, and I was dressed in a gown of lace and silk, my shoulders and back naked and my bodice leaving a deep V down my front. A corsage was tied to my left wrist. I was scented in heavy perfume, far more than I was used to wearing. Other than the obvious, something else about this scene felt wrong, like a picture frame that should have tilted this way instead of that way. But I couldn’t quite place the inconsistency . . . .
“May I have this dance?” A voice I swear I knew said cheekily, taking my hand in his and drawing me close by cupping my rear in his hand and pulling me toward him. “Mmmm . . . you smell heavenly, Janice,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, I—oh!” I jumped when he pinched me hard on the bottom.
I tried to get him to listen to me, but it was like trying to win an argument with a computer. He was having his own discussion without me, imagining my answers. After a minute of uselessly trying to get through to him, I tried pulling away from his loving embrace.
“You’re . . . you’re breaking up with me?” he asked, amazed. I didn’t answer, as it seemed it didn’t matter one way or the other. “You’re what? Pregnant? H-how? But . . . but . . . that night we . . . we didn’t . . . I swear we didn’t . . . what? You’re leaving me for him?”
I couldn’t help it; the pain in his voice, the way he clutched at my hand with both of his, trying to keep me from running off, the pain he was feeling was real, very real . . . .
And then it struck me. It was all an illusion. Nearly all the sounds, the smells, the dress, the floor . . . they were all in my mind. I started raising my mental barriers, Closing myself to the Supernatural. It was like shutting a storm cellar door against the gale of a tornado. As the heavy padlocks of my mind shut, the sounds, scents, tastes, and touches all around me began to fade and trickle away . . . Reality was quiet and rough, I was wearing my ordinary clothes and sunglasses, though my staff was not in my hand. The warped, splintered planks of wood were beneath my feet, wind rustling outside and spirits swirling around me like angry locusts. A hoarse sob split the air like distant thunder.
And the man was still holding my hand.
Warmth suddenly blossomed all around me like an electric blanket had been wrapped around my shoulders. The floor had suddenly become even, as though the old wood I remembered and had been going across had suddenly been replaced with new, sanded planks. I could hear many feet moving, many bodies surrounding me, and a Phil Collins love song played to my right, though speakers made the surrounding walls reverberate with the noise.
I tried to take a moment to regain my bearings. Where was my staff? What had happened to my clothes? I ran my hands along my face, neck, and body experimentally, and my face reddened self-consciously.
My glasses were gone, and I was dressed in a gown of lace and silk, my shoulders and back naked and my bodice leaving a deep V down my front. A corsage was tied to my left wrist. I was scented in heavy perfume, far more than I was used to wearing. Other than the obvious, something else about this scene felt wrong, like a picture frame that should have tilted this way instead of that way. But I couldn’t quite place the inconsistency . . . .
“May I have this dance?” A voice I swear I knew said cheekily, taking my hand in his and drawing me close by cupping my rear in his hand and pulling me toward him. “Mmmm . . . you smell heavenly, Janice,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, I—oh!” I jumped when he pinched me hard on the bottom.
I tried to get him to listen to me, but it was like trying to win an argument with a computer. He was having his own discussion without me, imagining my answers. After a minute of uselessly trying to get through to him, I tried pulling away from his loving embrace.
“You’re . . . you’re breaking up with me?” he asked, amazed. I didn’t answer, as it seemed it didn’t matter one way or the other. “You’re what? Pregnant? H-how? But . . . but . . . that night we . . . we didn’t . . . I swear we didn’t . . . what? You’re leaving me for him?”
I couldn’t help it; the pain in his voice, the way he clutched at my hand with both of his, trying to keep me from running off, the pain he was feeling was real, very real . . . .
And then it struck me. It was all an illusion. Nearly all the sounds, the smells, the dress, the floor . . . they were all in my mind. I started raising my mental barriers, Closing myself to the Supernatural. It was like shutting a storm cellar door against the gale of a tornado. As the heavy padlocks of my mind shut, the sounds, scents, tastes, and touches all around me began to fade and trickle away . . . Reality was quiet and rough, I was wearing my ordinary clothes and sunglasses, though my staff was not in my hand. The warped, splintered planks of wood were beneath my feet, wind rustling outside and spirits swirling around me like angry locusts. A hoarse sob split the air like distant thunder.
And the man was still holding my hand.
Sometimes the only thing to be done is to feel one’s way through the darkness.
