• Time With Clare

Posted: **Wed May 23, 2012 7:18 pm**

Clare asked if I’d write this down. I was going to entitle it, “Girls’ Night In,” but Clare insists she’s “just a girl,” while I’m “a woman.”

Well, if that’s true, then I’m “just a blind lady.”

Anyway, yesterday started rather early; midnight, to be precise. Clare called me up and asked if I could come over in the morning to help cook Hannah breakfast in bed. Matt had something special planned for her, apparently, and took me aside when I arrived a few hours later to ask me if I’d care to watch Clare for the day and be okay if she spent the night at my place.

To me, it was rather like asking someone if they would like to win the $50 million dollar lottery, tax free. Of course I’d be happy to spend that much time with her. Monday had been incredibly fun. The only reason I sent Clare away was because I wanted to talk to Mel about some private matters.

So this seemed a perfect chance to make it up to Clare for leaving her at the dinosaur exhibit for fifteen minutes.

After Matt presented Hannah with the breakfast tray, I quietly excused myself and took Clare out.

The day was filled with too much to relate here; Clare wants to tell what happened during the day, though. She wants me to explain what happened at night.

Fair enough.

In her haste to let Hannah and Matt have some private time, she’d forgotten to bring her pajamas. I didn’t really have anything her size, so I gave her a smock worn ordinarily when sculpting clay. Despite eight inches or so difference in our heights, she said it fit perfectly. I also had some extra toothbrushes, unused, for her to choose and use.

I gave her my bed to sleep in and used the hide a bed sofa for myself, and fell quickly asleep, exhausted.

I didn’t think the ghosts would be a problem; they hadn’t bothered me since Ron had the apartments renovated for me since my escape from the asylum, and their scent had almost disappeared entirely.

Seems I have a lot more to learn. And apologize, for.

Posted: **Thu May 24, 2012 5:34 pm**

I was startled awake by someone quietly sobbing and my locked door creaking.

“Where are you . . .? Where . . .?”

“Clare?” Guilt robbed me of breath; We all knew Clare’s extremely special in ways that I, at least, can’t understand completely. But I never thought the ghosts would bother her after such a lengthy absence.

“Clare, sweetie, I’m sorry,” I apologized profusely, pulling off my blanket and rolled to my feet. “I wasn’t thinking right. I thought they wouldn’t bother you. Clare . . .?”

The weeping had ceased. I padded by the door; all the locks were still firmly in place. I held my hand against the door jamb, feeling the tempeature. But the air between the doorframe and door was still warm. If the door had been opened, there would have been a residue of cooler air. But there was no evidence.

Of course, if there was a supernatural explanation . . . .

Squaring my shoulders and clasping the doorknob for support, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and Opened myself. When the forgotten images and impressions faded away and I was left with only my heightened, psychic senses, I regained my balance, released the doorknob, and pushed my senses outward.

Nothing; even the faded scents of the ghosts’ presences were difficult to sense.

“Clare?” I kept my voice low and my senses, psychic and bodily alike, on high alert. My living room wasn’t that big; I circled it quickly, and found the bathroom door wide open. It was my way of telling when it was available, and Clare had been very good to remember that. My bedroom door, however, was slightly ajar. Cautiously, I pushed it open. Three measured steps later, I was at the side of the bed.

Her breathing was light but rhythmic; the blankets were twisted however, so I knew she’d gotten up during the night. Feeling a sudden case of motherliness, I gently pulled the wrinkled, bunched up smock from her knees to her ankles, untangled the bedcovers, and tucked her back in before returning to the couch.

I was just on my to falling asleep myself when the mattress sagged a little more with additional weight. My body tilted as something climbed up, lean and warm, and settled over me. Slowly extending my hands, I felt smooth, feminine wrists barring my way. I gasped when one hand lifted, felt my face, and then lowered to my throat.

Posted: **Fri May 25, 2012 10:17 pm**

Hi Wie,

Thank you again for taking care of Clarity for me. Matt and I had a great time. I'm sorry if things got a little weird.

Hannah

PS: Clarity, thanks for taking care of Wie for me.

Posted: **Sat May 26, 2012 10:14 am**

As Hannah has already mentioned, thank you both for your understanding. And also apologies if you were inconvienanced at all.

Posted: **Sat May 26, 2012 2:35 pm**

You’re welcome; to the both of you. It was no inconvenience at all.

The hand brushed my Eve’s apple, paused and rubbed it; when I swallowed, the hand moved on. I remained still during this strange investigation on Clare’s part, not wishing to alarm whatever plans she had. Talking was useless; the most I could get out of her was an ambiguous sigh. After a few minutes, apparently satisfied, she snuggled under my arm, kissed my nose, and slept.

Despite the oddity of her actions, I almost let her be. She has the cutest little snore that can hardly be defined as such, and her breath was sweetly aromatic against my face, a scent I can’t quite name. Nevertheless, I reluctantly attempted to wake her; my perplexity and concern were too great.

“Clare,” I murmured, gently shaking her. “Clare, sweetheart . . .”

The tiny snore, nearly lost even under the light rustle of her nightwear, ceased.

“Oh. Is it morning already, Miss Wie? Good morning, then. What are you doing in my bed, Miss Wie? Did you have a nightmare? Can I give you a hug to help you feel better?”

Smiling in spite of myself, I held out my hands. Clare readily acted upon the invitation for an embrace, scooting between my arms. For the oddest reason, it was comforting to find her hair still in the braid she had asked me to fold it into before going to bed.

“No, I didn’t,” I ignored the heat, holding her close. “And I let you sleep in my bed, remember? I think you had the nightmare and came to me. Do you remember?”

“No,” she replied. “Is that okay, Miss Wie? That I can’t remember?”

“It’s okay,” I sighed, tightening my hug reassuringly. I kissed her forehead, let her sleep, and wondered how to help her.

Clare, if you want a turn writing about our day, go right ahead. Just please remember what we talked about earlier, okay?

Posted: **Tue Sep 11, 2012 2:20 am**

Dreams come heavily and easily to Clare and me both; the night of July Thirteenth, I had several. Each of them were distinctive and very important in their own right. However, one can be told later. The others, I feel ought to be told here, because my feelings tell me they concern Clare too, even if they never actively showed her. The fact that she woke me up at 1:30 in the morning to request I help her type her portion of her own dreams that she remembered . . . well, who am I to argue?

Considering the dreams’ contents, it seems absurd to believe they were nothing more than coincidence. Then again, that possibility shouldn’t be excluded. I’ll start simply: with my own first nightmare. Whether it was coincidence or by malicious design that Clare and I had these on the same night, that of Friday the Thirteenth, I’ll leave that for the reader to decide.

The first dream opens into utter blackness; I feel cold, claustrophobic; as if I’m seventy feet underground. Even before the spark ignites the fetid air, I know I’m not alone.

The fiery particle starts as nothing more than a single drop of ignited blood that incompletely illuminates two hands in tatters of candle flame. Still, its all there is to see. The hands cup the tiny glow and lower. Within the small sphere of light, a faint gathering of flesh-colored strips can be seen. The flame leaps from the hands to the fleshy strips, and consumes them greedily.

A fire grows as the flames gnaw on the strips. The world of blackness shrinks, overcome by shapes carved into being as though by an unseen scalpel. As the fire passes the height of a child, our surrounding landscape and its occupants are revealed. A grave is my first thought when I see earth everywhere. But that thought alters as I realize a grave would be far too small. I amend it to a cavern. Holes as large as a tennis racket and small as the dot of an ‘i’ pock the walls, the ceiling, and all else. There might be an exit or we might be in a stony cell; shadows are the drapes of choice, so I cannot tell.

When the voice speaks, it seems to come from the flames themselves. It’s smoother than the darkest blackness. Something drenches it as well; at the time, I couldn’t think of just what it is. When it finally strikes me, I feel sick at the recognition.

“. . . return to your brother and sister now, Porter,” the voice instructs, so familiar I know it as well as my own. “I have . . . new targets for you.”

The fire starter, an older teen with a bitter cast to his face, retreats and takes a seat between two others. They sit in a thin crescent about the fire, their gaunt backs to me but clearly visible. Their garb suggests a life of transience; in the subtle flicker of the orange glow, their garments show signs of dirt and wear.

A shape dances within the flames. A hazy pall breathes from the orange tongues and acts more like dry ice than smoke or mist. The figures straighten as the vapor moves among them. The combination of firelight, smoke, and darkness juxtapose into a strange phosphorescence.

“Whom would you have us destroy, Mistress?” The middle figure asks, thinner than the other two and in a feminine voice.

“Patience,” the disembodied voice cautions, as death touches the prescient so they know her feel. “These targets are better watched, first. Do not act until I say otherwise.”

A hush descends, poisonous as a net strung with barbs. The three teenagers exchange glances. Despite the firelight forcing shadows at bay, two of the three have an ashen cast to their flesh; they wear gloom as a first skin. Only Porter is separate from the darkness. He may not be fully evil or as villainous as his siblings, but the virulence that forge his features drive him more harshly in that direction than a cat o’ nine tails dipped in vinegar.

“Yes, Mistress,” the middle figure bows as she kneels, dingy, stringy hair down to thin shoulders flicking. “It will be as you wish.”

Nevertheless, as the misty smoke withdraws, there is a feeling of approaching betrayal in the air. The middle figure turns her face to Porter, then around to her brother.

Their eyes are completely black; voids in the darkest corner of wasted souls.

Posted: **Tue Sep 18, 2012 10:16 am**

No matter how I think on it, the second dream was far worse than its predecessor. It had an odd perspective, too, as though there was something important about the floor and shelves that needed to be seen. But if there was an important clue there, the odd perspective missed it, instead winging to a new angle.

The second dream uncloses within a confused jumble of images and perspectives; all seem to focus on a large building that is intimately familiar and yet foreign, too. Enormous windows gape along one side from ground to ceiling; they could be the eye sockets to a dead skull, but for the fact there are more than two and each spans the five story building, which hunkers massively down on the city block its built upon,. Two rows of massive stone blocks, one atop another, support the structure at the base and reinforce the idea of the edifice as alien physiology.

Perspective leaps from the building into a vertigo-inducing flight of stairs, impossibly ascended. An impression of a mighty, extensive search is one of two powerful sensations, though the tenor of the feelings don’t suggest motive. Secondly is danger; omnipresent and suffocative. Just as swelter and frigid cannot be understood without each other, so too these two impressions link.

Adamsdam City Library.

A name comes to reveal the backdrop. Even as it does, the perspective shifts again; we watch from above. Below, expensive rugs, some bookshelves, a bed, nightstand, and desk cover patches of vibrant blue tiles that extend to a glass wall. Beyond, the top of giant windows, a part of an alien physiological building, can be seen.

At the desk, an elderly, plump man sits in maroon robes and copies meaningless scrawl into a notebook from an immense, dusty tome. A drop from ceiling to floor should take our breath away in exhilaration, but has already been taken. The elderly man shivers, looks up to peer once into a large mirror set into the desk by two hinged points. The mirror reveals the room in its entirety, but not us. He feels a deathly chill; but he does nothing more than quake before he drinks from a glass goblet full of a clear liquid and resumes his work.

The two feelings intermingle, exchange identities, and become impossible to separate or reclassify, hot and cold mesh to lukewarm. As the two impressions become one, it intensifies to climactic heights. The search is done; he is found. Now all that’s left is for the danger to pass.

An eternal moment passes; two. Still, the heavyset, elderly man copies, back to us but his face and expression seen through the mirror. He doesn’t realize the presage that comes for him, waits just behind him.

His body stiffens and his hand jerks away from the book. The quill falls to the desktop, gloomy ink filming the leather in a grayish black shadow. Its slow wash has the same pace as a bag of fluid, punctured at the bottom. When the elderly man stands, it’s with such force, we have to avoid his chair pitching over.

Deep, crimson stripes jag against the man’s body, their origins uncertain. He trembles, mouth agape in relentless agony. Reddened liquid oozes from the mouths that open across his body; cloth is no deterrent. They shred just as easily as his flesh to expose impossible wounds. The injuries do not bleed; they do not need to.

As the man falls, his had reaches out in spasmodic reflex, catching on the mirror, overturning it.

Neither floor nor wall mutter a sound when his body lands silently. The ground swallows him, but we do not notice. Our attention is on the mirror as its spin retards; a figure can be seen in the mirror’s reflection. She is breathtakingly familiar. And then comes to a stop and we get a good look at her.

It is me. Her dress, look, and charm, however, is that of Celeste. Her hands are crimsoned with another’s blood. But whether the victim is the one whom the floor swallows or a stranger yet unnamed, cannot be told.

At once removed and united from and with the plural form, I walk to the center of the room, unconcerned with the commotion that rises outside. As a fact, there are several noises to be heard, some too soft for wakeful ears. Behind me, something sizzles and hisses. A glance over my shoulder reveals it to be the empty glass which smokes wantonly. Below, a sound like distant applause gathers. Beyond the door, voices gnaw at worry and appropriate forms of action.

They will find a way through to me. They always do.

The doors burst open. Figures, some with robes and others without, spill inside. Their faces are blurry, but their bodies exude alarm. Angry shouts garble in transition from expression to air. I smile and raise my hands into the air far above my head.

Not in surrender. Never that.

Triangles of glass are forged below as blackness engulfs everything in sight. The darkness rises as a flood, denser than the nightly gloom outside. The wave transverses the floors without trouble. Screams can be heard. The wave reaches our floor, and the figures recoil. All the objects within distort as the wave engulfs me. I cannot seem them, the wave, but I let myself drift deeper into them as they bear me away; the feeling of millions of insects is unmistakable to me now.

At the end of the dream I awoke, shivering, clammy with sweat and my nightwear bonded to my flesh because of it. The dream itself, while horrid, doesn’t compare to its aftereffects. The weeks following these nightmares, I’ve been calling the Adamsdam Library, trying to get in touch with the library manager, Mr. Camson Ondirtacher. Their replies are always the same: he was unavailable, too busy to answer the phone, or just left. They never suggested calling back.

But I did, anyway. Because I had a horrible feeling that he was dead.

Posted: **Fri Sep 21, 2012 10:59 pm**

_____Okay, Miss Wie, I’m ready, now! Thank you so much for telling this for me! You’re very good at writing and I liked it how you wrote it. You’re very good. I’m sorry though, I can’t remember what happened earlier. Is that okay? But I can remember my dream, so I’ll tell that instead, okay?
_____At firsties, I thought I was still in sleep. The shadows were dark and creepy and not a creature was stirring in Miss Wie’s room. Not even a mousy. In my dream, it was hard to sleep. The shadows were dark and creepy. Miss Wie’s bed was more comfy when I was on her side, and that’s why I tried sleeping like that next in my dream. Because I felt more comfy. But my eyes wouldn’t shut. Voices that didn’t sound like voices whispered into my ears, I think. But I’m not sure.
_____“Clarity, Clarity,” they said. “Come to us, come to us!”
_____“N-no thanks,” I said, my skin feeling icky. “I want to sleep. Good night.”
_____The voices that weren’t voices laughed. They himher wasn’t a happy sound, but helped me feel nervous and alarmed and even a little scared.
_____“Come here, sweetie,” they called. “Come here, now!”
_____“No!” I spoke a scream, hiding under the bed dress.
_____“Sister . . . sister . . . be our sister, won’t you?” They himher crooned a song. I didn’t speak a whimper, but hugged my elbow legs to my chest.
_____Hands grabbed me around the tummy and pulled me. I spoke a scream and grabbed my pillow. I couldn’t see the hands, but I knew they were hands because that’s what they himher were. The hands dragged me backwards, firstly. When my pillow didn’t help me feel safe, I grabbed the bed dresses. The pillow threw himherself off the bed. I almost followed, but I spoke another scream and grabbed my bed dresses even harder, like this.
_____But then more hands grabbed me by the ankles and my hands and hair and started taking turns pulling me seconds that way and thirds that way, again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
_____“Sister, why won’t you come, sister? Play with us . . . look at us . . . be us . . . .”
_____My fingers hurt badly. The bed dresses had let go of the bed, and my finger buttons were scratching at the bed rectangle. But the hands were dragging me too hard toward the darkness. I couldn’t stop.
_____“Sister . . . now you’ll be with us forever . . . embrace us . . . .”
_____Hands grabbed my cheeks and tried to help me look at the darkness eating me. I shut my eyes tight, but fingers pulled them open again. Something in the darkness was breathing. I almost looked.

_____Then I woke up for realsies. I was crying and felt warm and wet and cold and dry, and my Pinky Pie pajamas were wet. Maybe she had cried while I dreamed nightmares. The bed was dressed again and just a little messy. The room wasn’t very dark at all. Too scared to get out of bed, I folded my arms and cried a prayer.
_____Before they himher came and it was too late. But I don’t remember that part, so I’ll let Miss Wie tell her.

Posted: **Fri Sep 21, 2012 11:36 pm**

Anything that messes with a sister of mine will die a horrible painful and prolonged death.

People and things best not forget that I'm still watching what's going on here and I will do what is necessary to protect what is dear to me.

And if I have to, I may just bring some of my other sisters with me.

Don't worry about some bad dreams Clare. Worry for the Dark Things.

Posted: **Sat Sep 22, 2012 9:19 am**

Cynthia!

We need to talk, please come home soon.

Hannah

Posted: **Sat Sep 22, 2012 12:18 pm**

I am home.

Posted: **Sat Sep 22, 2012 12:31 pm**

Cynthia, where are you? What are you doing? We've been worried about you, you know.

We really do want to talk to you, so please listen to Hannah.

Posted: **Sat Sep 22, 2012 2:42 pm**

You’re welcome, Clare; I’m sorry it was so horrid for you to remember.

Cynthia . . . I pray you what you are doing. But perhaps that isn’t what I should be praying for. Nor is it the only thing.

A horrid feeling of . . . incorrectness lambasted me upon awakening from my second dream. My skin felt flush and sensitive, sense of touch heightened to new levels. The air was sweltering and cloistered, cocooning my exposed flesh within a sheen of heat. My nightie felt smooth and stifling, an oppressive encasing of mist that gave and returned at each little movement. I was grateful I’d been having my hair cut shorter since my return from the asylum; I can only imagine how it might have felt on the back of my neck and shoulders.

The couch and sheets I was sleeping in, to contrast, exuded a balmy chill. But rather than soothe my heated skin, it seeped even deeper through my pores, setting an icepack to my soul that left me shuddering from within. Resolutely, before the impressions overwhelmed me with their sensations, I shrugged aside the sheets and stood, pausing to Open my senses. For a moment, I balked at the deluge of impressions. Then, surfacing for air, I unsteadily followed a thin trail hanging in the air toward the kitchen window.

The carpet of the dining room felt alternatively spongy and scratchy to my bare feet as I drew closer to the kitchen. Upon reaching the kitchen, the tile was hard and chill. I stopped at the sink; ahead of my empty gaze, a window lay open, a portal to the outside world. Something was out there, closing in.

Drawing a noose about us.

“Clare?” I hissed into the air, my voice hoarse.

“I’m here,” Eilonwy,” a cool, soothing hand touched my arm.

Somehow, I kept myself from screaming in fright. Clare was so silent when she wanted to be. Clutching her hand in one of mine and moving it to my heart in a gesture of comfort, my free hand carefully reached out, touching her cheek, her neck, shoulder, and arm. Her hair was slightly damp, as was her neck. Her shirt was a light tee, however; she had changed her clothing.

“Clarity, something’s out there,” I gasped, attempting to regain control of my breathing. “Can you see . . .?”

Her hand slipped between my hand as easily as a moistened bar of soap. For a moment I didn’t hear anything, but the sensation of approaching evil halted. Endless breaths passed without repose as I waited, listening, but hearing nothing.

Not the hum of the air conditioner, the snore of the refrigerator, or even the hypothetical tick of a death beetle as it might have groped down a wall. There was nothing. No sight and no sound. Only the taste of coppery fear on my tongue. It was paired with the cloying, sweet smell of fungus and incense.

“We’re surrounded on three fronts, Eilonwy,” the young woman declared, catching my shoulders before I jumped out of my skin a second time. “Come with me back to the den. The middle of the house will be strongest. You may sleep while I keep watch. Even if they were inclined, they won’t approach tonight. Not now.”

Clarity’s words, spoken so concisely and with such confidence, comforted me. She led me back to the den, one hand at my shoulder and the other at my hip. Sitting beside each other on the couch, I nestled my cheek against her neck. The evil still felt entrenching, present. But, as a heavy storm, it would stay outdoors, this night. I fell asleep, content.

In the morning, we had cold cereal for breakfast, as my power had gone out. Clarity told me the . . . things had left shortly before dawn. However, I didn’t think we were rid of them. On the contrary; it was solely the beginning.

The third dream I had, resting on Clarity’s shoulder . . . doesn’t belong in this thread. But a new one shall be made for it, later.

Posted: **Sat Sep 22, 2012 4:32 pm**

This is all rather... disturbing to learn about, Wie.

Has anything tried to get you since then?

Posted: **Thu Sep 27, 2012 4:05 pm**

Gotham Witch wrote:This is all rather... disturbing to learn about, Wie.

Has anything tried to get you since then?

Sorry, Mel; I’ve been kind of distracted.

Nothing’s come after me, no. But I always feel like . . . something is watching me, though. Whenever I asked Matt or Hannah if that’s the case, they’ve assured me they see no one. But then things started happening . . . .

I don’t know what else to do. So I just keep up my old habits, try to make myself busy, and leave my senses open.

Posted: **Fri Sep 28, 2012 8:06 pm**

Eilonwy Solstice wrote:
Gotham Witch wrote:This is all rather... disturbing to learn about, Wie.

Has anything tried to get you since then?

Sorry, Mel; I’ve been kind of distracted.

Nothing’s come after me, no. But I always feel like . . . something is watch me, though. Whenever I asked Matt or Hannah if that’s the case, they’ve assured me they see no one. But then things started happening . . . .

I don’t know what else to do. So I just keep up my old habits, try to make myself busy, and leave my senses open.

At least that last bit makes sense.
If you want to discuss, you can contact me by way of the Society.

Posted: **Fri Sep 28, 2012 8:21 pm**

That depends on the topics you’d wish to bring up, Sebastian. Thank you for the offer, though. I might take you up on it. and welcome back, too, by the way. How have you been?

Posted: **Fri Sep 28, 2012 8:38 pm**

Eilonwy Solstice wrote:That depends on the topics you’d wish to bring up, Sebastian. Thank you for the offer, though. I might take you up on it. and welcome back, too, by the way. How have you been?

We can talk about anything you want.
My interests are more varied than my knowledge, so most things are an opportunity to learn something new.
I have been doing well. My hands are full with pariah although making good progress here and there. I have even managed to debunk a few more cases in my infinite spare time, but nothing really worth bringing up here.
Standard stuff like crying statue hoaxes and a Sasquatch video.

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