Hey, everyone! It's not my first story, but here's my first story on here. I'd really like some feed back, good or bad, so please, feel free to comment. I can't promise anything as far as the average length for the rest of the chapters, but I have a feeling they might be like this one. Anyway- One more thing. Something called the "Sy Corporation" is brought up a few times. ; It's not very important in this story, so I'll just give you a rundown here;
Sy Corp is from one of my other stories (might end up here, who knows). Put simply, it's an agency that deals with complaints about the supernatural; ghosts and stuff. The agents are just the people who run around and take care of the jobs. Sy Corp is based in New England.
ANYWAYS- I think that's good for now. Enjoy the show, and if you can, please R&R!
"..Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd… He served a dark and vengeful God…"
The dim, foggy street was silent save for the soft singing of a young, silver-haired woman. It was just another chilly October morning in London, too early for most to be up. This, of course, did not bother Tri, our young adventuress; early morning was the best time for sightseeing when you wanted to avoid the crowds.
While she had originally intended to be in London for a quick investigation trip, plans had… changed. Upon arrival, it was immediately obvious that their lead had been completely off. Hungry alley cats did not equal water goblins, no matter how you sliced it. Seth and Max, owners of the secret organization Sy Corp., had decided she might as well hang around there and take a short vacation: she was long overdue, according to Max.
"Tri, we're not going to let you just hunt down ghosts and do nothing else. It's terrible for your body and mind."
While normally rather irritated by having decisions made for her, this became an exception. She wanted to see it- Fleet Street. It was her goal to see it, walk it, gaze upon it like some kind of ancient relic- if it was real, of course.
While it was incredibly real, there was a large disappointment she had not taken into consideration; it was, in fact, quite modern looking. Large buildings, routinely-patched roads, and typical city traffic. She could have just gone to Boston if she wanted to see that. Sighing, Tri stuck her gloved hands dejectedly into her coat pockets and walked on, head hanging in disappointment. Passing few people on her meanderings, she headed deeper into the street, wondering how she had ever convinced herself it might still be there…
It was hard to assume that a street as connected to the National Press as it was would be preserved like an artifact, now that she thought about it. Why go to the trouble of stopping progress in an important area when you can just sacrifice some lesser space? It was the attitude of today; Take what you can, and give nothing back.
Tri's random wandering had managed to accomplish one thing, though- she was now utterly lost. According to the street signs, she was still on Fleet St., nevertheless. At least she was blessed with that much. As long as she followed something, she'd find her way to a bus stop, or something… Sitting down on the curb, she took a moment to rest and look around. Well, it wasn't ancient, that was fairly certain- or… most of it wasn't.
A small bit of hope finally clawing it's way back, Tri gazed across the street at the wooden structure across from her. There were no lights on, and it looked very deserted. Any lettering that might have been above the door was completely faded in most spots, and illegible in others. Glancing around to see if she was alone, she stole to the other side of the street and slipped through the door.
There was a thick layer of dust covering everything. As the bell on the door rang out in the normally soundless shop, Tri felt as if she had just stepped back through time. The counter, the oven… untouched by society, yet faded by age. Her feet refused to move; the sight was too perfect to be marred by her footsteps. Careful not to disturb any more dust or cobwebs from the room, she slowly crept back out into the living world. Standing on the curb, she gazed up in wonder at the shop. It was then that she noticed the stairs. Barely hesitating, she dashed up to the second floor, not noticing the trail of dust she was leaving behind.
Another lonely bell chimed dully as the door creaked open. This room was just as dusty as the last. Unlike the last, however, there was a slight odor; metallic, though obviously dulled and thinned by the years. Even time couldn't hide the dark stains on the walls, however. Everything in the room seemed to have been touched by the ominous substance, from the cracked mirror in the corner to the crimson-cushioned chair in the center.
The chair- pure curiosity pulled her feet from the floor this time. As she crossed the room, her eyes stayed transfixed on the chair, keeping her attention from the other foot prints in the room; while not as obvious as hers, there they were. The feet seemed to have belonged to someone who had been pacing, ceaselessly, in pure agitation and anticipation. In any case, Tri missed them completely, and simply sat herself down in the demonic chair. The lions heads that had been carved into the chair were not untouched by the red that seemed to cling to everything; tiny dried ribbons of the liquid coursed down the grooves of the carvings, standing out against the finish of the wood. Leaning back, she closed her eyes.
Tri could see the room as it might have once been- less blood and dust. She could almost hear the tense pacing, the sharp knocking of hard leather against wood… The scrape of a blade against an aged leather strop… The fluttering and unfurling of a cloth… It seemed a bittoo real. Tri opened her eyes quickly, attempting to rid herself of the vivid imagery. The sound of pacing was the last to fade from her mind.
She slipped out of the chair, looking around furtively. It was then that the shallow foot prints caught her attention. With a shiver, she headed once again back to the present outside, trying not to imagine what they might mean. Trailing even more dust than last time, she left a second set of dusty foot prints on the stairs, along with some smudged hand prints on the banister. Tri then ventured to the basement.
As she stepped once again into the past, she was hit not only by the awe of being in the room, but a wave of acrid air that had been sealed in the room for decades. Coughing and eyes watering, she stumbled forward into the dark. The only light came from the doorway, and it was just enough to illuminate a large oven in the far side of the room.
Well… it wouldn't hurt to open it, now would it…? Sidling over to it, she pried it open with minor difficulty. Peering inside, all she could see was more black, darker than the metal itself. Frowning in thought, she ducked around to the other side of the oven, hoping the rest of the room was as intact as the others. While she was looking for something to the affect of strike-top matches, she could only locate a few pieces of flint. It would do.
Within minutes, she had a blaze going. As she watched the oven glow, casting it's ghastly shadows across the room, she couldn't help but wonder what had caused her to light it; it had been a spur-of-the-moment idea. And while those seemed to be her only kind of idea… this one had no basis. No reason. Dismissing it for now, she made use of her obviously limited time to examine the room. It was still quite dark, despite the combined efforts of the doorway and oven, so only dark shapes could be seen.
There was a low rumble of thunder from outside. Tri turned and eyed the doorway with suspicion; the weather report said nothing about thunder storms… She sighed heavily. It would be a good idea to get to better shelter before the storm came full-blast. If English weather was anything like it was in Boston, she'd want to get out of it's way, and soon. She cast one final glance at the oven before starting for the door. Before she reached it, however, her foot connected with something on the floor, causing it to skid into the light with a soft, silver gleam. Even after all those years… She bent over to pick it up gingerly, the cold metal quickly growing warm in her hand.
The blade itself looked well used, though not, of course, in the correct way; the dark, brownish-red film was still splattered across it's frame. Even in it's gory state, the razor amazed her. She turned the blade over and over again in her hands.
Another abrupt clap of thunder reminded her to keep moving. Looking back at the oven guiltily, if not enviously, she decided to leave it as-is, and slipped out of the basement, closing the door behind her. Breaking into a half-run, Tri slipped the mottled blade into her pocket as she raced the rain back to her inn.
As she turned the corner, falling out of sight, the rasping knell of the bell on the barber shop's door accompanied another loud clap of thunder and the spattering of rain. The quickly dissolving dust on the stairs was soon replaced with new, dripping crimson as a third set of footprints was wrought upon the creaking wood.