1: Entering the Inky Abyss

Cold, wooden floor scraped the soles of her bare feet. Toes curled as they took in the rough surface of the floor beneath, then legs moved forward as she continued on, feeling around her carefully to ascertain that she bumped into nothing.

Why was she here in this…what had they called it, an inky studio? Yes, that must be it, for she could feel something cool and liquidy pass through her fingers sometimes when her hands grabbed onto a wall to steady herself or better scope her surroundings, or it seeped between her toes when she accidentally stepped into a puddle. Sometimes, she drifted underneath something that went drip, drip, drip onto her. More ink, she assumed, collecting somewhere on the ceiling (who knows how it had gotten there) and falling in slow steady drips onto the floor, and her head, whenever she passed into their path.

If only she possessed the ability of sight. It would be so much easier to navigate this labyrinth of inky decay. But it was not to be. That was why she had been abandoned here, was it not? To rot and decay as its ink had? As its inhabitants once had?

Though she could not see, her hearing more than made up for it. Being blind, all her other senses were enhanced, her hearing most of all. She had heard the stories of the old animation studio that had broken down all those decades ago, how all the inhabitants had mysteriously disappeared, how few dared venture near the studio in fear of catching the attention of something monstrous inside…though that last part was just the superstitious aura that carried around any place that looked mysterious and foreboding. In any case, many people believed the abandoned studio was haunted, and that included her parents, so why had they been discussing it just earlier that day?

She knew she was useless. Her parents never failed to remind her of that fact. It all stemmed from her being born blind. The woman who had helped deliver her said to her mother, "She may not be able to see, but look at her. 'Tis a lovely girl, that is."

But the mother had looked upon the babe with scorn, saying when the nurse was not near, "Finally, after all these years of hoping and praying for the perfect little girl, we get this defective runt."

Alice couldn't remember this of course, but her mother told her this story often, to remind her of her wrongness, her defective nature. She should never have been born, Alice was told, and she believed this. She was only six: of course she would believe this. And she had lived like this all her life.

She had never gone outside. Her parents never let her out of the house. She was punished often, and mostly she couldn't remember why she was being punished. But the reason for her punishments was obvious. Her parents hated her for her blindness, for being so needy and for being unable to provide for herself. They fed her little and bathed her less, so that when she sat in her room (which was where she spent almost all of her time), she stank it up so badly that only she could stand being in there for more than a few seconds, as she had long since grown adjusted to the awful stench.

Did she have any relations outside of her parents? Of course she did, but she never met them. They didn't even know she existed. Sometimes her grandparents came over without realizing they had a grandchild. Her parents were embarrassed of her, ashamed, and wanted none to know of their bastard child. They locked her in her upstairs bedroom, too, whenever their friends came to call. Sometimes they went out with friends, and didn't return for hours. Alice could never tell exactly how long, and the best way she could judge time was by listening to her bedroom clock's ticking, monotonous and never-ending—although this was made difficult whenever it slowed down as its batteries slowly dwindled out of life.

Alice never wept. What was the point in weeping when nothing was ever going to change? But she did silently mourn, and she spent nearly all her time daydreaming about what it would be like to see (what was the point in having toys or books or a TV if she couldn't see anything?): what were colors like? Was blue really bright? Was black really dark? Blue sounded bright and black sounded dark, but it would make so much better a difference if she could actually see the colors rather than imagine what they looked like.

This was how she spent her first six years of life. On her sixth birthday, everything changed.

That was when she heard her parents discuss the old animation studio. Alice had frowned. Once or twice they'd discussed the studio with their friends (Alice could hear through the thin floorboards what it was they were saying, and that often made her time spent in her room more interesting; it was almost like actually being a part of the conversation). Once was when a couple of teenagers decided to T.P. the place, only the next day the "streamers" (for that was what they looked like when strung about the place) had vanished like they had never been. The second time was when the mayor considered condemning the establishment once and for all, and the friend had said finally, it was about time that old haunt was torn down in place for something more practical, like a mall. But for some reason the condemnation never took place; it was as if the building as a whole rejected the very idea, and warded the mayor off from following through with his declaration.

Alice had only a vague notion of what animation was—something kids watched on TV. She was sad that she couldn't see what this "animation" was. It sounded nice, just by the way the word was pronounced.

She was confused when there was a knock on the door later in the afternoon, and she heard the door open and creaks on the floorboard—footsteps—and someone grabbed her roughly by the arm. Her mother. She recognized her hand, smaller and slender, unlike her father's grip, which was larger and rough.

"Come on, Alice, we're leaving," her mother said roughly.

Surprised, Alice couldn't keep the inquiry from leaving her lips: "Where?" She had never gone out before.

"Somewhere," her mother snapped, and Alice fell silent, knowing not to ask any more questions.

She was led downstairs, then she heard the sound of a door unlock and felt for the first time the fresh air against her face, all over her skin. She felt something new beneath her toes (they'd neglected to fashion her with shoes, but she didn't mind, she'd never worn shoes before, being inside all the time); it felt rougher than the floors she was accustomed to. She rubbed her feet against the gravelly surface; she liked the feel of it, how rough it was.

She was yanked forward again. She heard another door open, and she was shoved rudely inside of some confined space. There were all sorts of feels to this place: something cool, something soft upon which she sat. She ran her hands over the leather cushion. Something was strapped over her, buckled into place. The door closed, and the thing she was placed into rumbled. Something smelled weird, but she couldn't decide if it was unpleasant or not.

This must be a car, she realized as she felt the vehicle start forward.

An undeterminable time passed, until finally it stopped. Doors opened, hands reached to unbuckle her from the seat, and she was dragged forward again.

"We should have thought of this before," her mother muttered, though there was something decidedly fearful about her tone. It was only a slight waver, masked mostly by some sort of sick desire, an eagerness to get a job done.

"Where are we?" Alice asked, her voice soft and cracked from disuse. She hardly ever spoke aloud, because she would be punished for breaking her parents' concentration—at least, that was what they said. This she wasn't sure she entirely believed, but she obeyed without question.

To her surprise, her mother answered her this time.

"Have you ever heard of the old, abandoned animation studio? I know you have, being the nosy, cheeky little brat you are."

Alice had never heard the word "cheeky" before, but her mother must have used it for some reason, which meant she must fall under that category. She nodded.

"Well, that is where you're staying from now on."

Alice didn't know what to think about this, how to feel. Should she be happy or sad that they were abandoning her? She must have done something wrong to displease him. Sadness should be the appropriate response to such rejection. But instead she felt…nothing. Only the similar, hopeless despair that always corrupted her. Being abandoned in this supposedly haunted place would be no different from her life previous. She would still be alone.

She stood there and listened as her mother wrestled with something, supposedly the door (it must be locked, possibly barred, if it were an abandoned haunted place), and it eventually opened with a loud creak. Her mother grabbed her arm and said nastily, "Hope you enjoy this place, darling. It's dark, so it won't make a difference that you can't see."

And with that, Alice was cast into the inky abyss.

…

Now here she was, slowly navigating her way through this studio. How big was it? She hoped not too big. It probably was smaller than she thought, but only felt bigger because she had been turned around more than once. She'd never been lost in her house because one of her parents had always led her to the bathroom or downstairs to the kitchen to eat and then back upstairs to her bedroom. She had no one to lead her now, and so she found it difficult to navigate her way.

Once she heard a loud bang, like something being dropped, or something like a big switch turning something on or off. Immediately after, music began to play, starting off as static before swinging into a merry little tune. Alice hadn't heard much music, but she hummed along to the tune, bouncing a little.

After a bit of this, she turned around—and promptly went face first into a wall. She let out a little "Whoof!" and fell back on her butt. She rubbed her forehead, which only felt a little sore…and then froze.

She had heard something, and could feel there was another living presence in here. Not quite in this room, yet, but close. Slowly closing in, coming closer to her.

She did not panic. She did not know if there was anything to fear. Sure, this place was haunted, but was there any real proof?

Still, her ears never lied. She had heard someone. She still heard someone.

Slithering along, slowly and not quietly. Slithering and stepping. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Alice stayed where she was. She couldn't run anyhow, if there really was something to fear in here. All she could do was sit there and wait and listen to the creature's ambling footsteps grow closer and closer. But their steps didn't sound ambling. They sounded determined, like their owner knew exactly where they wanted to go.

Like they sensed her, too.

Alice waited. She listened. She waited. She listened.

Breathing, now. She could hear the creature's growls and snarls, its intake of breath, curiously congested, growly because of this. Was their throat clogged with ink? She wanted to laugh at this, even if it was such a lame joke, but she found herself unable to procure the humor within to do so. She felt nothing except for a suffocating anticipation.

Now that it was closer, she could hear the creature's limp. One foot seemed to be dragging slightly, but it was walking steadily in spite of the defection of its foot. But a broken foot was different from broken eyes. At least it could still see. At least it could still walk well even with a dragging foot. She could barely walk with both feet intact.

And now she could feel its breath, and its dragging foot had stopped, and it was standing right in front of her. All she could hear was its ragged breathing, in and out, hoarse and coarse and terrifying to anyone but Alice, who still didn't know how to fear.

She just waited patiently for the creature to make the first move.

Its voice came from deep in the well of its throat. Masculine, it was more growling than speaking, and the words were sloshed together like ink, making it only slightly difficult to understand it.

"Well, well, what have we here? What are you doing here, little treat?"

He sounded slightly manic, as though he were smiling broadly while he spoke. Alice felt a little put off by this, but only a little.

"My mommy threw me away."

The air grew tense around her.

"Why?"

"Because I was born blind. I'm useless. I'm broken. I don't belong."

Silence.

"Mister?" she asked when he was quiet for some time, at least a few minutes.

There was a low scraping noise. She could not determine where it was coming from.

Something cold and slick, liquid yet dense enough to be somewhat solid, slithered up her arm, slowly, to cup her face, tilting her chin up. What was he searching for? Alice wondered. She already told him she was useless. Why bother being around her?

"You're young," he mused in his low voice. "How old?"

"Today I turned six," she told him humbly.

For a fraction of a moment she thought she caught a low, angry buzz, deep in his throat. It happened too quickly for her to be sure, though, and before she could entirely process the noise, he said, "Come."

A large hand encompassed hers, the claws extending well past her wrist; he could practically grab her entire forearm. Gently, he eased her into a standing position and led her down a hallway. He spoke not a word to her throughout their journey, and all Alice could do was stare up into some space in awe.

Why was he helping her? Maybe he didn't care that she was broken? But why? Maybe he was broken too? At first, he had sounded like he might kill her (which wouldn't surprise her; he would be proof that this place was, to at least some degree, haunted after all), but then, after she had answered him, his voice had become more meditative.

For the first time in her life, Alice felt a light sort of feeling in her chest, making her feel like she might be lifted into the air, high enough so that her feet wouldn't be able to touch the ground.

A/N: Hey guys! This is an idea that just came to me, and I couldn't resist typing it down! :) This is going to be an ongoing story. I don't know how long it will be just yet, but it will last for a while, depending on the ideas I get.