Rose In The Basement
It is the tendency of thirteen year old girls with nothing to do to get into some mischief. Thirteen year old girls without proper guardianship even more so.
At the present, a girl such as this is standing at the end of a staircase, gazing down into the depths of her house, a dark place she has never visited before. If she knew her mother, there would probably be copious amounts of alcohol at the base of these stairs, along with who knows what else. The girl wrinkles her nose in distaste at this thought, but decides that her house is much too large for a basement this size to only contain drinks.
Though, Rose does hope that there is at least a light switch down there.
The stairs themselves are made of old wood, and make a loud creaking noise as she takes her first slow step. She nervously glances behind her, but it seems that her mother is still busy ("busy") on one of the upper floors of the house.
Rose hurries down the rest of the stairs, stepping as lightly as she can. Three years of ballet at the request of her mother assist in this effort to a great extent, as does being a small thirteen-year-old. At the bottom of the stairs she turns to look up again, wondering if she should close the door to the kitchen. That would leave her blinded down here, until she found a lightswitch. But remembering the numerous Edgar Allen Poe novels she'd read makes her resolve to leave it open, letting the light from upstairs shine down.
She turns back to the darkness yawning in front of her, scanning the walls for signs of lighting. The house isn't that old, it should be equipped with proper utilities. There's nothing on either wall next to her. However, Rose does notice a faint, blue glow further in.
Intrigued the girl wanders forwards in the direction of the soft light. After only a few steps her foot lands on something hard and round, throwing her feet out from under her. Rose lands on the ground propped on her elbows, glaring and feeling around with one hand for what tripped her.
Of course. Her hand lands onto the glass of a bottle, and Rose sits up to properly narrow her eyes at the unwelcome distraction, though it is still dark enough she can't make out even its silhouette. As she had expected, her mother uses this basement to store her booze. Yet, that doesn't explain the strange glow she can see.
Rose carefully puts the bottle down, and draws herself to her feet. She's thankful now that she had chosen to wear some ballet flats to protect her feet from unseen shattered glass that surely litters the area. She brushes dirt off of her skirt. It's filthy from the basement floor.
Once she is as tidy as she can get, Rose looks back to the glow and starts walking again. She drags her feet a bit, in order to test the ground in front of her for any more bottles.
At about the center of the expansive room, Rose encounters a lightswitch. She accomplishes this by walking into it, the metal beads dangling from the ceiling and smacking her near her eye. She spitefully wonders if her mother had designed this with intruders in mind, intent on keeping Rose out. Rose reaches up and tugs the cord, and a large light above her flickers on. The light itself is almost florescent, not pleasing to the eyes at all. But it provides Rose a real view of her surroundings.
The entire basement is concrete, no colors or embellishments to be seen. Therefore, there is nothing to distract her from the source of the blue glow.
At first glance it appears to be a massive eye. It appears that way on second glance, as well. Rose can do nothing but conclude it is an eye, after three glances.
The eye seems to be alive, strangely enough. It seems to be looking around. And it seems to be looking at Rose, who has frozen in place under the lightswitch. She knows that her mother can be eccentric, but this a just a tad beyond that. The head-sized eye floats lazily in a tank of blue-tinted liquid that takes up a small portion of the wall, not connected to any sort of brain like basic biology says it should be. Perhaps it isn't looking at her, but rather just forward?
Rose sidesteps, out of what she hopes was the eye's line of sight. She very much hopes that it will not move, that it isn't alive after all. What would her mother be doing with such a thing?
But to her horror, the eye follows her, pivoting slowly to stare directly at the girl. A chill runs up Rose's spine. Rose considers that the eye is contained, that it cannot hurt her. She considers that she really, really wants to know what it is doing inside her house.
So, Rose walks towards it. As she gets closer the eye never wavers, still staring. She finds that the tank it floats in is about at her eye level, and is about as long as she is tall. Over the top lays a heavy metal grate, accessed by a small set of stairs from the ground.
She scans the area for any clue as to what exactly this being is, but finds nothing. Empty bottles are strewn across the floor, one solitary upright one where Rose left it. A large liquor cabinet lines one wall of the basement, about half of its spaces vacant. She wrinkles her nose. Here she has more alcohol than she knows what to do with, and also an eye about the size of her head looking at her from a tank. What on earth is her mother doing down here?
She turns back to the tank, considering the eye. It is a dark black sphere, webbed with cracks as if bloodshot, with a blue circle in the middle. That must be what causes the glow. It has a black pupil in the center, narrow and vertical like a snake's, or a cat. In a perhaps unwise move, Rose strides forward to place her hand on the glass of the tank.
R͐̅̆̔ó̆̿ͯ̋̇sͥ̍e͆
Rose jumps, a squeaking sound escaping from her mouth in surprise. She pulls her hand back and spins in a fast circle, double checking that she is still alone in the basement. She is sure that she heard her name. It felt like a whisper, but it did not come through her ears.
R͐̅̆̔ó̆̿ͯ̋̇sͥ̍e͆ i͐̈́̒s̏ͮ͊ ̈̾̂ͣ̃yo̾͒uͮ̊̐͑͗rͦͤ͗͋ nͯ̍̌ͭa̾͒̔̓m̉͐̆ë̂ͯ̂̚.
...It is the eye. Rose knows it is the eye. Its voice is deep and rough, and it almost hurts to head. She reluctantly looks at it again, making the most intense eye contact of her life. She takes a step back, and takes a deep breath. It would be rude not to respond.
"Yes, my name is Rose," she says, as confidently as she can. "And… What is your name?"
I̍ ̽͗̄aͦ̆ͧͨm̽̈́ ͧ̇ͦ̌č͋ͯ͐aͩ̒ͨ̑lle̒ͣͪ̇d͑̅͐͊̏ ͂̾Z̈̍̊'o̾ͩͣ̈̐̈g͆rõ̀̆͒͗̔ͮlͯͩ̇͂͛͐b.
"Z'ogrolb," Rose repeats, struggling to pronounce the complex syllables. She hadn't expected it to have a name at all. Rose checks the door again, aware that it outwardly appears she is talking to herself. "What are you, Z'ogrolb?" She asks.
Iͯ́̏ ăm̒̋̎̀̓ ̔͂͌ả͑ ͆̾̈́̇b͛e͂ͣ͑̃i̒͌̚nͭ̓̐g ůńͭfaͪth́̅͆̊̄o͆ͬm̎͛ȁ̓͗b̒lͬ́e͒̐̚ tͥǒ̔͛̏ ̿͐̊t̿̄̓̔h̏̔eͪ̐̒ ͩͬͩliͤk͐es̀̒ͩ o͐͋ͩf͋̏ͣ ̐̉̚yo͋̅ͣu͂̓͌.ͫ̒̊̋
Now that she's listening closer, Rose can make out a faint hum as the being speaks, the only outward expression that it is communicating. Meanwhile on the inside of her head, Rose is starting to experience a headache. This is surely a side result of having an 'unfathomable' being speaking through one's mind.
"And how did you become… an eye?" Rose asks hesitantly. She isn't sure what boundaries she could be overstepping, speaking to this creature. Was that a rude thing to ask?
A faint wave of heat like a fire rolls over Rose, giving her the sense that the eye is angry. She takes a small step back, worrying that she really has unintentionally offended it.
Y̓̃̅͑ȏͦu͂̊r̊͊.͂̑ͧ̆͑.̈ͣ. M̎̋ͤ̐ō͆̑̂̊́t̉̽h̓͐͌̆e͛ͦrͥͤ͂. ͐S̔͑́h̋̐è̏͛̽̈́ hͯ̄̅ͬaͣͧ̽sͨ̓ͨ͂̋ dͣ̂ͮoͤ̓n̂̆̌̌e͂͛ ̄tͬ̐͐h̑ͮ͐̋ȋ̃͛ͥs̑ͪ̓ ͐t̀͛̄̌ỏ͗̌̎ ̈́m͐̉ͣ͆e͛̑̑.̎̋͗
Rose winces and puts a hand to her head, it is no longer a hoarse whisper. Now she can make out what seems to be many voices speaking at once, overlapping and twisting around each other.
"My mother took out your eye?" Rose clarifies in a soft voice. Harmless though it may seem, Rose senses a great and ancient power emanating from the massive blue iris, and it seems to hold a grudge against her, personally.
Sh̄̋ͬ͐̀̋e͐̃ͧ ̒̌su̿̆mͨm̽̂ͦon̄e͋̂̊̇̽d̒ͦ͂̎ m͒̀͒̐ĕ̒ ù̍͌̇̐p͆̈͌͐ ̌t̎͛o̾͋ͮ ̆t́̈́̇ͫḧ́̾i̾ͨ͊̅sͯ̑ ̓ẃ̔̂́oͯ͌͊̽r̽l͒̃d̀ͫ,̀ ̽ͣsh̀̓eͬ̒ͫ ̏̾tͣ̓raͤͥpͧ̎p͐e͋̓ͪdͫ̈́ͫ̓ ͊mͤͯ̅̈́e͂ͮ̓ͪ͆ ͒ͬ̈́ḧ͐ẽͥřͧͣê,ͥ̏̎ͭ sͫͨ́̉͛̈hͥ̈́̅eͨͤ͋͗ bā͛͑̀̿ṅͨͫ̐is͋ͥͪhͤ̃̚eͬ͂̀̆̽̊dͤ̆͂̌ t͌ḣe̚ ̓͗̏̋r̋̍ͣ͊es̍ͮ̎t́ͨ of͛̐ m͆eͥͭ!ͭ̔́
It grows even angrier, starts moving erratically in its tank. Rose takes another step or two back, about halfway to the lightswitch now. Her foot rolls and she collapses to the ground once more, and kicks a bottle away in disgust.
Her hand lands on a black mark inscribed into the floor. Curious but still on guard, Rose sits up and follows the marking with her eyes. It extends throughout the room, in a complex circular pattern. The markings look as if they were scorched into the floor, and had attempted to be removed to no avail. Though faded, Rose can make out strange symbols lining the edges.
She glances up as if in search of answers, and finds the eye quietly, expectantly watching her.
Tͫ̄͒̈́̒h̑͛ë ͮCͣi̅̏͌r̓̑̆ͬ͐c͂ͭ̏l̓̄ͨe̾.̔
Rose blinks, reexamining the floor. It looks like the cover of one of her books, some kind of Lovecraftian design. Menacing, but beautifully complex in the right state of mind. She traces one of the lines with her finger, finding it embedded into the ground in small grooves.
"How long has this been here?" Rose asks cordially, sweeping her hand in the direction of the circle.
T̑͛̉ôͬ̿̍ ͋mͪ̈́ẻ̆͑ͮ,̊̈́̔ ͒͂tͭh͌̆e̔͒͂ ̾̆͒ͨbl͒̊i͗̆nͩk̋ͨ ͒ͯó̑̈́̈́fͭ̆̍͒̅ ͭan̍͊̈̽̍ ͭͯ̏e̿͐̒yeͨͤ.
Rose raises her eyebrow. That wasn't even close to a real answer, doing nothing to satiate her curiosity. But her blood pulses again as the eye communicates.
Buͥ̓̓͊̈́tͮ ͒̂th̔i͋̿̍̉sͨ̔̓ ̌̄̽̐wͧͮ̋̂̄ỉͮ̚lͩ̌̂lͭ͋̌ ́sͭ̔̑̓oͬͣͯõͤ̓n̈́̋̔ c̿̔͛̓́oͪͭ̀ḿ̈́̈́͒ȅ̐ ̈́̂̋̾toͭ̍͂ ̈͑ͤ̚aǹͣ̐́ͣ ͑͊́ͪ͑en͗d.ͮ̆
Another emotion washes over her in the form of a feeling like sunshine. This glowing warmth, compared to the fiery warmth of its anger, makes Rose think that the eye is pleased.
Yỏ͂ͧͫu͂̑͗ wͪí̏͋́ll͌͋̓̐ c̅ͮ̒͗̊om͐͆̄̓̇̆͋p̏̒ͥl̊̆̄̓̒eͮ̔͒̓t͋e tͯ̽h̓e͗̂̃̆̚ ͐̈ͩ̆̎su̅̎ͬͫ͊mm̾̒̀̑̈́oͯͣ͋̄̒nͯ̀̈͑̓i͗̄̏̾n̂̀̂̀g̓̾, ͛̈͂̊aͥ̾̒n̐̿̒ͫd̏ͫͫ̈ ̽̍set͆ ̌m̍̀̌e f̎̽̍rͧ́eͣ̾ͮẽ̃.͑ O̓͆ͣf ̓̇ͦ͒thi͆̓̒sͣ̍ ̇İ̿ ̂aͪͩm ̈́̉̍̔čeͮ̍r̎t̽ȃ͂̔̔in̄̚.
Rose, however, feels the opposite of pleased. She has a terrible feeling about this, but she cannot bring herself to get up and leave. She is driven by an urge foreign to her, to stay, to listen. Perhaps her mother was right in keeping her out of the basement. She could almost understand what led her mother to start drinking.
"Why I would ever do that? If my mother locked you up, she probably had a reason!" Rose demands. She finally gets to her feet, staring down the eye with hands clenched into fists. "You're the reason all she does is drink, aren't you? You're the reason I grew up alone!" She yells.
This time the wave of heat feels like cracking electricity, almost like the being is laughing in glee.
Ye͗s̑͗, ͌usͨ̿eͬ̏ ͌͐̏yỏ̾̀̅ū͑̓r ͑a̅ͥ́n̏g̈́̌ë̍̽̌̓r̄̂͗.̌̾̍ͪ C̽ͩ̎ha̎ͨnͥn͊̇̑̈́eͨ͛lͦͬ ͭi̔t̏.̍ͬ̚
ͮW̐͂̀ͣiͧtͤ̉̄hͥ͆ ̏̀͐͗m͌ͩͯý̍̐ ̆h̒͛eͨͮl͋̔ṗ,ͯ ̋ͯͧy͛ͨ̇ou ̑̚c̈͊aͦ̂n fi͊ͨ̐͊x̃̋ͣͦ y̑́͌̈́o̊̍ͭủ̑rͬ̈́̍͗͋ ͌life.̐̓
"Fix it?" Rose echoes flatly, still glowering. "You mean, you could help my mother?"
Y͊ͥ̾eͭ̎͐̃sͩ̃ͩ̍.ͬ̈̓́ Y̅ͥoͤͨ͑͛ǘͨ̂ ŵ̉ͯiͦ̄lͭ͋͊̑l̋ͤ̚ r̽̐͆͌̔ec͋͌ͦ̈eͮ̓ͭ͂i̾v͊eͤͪ ͐ͪ̄͗th̅͑ͨ́ͦe͗̈́ p͂͌͗ͨow͑̉͛ērͮͫ͌͋ t͒̽̐o ̄dͨͩ̀oͭͨ͗̋ ̈w̿̀̎̎̋h͐̔̑ͪ̄ă̚t́̍̅̚ ͛y̍̆͊o̓͛̉̂̈̃uͩ̈́͗ ̄ͬ̋̒ẇi̎͊sͭ̓̅ͤh̒ͦ.ͧ
Admittedly, it is the word 'power' that attracts Rose, slowly diffuses her anger. She could gain the power to get her mother to stop drinking, to become happy again, to maybe be a family again. She remembers when she was small, everything seemed rose-tinted. Everything was happier. She could make it that way again, couldn't she? She could make it even better. Along with that, Rose would have magic powers with which she could do as she pleased. Once she fixed what was broken, the options were limitless.
"What would I need to do?" Rose tells herself she isn't fully convinced yet, that there's some fine print she isn't seeing. But she had agreed the moment she decided to visit the basement. This outcome was inevitable.
L̾ͧ̈i̍͑ͯ̍g̋ͩ̉ͥhͤ͐̇̓t̋ͨ t͛̊͗hͥ̔̄e̅͐ͣ ͆́͐̎̄ci͒͐r̽͆ͫ̚c̀lͦ̉̚e͑ͣ̂.ͦ
She examines the basement yet again, noting that the markings were indeed scorched into the ground. They had been lit on fire, once upon a time. Rose would need something flammable.
"I suppose getting rid of her alcohol would be the first step to helping my mother," Rose muses to herself as she pulls several bottles off the shelf to cradle in her arms. She carefully uncorks one, and begins to pour it into the indentations in the concrete. The grooves are deep enough that the liquid easily flows through them, saving her a great deal of time. Rose watches it go, gradually filling the circle, and realizes that it might have been designed to make this simple. The circle is almost completely full of fluid, now.
A glance to the doorway she entered reveals some shelves with various tools and appliances, where Rose is certain a box of matches must be stored. At least some of this basement is normal. She carefully sifts through the drawers, the eye staying quiet all the while. Its blue iris reflects in the liquid circle, sending patterns spiraling into the walls and roof.
Rose now stands over the circle with a lit match. If she dropped it, the alcohol would light and the fire would spread throughout the circle, calling this eye's full form. This would grant Rose powers to fix the world however she wants to, if she understands correctly.
But she hesitates, attempting to assess if this was really the smartest course of action. The eye, possibly worried of changing her mind if it spoke, only watches.
All is silent, until that is broken by a cry. "Rose!" A voice calls behind her. Rose looks over her shoulder to see her mother standing at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed and startlingly sober. She swears, as if already aware there is nothing she can do, now.
D̎̃ͮͪ̚Ỏ͒̅́́͊̐̓ ̆͛͛̓͊̊̐͗I̓ͦ͗T̀ͤͭ̊̚ ̈́̾̌̏Ň̑͗̔̔Ȍ͋ͮ̾̌Wͦ̃̋́̈́!̀̌̓̂
The eye suddenly screams into her mind, making Rose violently flinch and drop the match. She collapses onto the floor, clutching at her head. Her mother reaches a hand out to her, but it is far, far too late for that.
What had once been a young girl erupts into flames. The fire grows and expands until it fills the underground room, but does not stop. The former girl's mother is disintegrated in a matter of seconds, as is their house. Still, it does not stop.
.
Thirteen days later, the girl wakes up, shivering, alone, in the ashy grey remains of what was once New York.
A/N: This was originally a writing exercise for a journalism class, and was written with the main character's name being Dove, and she was eleven instead of 13. I wrote homestuck fanfic for class, haha, and posted it on my original short stories page. It's ambiguous enough that it doesn't have to be homestuck, yeah? Anyways. I love Rose Lalonde with my entire heart and she has the best voice to write in.
Let me know if you want to see more of this AU! I could write how the other beta kids would fit into this world, but I've never actually written anyone but Rose before, so... Yeah!
Also, I'm open to suggestions for changing the horrorterror's name. I'm unsatisfied with it.