Darkness...I was enveloped in darkness. The black, thick and musty, embraced me tightly and wouldn't let go. The door...one moment, the door wasn't there...a blink of an eye, and there it was. Right before my face. With a shaky hand, I reached out and twisted the knob. Through the door I went, finding myself in a rather small room. The carpet was thick and tan. Gathered in the center of the room, before a roaring fire, were several plush pieces of scarlet furniture. Various decor adorned the area as well, including several tall black candelabras--all unlit. To the right, a black door. I felt unsure--shaky, unstable. Then I saw the little boy.
He sat by a sofa, facing the fire, his knees pulled up beneath his chin. His eyes were a pale shade, though I couldn't see what color through the darkness. Hair of gold, strands of light that shimmered in the dim of the room. His face surprised me. He was so young--no more than four or five--but his face held such...oh, I couldn't identify it. It was sorrow, pain, helplessness... The tiny features were so sharp they seemed to have been chiseled from rock. Slowly, tentatively, I approached him.
"Hello," I began, my words soft and gentle. The boy didn't even move; his little eyes kept staring straight forward at the flames in the fireplace. "What's your name?" Again no answer. I dropped to a knee beside him and watched his small face. "What are you doing here?"
"Daddy," he said quietly. I frowned.
"Daddy? Where's your daddy at?" A tiny finger was raised, pointing towards the black door. Then came the screams.
They were long, wavering, filled with agonizing pain. Coming from behind the black door. The sound filled my ears. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the wooden door, the one I'd come through. With one last glance towards the little boy, I fled.
Another blank, unimportant room. Then another door. The screams still rang in my ears. To get away from the awful sound, I whipped open the door and slid through. Back in the room with the black door. A few pieces of furniture were missing and the fire was a bit dimmer. There he was again, the little boy. He was older, maybe seven or eight. I walked towards him, seeing out of the corner of my eye the same black door. It was scratched.
"Hi," I began. "Do you remember me?" Still watching the fire with those pale eyes, the boy jerked his head towards the door.
"Dad's in there." His eyes held a sort of fierce determination that was surprising for one so young. Behind that...emptiness. I watched his face, looking for any sign of emotion.
"What do you mean?" He didn't answer. The boy stood and took a box of matches,striking one against the side. Then, with careful precision, he began to light the candles. "What are you doing?"
"Father likes the house to be cheery." I followed him as he brought the tiny flame to the wick of each candle.
"Oh." He put the matches away and stared at the black door.
"Father's finishing up." I expected there to be screams, but instead came worse. Crying. Piteous sobbing, choking cries of pure sorrow. The sound was even more horrible than the screaming. I looked at the little boy. He'd covered his ears with his hands. Then he started yelling. "Go! Go!" Quickly, quietly, I left through the wooden door.
Yet again, I found myself in a blank room. Yet again, I went through the only other door there was. And, yet again, I entered the room with the furniture and the black door. The fire was very dim; the rest of the furniture was gone, save one large, plush armchair. The black door had long, deep scratches in it--nail scratches? But, most importantly, there he was. In the chair sat the little boy, not so little anymore. About fourteen. Without even hesitating, I walked towards him and stood beside his chair.
"Hello." It took a moment for him to answer. When he did, his voice was soft. Not gentle.
"The darkness is so inviting." I frowned slightly, then reached towards an iron poker to stir the coals. "Don't," he warned.
"Why?" My hand hovered near the poker.
"The darkness surrounds me. Keeps me safe." I let my hand drop and kneeled by his chair.
"What's your father doing in there?" This caught him by surprise; he glanced at me, then at the black door.
"How did you know he was in there?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "His work. He's almost done." I waited for the sounds. There was only silence.
Somehow, that was worse than the screaming or the crying. The silence. Unnerved, I whispered,
"What are those scratches from?"
"The prisoners put up quite a fight," he murmured.
"Prisoners?" The boy didn't say anything. "What prisoners?"
"He'll be coming out soon. You'd better go." The silence hung heavy in the air, so I stood and made my way slowly from the room. This time, I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay here, talk to him. But I left anyway.
The next room had two doors in it for a change--a red-orange door near the back and a trap door in the floor. Carefully, I lifted the trap door to look down. It was too dark to see what was in there, so I closed it and opened the red-orange door. Coffins, coffins everywhere. Little ones, big ones, broken ones, new ones...all waiting for the body to fill them. Feeling I would surely get sick if I stayed, I slipped down the trap door. It was so dark and silent, I could hear my own breath. Then another sound behind me--footsteps. Heavy, angry footsteps. Immediately I scrambled forward, trying to get away. My hand brushed a wall, something small and metal, and then...a knob. Doorknob. I twisted, hurried out, and locked it. I found myself in the living room once again--I'd come out of the black door.
All the furniture was gone, and the fire had gone out. It was so dark, but I could still see the silhouette of the boy. His hard, rigid profile stood out against the wall. He was sitting there before the fireplace, knees drawn up beneath his chin. There was something different about him now; he was the same age, but he was so much more pale and thin. I sat next to him quietly.
"Hello again." He didn't move. I looked at his gaunt face. "Haven't you been eating? You look so thin."
"What's the use?" His words surprised me. "Why eat if it only keeps me alive?"
"Don't say things like that," I whispered, shocked.
"But it's true. My miserable life deserves to be over."
"What would your friends say if you...if your life ended?" He scoffed.
"What friends?" My mouth dropped.
"You don't have any friends?"
"Of course not. Who would be friends with me?" I stared at him.
"I would." He turned slowly towards me. Finally, I got a good look at his eyes. They were a light blue, deep and thoughtful with a thin gold ring around the pupil.
"You...?" I nodded, putting my hand over his carefully. He looked at my hand, about to say something, then snapped his head up at the sounds of footsteps above us. "He's upstairs," he whispered. Funny, I didn't see any stairs. "He'll be coming down any time now. You have to get going."
"But I don't want to--"
"You have to. If he finds you..." He drifted off, looking at the black door. Most of the paint had peeled off by now, leaving the wood engraved with long, deep scratches. "Go."
"All right." I patted his hand reassuringly, but as I stood the thunderous footsteps got louder. Louder...louder...
There was a period of nothingness, just...floating in the abyss. Then, with a harsh yank, I was drawn back into the dream.
The ocean spread before me like a great pane of glass, no ripples or waves to destroy the flawless surface. It unnerved me greatly; it was the calm before the storm. Something was going to happen.
Soon.
I looked to the cliff beside me. It was huge and craggy. However, a neat set of stairs had been carved into the rocky cliff that lead up to the edge. There sat the boy. I climbed up quickly, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste. I sat beside him quietly.
"Hello again." He turned to look at me.
"Oh. Hi." I watched him carefully.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah." His face was a little fuller.
"You look like you've been eating," I commented. He nodded, smiling a little.
"Yeah, I've been trying." His hand went over mine this time.
"So you're still my friend?" I asked softly. He glanced away.
"Of course." I smiled too.
"Good." We sat there a moment, gazing out to sea. Then he turned to look at me.
"You have to go."
"What?" I frowned. "Why?" He stood.
"He'll be here soon."
"Who?"
"My father. Go, please," the boy pleaded.
"All right," I muttered, then turned and gave him a hug. "Don't worry."
"I'll try." Then I ran down the stairs. To my right was a house, a small window built into the foundation. I slipped through the window and into the basement, then turned and looked at the cliff carefully. Here I could watch him and not be seen.
I stared at where he was standing for several minutes. Nothing changed. I was about ready to go out and give him a smack for lying to me when the man appeared, dressed in black.
One moment he wasn't there, and then he was.
That scared me.
He walked to the top of the cliff slowly, each step deliberate and careful. The man stood a few feet away from the boy. Then they started to argue. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the boy's face was tight and angry. The man had his back to me. A scowl was forming on my face as I began to like the man less and less. Then he hit the boy.
The blow was so forceful that he staggered back, almost near the edge. I gasped, wanting to go out to help him, but I knew better. So I just watched. The man hit him again. He was getting nearer and nearer to the edge. I prayed silently that he'd move, but he didn't seem to be going. The man's arm raised to hit him again, a blow that would send the boy over the edge, but the boy ducked and hurried towards the stairs. He was rubbing his jaw and saying something quietly as he started descending them. The man came up behind him and calmly hit the boy across the back. His face twisted as he fell down the rocky stairs. I was almost crying as the man passed the boy at the bottom, giving him a good hard kick in the side. Then he pulled him to his feet.
The next moment, they were gone.
He sat by a sofa, facing the fire, his knees pulled up beneath his chin. His eyes were a pale shade, though I couldn't see what color through the darkness. Hair of gold, strands of light that shimmered in the dim of the room. His face surprised me. He was so young--no more than four or five--but his face held such...oh, I couldn't identify it. It was sorrow, pain, helplessness... The tiny features were so sharp they seemed to have been chiseled from rock. Slowly, tentatively, I approached him.
"Hello," I began, my words soft and gentle. The boy didn't even move; his little eyes kept staring straight forward at the flames in the fireplace. "What's your name?" Again no answer. I dropped to a knee beside him and watched his small face. "What are you doing here?"
"Daddy," he said quietly. I frowned.
"Daddy? Where's your daddy at?" A tiny finger was raised, pointing towards the black door. Then came the screams.
They were long, wavering, filled with agonizing pain. Coming from behind the black door. The sound filled my ears. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the wooden door, the one I'd come through. With one last glance towards the little boy, I fled.
Another blank, unimportant room. Then another door. The screams still rang in my ears. To get away from the awful sound, I whipped open the door and slid through. Back in the room with the black door. A few pieces of furniture were missing and the fire was a bit dimmer. There he was again, the little boy. He was older, maybe seven or eight. I walked towards him, seeing out of the corner of my eye the same black door. It was scratched.
"Hi," I began. "Do you remember me?" Still watching the fire with those pale eyes, the boy jerked his head towards the door.
"Dad's in there." His eyes held a sort of fierce determination that was surprising for one so young. Behind that...emptiness. I watched his face, looking for any sign of emotion.
"What do you mean?" He didn't answer. The boy stood and took a box of matches,striking one against the side. Then, with careful precision, he began to light the candles. "What are you doing?"
"Father likes the house to be cheery." I followed him as he brought the tiny flame to the wick of each candle.
"Oh." He put the matches away and stared at the black door.
"Father's finishing up." I expected there to be screams, but instead came worse. Crying. Piteous sobbing, choking cries of pure sorrow. The sound was even more horrible than the screaming. I looked at the little boy. He'd covered his ears with his hands. Then he started yelling. "Go! Go!" Quickly, quietly, I left through the wooden door.
Yet again, I found myself in a blank room. Yet again, I went through the only other door there was. And, yet again, I entered the room with the furniture and the black door. The fire was very dim; the rest of the furniture was gone, save one large, plush armchair. The black door had long, deep scratches in it--nail scratches? But, most importantly, there he was. In the chair sat the little boy, not so little anymore. About fourteen. Without even hesitating, I walked towards him and stood beside his chair.
"Hello." It took a moment for him to answer. When he did, his voice was soft. Not gentle.
"The darkness is so inviting." I frowned slightly, then reached towards an iron poker to stir the coals. "Don't," he warned.
"Why?" My hand hovered near the poker.
"The darkness surrounds me. Keeps me safe." I let my hand drop and kneeled by his chair.
"What's your father doing in there?" This caught him by surprise; he glanced at me, then at the black door.
"How did you know he was in there?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "His work. He's almost done." I waited for the sounds. There was only silence.
Somehow, that was worse than the screaming or the crying. The silence. Unnerved, I whispered,
"What are those scratches from?"
"The prisoners put up quite a fight," he murmured.
"Prisoners?" The boy didn't say anything. "What prisoners?"
"He'll be coming out soon. You'd better go." The silence hung heavy in the air, so I stood and made my way slowly from the room. This time, I didn't want to go. I wanted to stay here, talk to him. But I left anyway.
The next room had two doors in it for a change--a red-orange door near the back and a trap door in the floor. Carefully, I lifted the trap door to look down. It was too dark to see what was in there, so I closed it and opened the red-orange door. Coffins, coffins everywhere. Little ones, big ones, broken ones, new ones...all waiting for the body to fill them. Feeling I would surely get sick if I stayed, I slipped down the trap door. It was so dark and silent, I could hear my own breath. Then another sound behind me--footsteps. Heavy, angry footsteps. Immediately I scrambled forward, trying to get away. My hand brushed a wall, something small and metal, and then...a knob. Doorknob. I twisted, hurried out, and locked it. I found myself in the living room once again--I'd come out of the black door.
All the furniture was gone, and the fire had gone out. It was so dark, but I could still see the silhouette of the boy. His hard, rigid profile stood out against the wall. He was sitting there before the fireplace, knees drawn up beneath his chin. There was something different about him now; he was the same age, but he was so much more pale and thin. I sat next to him quietly.
"Hello again." He didn't move. I looked at his gaunt face. "Haven't you been eating? You look so thin."
"What's the use?" His words surprised me. "Why eat if it only keeps me alive?"
"Don't say things like that," I whispered, shocked.
"But it's true. My miserable life deserves to be over."
"What would your friends say if you...if your life ended?" He scoffed.
"What friends?" My mouth dropped.
"You don't have any friends?"
"Of course not. Who would be friends with me?" I stared at him.
"I would." He turned slowly towards me. Finally, I got a good look at his eyes. They were a light blue, deep and thoughtful with a thin gold ring around the pupil.
"You...?" I nodded, putting my hand over his carefully. He looked at my hand, about to say something, then snapped his head up at the sounds of footsteps above us. "He's upstairs," he whispered. Funny, I didn't see any stairs. "He'll be coming down any time now. You have to get going."
"But I don't want to--"
"You have to. If he finds you..." He drifted off, looking at the black door. Most of the paint had peeled off by now, leaving the wood engraved with long, deep scratches. "Go."
"All right." I patted his hand reassuringly, but as I stood the thunderous footsteps got louder. Louder...louder...
There was a period of nothingness, just...floating in the abyss. Then, with a harsh yank, I was drawn back into the dream.
The ocean spread before me like a great pane of glass, no ripples or waves to destroy the flawless surface. It unnerved me greatly; it was the calm before the storm. Something was going to happen.
Soon.
I looked to the cliff beside me. It was huge and craggy. However, a neat set of stairs had been carved into the rocky cliff that lead up to the edge. There sat the boy. I climbed up quickly, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste. I sat beside him quietly.
"Hello again." He turned to look at me.
"Oh. Hi." I watched him carefully.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah." His face was a little fuller.
"You look like you've been eating," I commented. He nodded, smiling a little.
"Yeah, I've been trying." His hand went over mine this time.
"So you're still my friend?" I asked softly. He glanced away.
"Of course." I smiled too.
"Good." We sat there a moment, gazing out to sea. Then he turned to look at me.
"You have to go."
"What?" I frowned. "Why?" He stood.
"He'll be here soon."
"Who?"
"My father. Go, please," the boy pleaded.
"All right," I muttered, then turned and gave him a hug. "Don't worry."
"I'll try." Then I ran down the stairs. To my right was a house, a small window built into the foundation. I slipped through the window and into the basement, then turned and looked at the cliff carefully. Here I could watch him and not be seen.
I stared at where he was standing for several minutes. Nothing changed. I was about ready to go out and give him a smack for lying to me when the man appeared, dressed in black.
One moment he wasn't there, and then he was.
That scared me.
He walked to the top of the cliff slowly, each step deliberate and careful. The man stood a few feet away from the boy. Then they started to argue. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the boy's face was tight and angry. The man had his back to me. A scowl was forming on my face as I began to like the man less and less. Then he hit the boy.
The blow was so forceful that he staggered back, almost near the edge. I gasped, wanting to go out to help him, but I knew better. So I just watched. The man hit him again. He was getting nearer and nearer to the edge. I prayed silently that he'd move, but he didn't seem to be going. The man's arm raised to hit him again, a blow that would send the boy over the edge, but the boy ducked and hurried towards the stairs. He was rubbing his jaw and saying something quietly as he started descending them. The man came up behind him and calmly hit the boy across the back. His face twisted as he fell down the rocky stairs. I was almost crying as the man passed the boy at the bottom, giving him a good hard kick in the side. Then he pulled him to his feet.
The next moment, they were gone.