Chapter Eight: Black Cats and Dark Cellars
Broken ears hear disbelieving words;
Shocked eyes watch men walk slowly away.
The wall feels hard and cold at his back.
Bilbo Baggins liked to think that he was a good man.
He paid his taxes on time, gave regularly to charitiesand- on more than one occasion (prior to his move to Erebor)- fed and housed complete strangers with absolutely no expectation of a reward or thanks. It was in his nature to be pleasant; he detested conflict and had always found considerably more pleasure in being civil; but on the rare occasion (and he means the very rare) that merited such, he reacted with a ferocity and stubborness that could shock even the closest of his companions. He could be generous to a fault and found great joy in feeding his friends and family. He gossiped, but took everything he heard with a grain of salt and never would he spread a rumor about anyone- malicious or otherwise. He liked to think that petty cruelty was below him.
But along with his knowledge of his good qualities, he was also aware of his faults. Because Bilbo Baggins was a boring man- he knew that much at least and he couldn't say it was going to keep him up at night. He was uninterested in travelling and even less so in adventures. He preferred to do things by the book, in a world free of surprises and suspense. And he was okay with this; he was safe inside his carefully constructed shell and he could live with that.
Of course, given his nature, he did- on numerous occasions- wonder how he had ever become friends with a woman such as Anaya. She was a shameless extrovert with a penchants for bright clothes and was what some would call an outright eccentric. She said and did what she wanted; bugger the consequences. And yet despite all this Bilbo could easily say she was his closest friend- had been for years.
But irregardless of their friendship, Bilbo's nature was still inherently dull- even if he had agreed to this plan to uproot himself for a new town- and it was because of this that he found himself seriously pondering his sanity as he stood in front of the reopened trapdoor to his cellar, lighter clasped tightly in his hand, Wraith sitting uneasily at his feet.
It was only about 8 at night- the night was still young, as Anaya would say- and Bilbo was dog tired, but he had suddenly recalled, as he lowered himself into his chair in front of the television the heavy looking leather bound book hiding beneath the sheets of paper and was suddenly filled with the strongest urge to find it and bring it back up into the light.
And thus here he was, standing nervously at the lip of the cellar- which had been considerably easier to open single-handedly than the boys had made it seem- biting at his lower lip in apprehension as he dredged up the courage to take the first step down into darkness. Like this morning, the light in his kitchen only penetrates down the first few steps before dimming and surrendering to black. He wishes he had more company than just the cat.
As if reading his mind, Wraith lets out a loud "Mrrow!" and butts at his pant leg. With an unhappy swish of his tail he ventures forth down the first step. He turns to look at Bilbo with his impassive green eyes.
Bilbo sighs in resignation, "Yes alright fine. It's not as if there are monsters or anything down there I suppose."
Wraith blinks at him and waits for Bilbo to join him on the stair. With a final scrunch of his eyes and a deep breath he does, then the next step, then the next and so on and so forth until the darkness envelops him and he is forced to light his zippo. Wraith is just a soft glint at his feet, his black fur blending in almost seamlessly with the stygian darkness of the cellar.
When he reaches the bottom he stops to collect himself. The distance from himself to the light from his kitchen is only five meters, maybe less, but it feels like an age. He looks around himself with a heavy sense of unease.
During the day, the room had just felt old, abandoned- not much different from the rest of the house. But now- alone but for the feeble light of his zippo and the blurry shape of the cat- the darkness felt heady, oppressive and decidedly creepy. The dust played through the wavering flame and the sounds of his breathing seemed almost… muffled.
A shiver ran down his spine as he took a step forward, his lighter illuminating the ancient jars with their pickled contents. The long-since rotted condiments almost looked like the curious specimens preserved in formaldehyde found in museums and freak-shows in the gloom. For a moment he stood, hypnotized by the shapes in the jars, scarcely daring to breathe. It didn't take much to imagine the twisted bodies of fetuses and organs they'd shown in med school, utterly fascinating for all their macabre.
Wraith rubs up against Bilbo's leg and he jumps violently, "Niaoow," he tells him seriously. Bilbo takes at final glace at the square of light at the top of the stairs before turning towards his destination- or what he thinks is the general direction of the desk. Five tentative paces forward and he can the see the general, dim shape of the messy bureau, slightly off to the left. Another step closer and Wraith jumps up onto the desk, miraculously missing most of the paper strewn across the surface and only knocking off one dusty fountain pen.
When he reaches the desk, the lighter is burning uncomfortably hot to his fingers. He lets it go and the darkness is instantaneous. Wraith complains at him with a disgruntled "Iaioo" and he hurriedly switches hands, fumbling at the catch for a moment in the stillness of the room. He lets out a sigh of relief when it lights again, illuminating his immediate area. The temporary blindness was disorientating and disconcerting- not something he'd like to repeat any time soon.
Wraith looks at him reproachfully and turns around, walking carefully over the aged sheets of paper, scribblings of ink tuning brown and yellow in places. Bilbo gathers up the paper with his free hand, settling them in a pile on the edge of the desk. There is more paper than he realized though and by the time he collects it all- as hurriedly as he can- he has switched hands with the lighter twice, each time followed by the immediate fall of stygian black that catches in his heart uncomfortably every time.
But finally the book is free, its carelessly strewn covering sitting neatly beside it. It's a struggle to pick up the heavy tome with one hand but he manages and he tucks it safely under his arm. Determined to take the loose sheets too, he lets go of the lighter and switches hands again, mindful to keep the flame away from his precious load.
When the light flares up again, he shrieks in fright, jumping away from the desk and dropping the lighter. It clatters to the floor; the sound seems oddly muffled in the blackness.
"Mrrow?" Wraith calls questioningly to him. Bilbo curses, clutching at his chest. He can feel his heart beating madly beneath the skin.
He curses loudly again and sinks to the ground on his knees, scrabbling for the lighter with his one free hand. It doesn't take long for him to give up on the venture- likely the zippo's been kicked underneath the shelves- or maybe the desk- and he doesn't want to linger in this stifling darkness. Not with his pulse screaming in his ears and breath gasping in his chest.
Blindly he reaches out, crawling in the vague direction he thought the wall leading to the stair was. He panicked for a brief, terrifying moment when he couldn't immediately reach the cool stone, fearing he was in the wrong direction and would never find his way to the stairs. Then reason took over and told him quite firmly that he probably just wasn't close enough to the wall. Sure enough, another awkward shuffle forward on his knees and his stretching hand made contact, brushing against finely hewn bedrock.
It's only then that he realizes why the room is suddenly so disturbing. At some point- somewhere between his last nervous glance at the trapdoor and the loss of his zippo, the light in his kitchen had gone out- pitching both rooms into complete darkness.
Inwardly he begins to panic again.
This was just supposed to be a simple retrieval of some unknown tome in the corner of his cellar. And now here he was; with no light and only the slightest clue of where his exit was.
He should have just brought a candle.
He let out a shuddering breath, determined not to lose his cool (any more than he already had). He picks himself up- hand firmly placed against the wall- and takes some careful, slow steps, following the wall in the general direction of the stairs.
He almost cries when his foot bumps against the bottom step.
Desperate to get out now as he suddenly remembers the twisted shapes of preserved fruit in their ancient jars, he takes the stairs as quickly as he dares. He only stumbles once; the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat enough of a deterrent to stop him from going any faster.
Finally, mercifully, he escapes the confines of the cellar. His kitchen is dark, but it's not the suffocating blackness of the hidden room. He can still see the lingering brightness from the fallen sun through the window, though admittedly it's partially obscured by the black shapes of his garden and the surrounding forest. Bilbo takes comfort in the sight.
Bilbo sets the book gingerly down on the bench-top and fills himself a glass of water straight from the tap. His hands shake ever so slightly; the water tastes cool and metallic in his mouth.
He is determined to not look at the gaping hole of nothingness in the middle of his kitchen floor. The retrieval of his lighter and the remaining sheets of paper are a task for a brighter time, when the monsters of the night aren't there grasping at the edges of his mind. He beats a dignified retreat back to his bedroom with the book, not bothering to do anything about the broken light- though he does double check to see if it's broken with a few flicks of the yellowed plastic light-switch.
Wraith follows him through the house but doesn't venture into his room. Bilbo ignores him- all but collapses on his bed; still holding the book. He closes his eyes, relishing the pinky-black nothingness beneath his eye-lids- so very comforting and so very different from the Cimmerian light of his cellar.
He stays like that for a time, collecting himself and letting his heart rate sink back to normal. Stubby fingers absently caress at the leather-bound tome. It's warm in his hands, smooth to the touch but for the gold embossing along its borders. In the left hand corner he can feel a deep divet, like it's been dropped on a sharp corner at some point.
It was only once his heart rate had settled that he allowed himself to think on what had happened down in his basement. It had been dark, sure- unnervingly so- and especially creepy when he had to change hands with the lighter, but not enough to freak him out so suddenly.
And of course, imagine the luck; for not only his lighter to go out, but for the dated kitchen fluro to suddenly die at exactly the same time, pitching him in such disorientating and absolute night… Sure, that certainly could have been enough to give him a fright, but not like that- never like that. No… he'd seen something. Something random enough, and disturbing enough to make him cry out and lose his precious light source.
Something that made him feel distinctly unwelcome in the little room beneath his home.
As he thinks back on his little 'scare', the image comes back to him in vivid detail. It's enough to make him sit back up and for his heart to feel strangled in his chest all over again. He screws his eyes shut and the vision returns, burning itself into the back of his eye-lids.
For a moment, in the immediate instant after the light had flared up, he could have sworn he'd seen- superimposed of the face of his cat- the twisted image of some kind of creature; its eyes a poisonous yellow in sunken sockets, flesh a melted and mottled grey, teeth glistening, bared in a silent, sinister snarl.
Bilbo lets out a shuddering breath. Wraith still sits, watching him, from his hallway; he eyes the cat with wary eyes, clutching at the book with frozen hands.
"Probably just the flames bleaching my eyes, right?" he whispers into the silence.
Wraith just winks at him from the bedroom doorway and offers him an innocent "Mrrow."
Okay, so a little shorter than I'd liked it to have been, but it just felt like the right place to cut the chapter off at. And there are probably parts of this chapter that are writing in a confusing manner so sorry if it annoys you; I'll come back to it at a later date.
Also, for those that may have clued on- I am aware that zippo lighters do not work in the same way that I've said they do in here, but oh well.
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