I crash through the bush,
branches whipping my face, twigs tearing at my exposed legs like clawed hands,
trying to hold me back. Every time I think I may be gaining ground, he ducks
behind a tree, somehow always keeping the same distance from me. Everything in
the bush seems to be conspiring against me, bushes and thorns and rabbit holes
intent on ensnaring me and breaking my ankles, but I keep on running. There is
no way I'm letting him escape.
After what feels like hours of running, I lose sight of him. I keep running, blindly hoping I'll see him again, but eventually I begin to accept that he has somehow eluded me.
He must've had a vehicle or something. How else could he have gotten here in the first place? I think, stubbornly ignoring the lack of tire tracks and the closeness of the brush. I stand in place for a second or two, then kick a tree stump in frustration and turn to walk home. Barely a step later, something catches my eye. A whirl, hoping in vain that it is the grey-blue man. What it actually is, is a house.
Well, 'house' might be a bit generous, I think as I approach. More like a shack. Or a lean-to.
The building looks like it was hastily put together, made from branches and leaves. The door, I discover as I get closer, is nothing more than a sheet of corrugated aluminium, though only God knows how it managed to wind up out here. My heart starts to beat faster as I decide whether to enter or not. In the end, it's a pretty easy decision.
I pull open the 'door', such as it is, and walk into the dank gloom of the shack. There's just the one room, and furnishing it is only a tree stump under a window and a vase holding four flowers: two daisies and two petunias. The window is to the right of the door, so I didn't see it when I approached from the outside. On the stump, I realise, is a small piece of paper.
I walk slowly towards the paper, the ringing in my ears faintly reappearing. The paper is crinkled and looks like it's been there for a while. What interests me more than the paper, though, is the words written on it in a dark red ink that looks far too much like blood. My brain starts screaming at me to get out, to get away from this forsaken place, but I've come too far to turn back now.
I begin to read.
The flowers, the scrawling hand writes, the flowers make them stay, make them stay at bay, away, away. But only when I'm near. I won't listen. I won't let them whisper to me any longer. The eyes they see, the ears hear, but the mind it does not remember, does not remember until it is too late. Now it's too late for me, but I don't want to Remember anymore. I want to Forget so They leave me alone, so They leave and stop Tormenting me. I don't want to be Forgotten, I'll do Anything to not be Forgotten.
My heart is well and truly in my throat now and I'm really wishing I'd listened to my brain when it was telling me to leave. The ringing in my ears has reached fever pitch, blotting out all other sounds. But there are still some sounds, I realise, just behind all the ringing. I close my eyes and stand up, trying to listen to the sounds, trying to ignore the sweat on my back, trying to ignore my shaking hands, my jerky breaths, the whistle of the wind, and most of all the ringing.
Then, just behind the noise, a whisper, carried on the wind by a thousand tiny forgotten voices, a single word slips through.
The smallest hint of a noise, of skinless lips parting, whispering, "Open."
After what feels like hours of running, I lose sight of him. I keep running, blindly hoping I'll see him again, but eventually I begin to accept that he has somehow eluded me.
He must've had a vehicle or something. How else could he have gotten here in the first place? I think, stubbornly ignoring the lack of tire tracks and the closeness of the brush. I stand in place for a second or two, then kick a tree stump in frustration and turn to walk home. Barely a step later, something catches my eye. A whirl, hoping in vain that it is the grey-blue man. What it actually is, is a house.
Well, 'house' might be a bit generous, I think as I approach. More like a shack. Or a lean-to.
The building looks like it was hastily put together, made from branches and leaves. The door, I discover as I get closer, is nothing more than a sheet of corrugated aluminium, though only God knows how it managed to wind up out here. My heart starts to beat faster as I decide whether to enter or not. In the end, it's a pretty easy decision.
I pull open the 'door', such as it is, and walk into the dank gloom of the shack. There's just the one room, and furnishing it is only a tree stump under a window and a vase holding four flowers: two daisies and two petunias. The window is to the right of the door, so I didn't see it when I approached from the outside. On the stump, I realise, is a small piece of paper.
I walk slowly towards the paper, the ringing in my ears faintly reappearing. The paper is crinkled and looks like it's been there for a while. What interests me more than the paper, though, is the words written on it in a dark red ink that looks far too much like blood. My brain starts screaming at me to get out, to get away from this forsaken place, but I've come too far to turn back now.
I begin to read.
The flowers, the scrawling hand writes, the flowers make them stay, make them stay at bay, away, away. But only when I'm near. I won't listen. I won't let them whisper to me any longer. The eyes they see, the ears hear, but the mind it does not remember, does not remember until it is too late. Now it's too late for me, but I don't want to Remember anymore. I want to Forget so They leave me alone, so They leave and stop Tormenting me. I don't want to be Forgotten, I'll do Anything to not be Forgotten.
My heart is well and truly in my throat now and I'm really wishing I'd listened to my brain when it was telling me to leave. The ringing in my ears has reached fever pitch, blotting out all other sounds. But there are still some sounds, I realise, just behind all the ringing. I close my eyes and stand up, trying to listen to the sounds, trying to ignore the sweat on my back, trying to ignore my shaking hands, my jerky breaths, the whistle of the wind, and most of all the ringing.
Then, just behind the noise, a whisper, carried on the wind by a thousand tiny forgotten voices, a single word slips through.
The smallest hint of a noise, of skinless lips parting, whispering, "Open."
So I open my eyes.
Directly in front of me is the single small window, and outside the window, a hundred metres back, is the man, standing perfectly still, as motionless as a photograph. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, dropping the paper.
His face.
In the photo he had looked distraught, sadness etched into every line of his features. At the time it had terrified me, but this... this is even worse. His eyes show no emotion, not his mouth. His eyebrows do not cock this way or that and his nostrils do not flare, for he has none. No nose, eyes, mouth, ears, hair. His head is perfectly smooth all over, faintly sunken where his eyes once were but otherwise uniform, like his scalp has been pulled down past his chin, and yet somehow I know that he can see me. And I know that he brought me here, that this is his shack, his spidery scrawling hand... and I know the fear he felt. It's sunk deep into my bones, curling up in my marrow and laying seeds of despair and panic, already rearing their heads.
I can feel myself tipping towards the abyss, my feet teetering on the precipice.
I stare at the man -- no, not a man; maybe once, but no longer -- and he stared back with those horrible sunken holes, each breath of wind bringing a whisper from his sealed mouth. Gradually, I become aware of more people, half-hidden behind trees but moving forward, into the waning sunlight. My eyes seem to slip over them, unable to look straight at them but even with my peripheries I can see that they all wear the same ghastly mask of skin. My heart is racing, hands shaking, hair as on-end as it can get, and my brain is screaming, begging me to leave, to run, to escape. And for the first time in over a week, I listen to it.
I wrench open the door, grabbing the vase of flowers on a whim I fly out the door. I run, heedless of my lack of direction. All I know is that I have to get as far from here as possible. The ringing is getting louder, and with it the whispers, hiding behind the noise. The people are everywhere, emerging from the woods in all directions but straight ahead, gliding ceaselessly towards me with no need for eyes or legs, just floating ever closer.
I'm tipping over the edge, staring down the endless abyss.
I leap over logs and brush despite their renewed attempts to claw at me and drag me down. On all sides the creatures approach, hundreds of them gliding slowly forward. The whispers get louder and I can almost hear what they are saying, over and over and over again...
"Therefore rotten," I hear. No, that can't be right, that doesn't make--
I glance behind me and all at once realise what I'm running from. Not tens of people, or even hundreds, but thousands of them, all floating towards me, their skin taut over featureless faces, all staring with their hollow eyes, thirsting for me. A log reaches up while I'm distracted and ensnares my ankle. I hear something crack, and then I'm falling.
I fall over the edge of the precipice. The abyss beckons, calling out to me.
The vase flies from my grasp as I put my hands out to break my fall. The daisies and petunias are flung from my reach, swallowed by the bushes. I land on an angle and fall onto my back, where I can see the moon directly overhead, surveying the scene with disinterest. I try to stand, but pain lances through my ankle and I fall back to the hard dirt. I look up, tears streaming from my eyes, and see the horde gliding ever closer, silent but for the ceaseless whispers that form from their faceless skulls as they surge closer, arms outstretched, reaching out to me. As they get closer, I begin to make out their whispered chant.
"Join us." They beckon.
"It is time." The mass leans in.
"Time to become one of us."
Cold, clammy hands grasp my wrist, hair, legs, and everywhere they touch erupts into fire, pain searing through my body.
"The Forgotten." They chorus, groping and molesting me. Blood soaks through my clothes as lacerations inflict themselves wherever one of them touch me. Their blank faces crowd over me, begging my attention, suffocating me.
"The Forgotten."
The blood slows, my skin growing colder as I slip into the abyss. The mass of bodies close in, aching to touch living flesh, devouring me.
"The Forgotten."
The abyss swallows my soul.
"The Forgotten."
"The Forgotten."
Directly in front of me is the single small window, and outside the window, a hundred metres back, is the man, standing perfectly still, as motionless as a photograph. My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, dropping the paper.
His face.
In the photo he had looked distraught, sadness etched into every line of his features. At the time it had terrified me, but this... this is even worse. His eyes show no emotion, not his mouth. His eyebrows do not cock this way or that and his nostrils do not flare, for he has none. No nose, eyes, mouth, ears, hair. His head is perfectly smooth all over, faintly sunken where his eyes once were but otherwise uniform, like his scalp has been pulled down past his chin, and yet somehow I know that he can see me. And I know that he brought me here, that this is his shack, his spidery scrawling hand... and I know the fear he felt. It's sunk deep into my bones, curling up in my marrow and laying seeds of despair and panic, already rearing their heads.
I can feel myself tipping towards the abyss, my feet teetering on the precipice.
I stare at the man -- no, not a man; maybe once, but no longer -- and he stared back with those horrible sunken holes, each breath of wind bringing a whisper from his sealed mouth. Gradually, I become aware of more people, half-hidden behind trees but moving forward, into the waning sunlight. My eyes seem to slip over them, unable to look straight at them but even with my peripheries I can see that they all wear the same ghastly mask of skin. My heart is racing, hands shaking, hair as on-end as it can get, and my brain is screaming, begging me to leave, to run, to escape. And for the first time in over a week, I listen to it.
I wrench open the door, grabbing the vase of flowers on a whim I fly out the door. I run, heedless of my lack of direction. All I know is that I have to get as far from here as possible. The ringing is getting louder, and with it the whispers, hiding behind the noise. The people are everywhere, emerging from the woods in all directions but straight ahead, gliding ceaselessly towards me with no need for eyes or legs, just floating ever closer.
I'm tipping over the edge, staring down the endless abyss.
I leap over logs and brush despite their renewed attempts to claw at me and drag me down. On all sides the creatures approach, hundreds of them gliding slowly forward. The whispers get louder and I can almost hear what they are saying, over and over and over again...
"Therefore rotten," I hear. No, that can't be right, that doesn't make--
I glance behind me and all at once realise what I'm running from. Not tens of people, or even hundreds, but thousands of them, all floating towards me, their skin taut over featureless faces, all staring with their hollow eyes, thirsting for me. A log reaches up while I'm distracted and ensnares my ankle. I hear something crack, and then I'm falling.
I fall over the edge of the precipice. The abyss beckons, calling out to me.
The vase flies from my grasp as I put my hands out to break my fall. The daisies and petunias are flung from my reach, swallowed by the bushes. I land on an angle and fall onto my back, where I can see the moon directly overhead, surveying the scene with disinterest. I try to stand, but pain lances through my ankle and I fall back to the hard dirt. I look up, tears streaming from my eyes, and see the horde gliding ever closer, silent but for the ceaseless whispers that form from their faceless skulls as they surge closer, arms outstretched, reaching out to me. As they get closer, I begin to make out their whispered chant.
"Join us." They beckon.
"It is time." The mass leans in.
"Time to become one of us."
Cold, clammy hands grasp my wrist, hair, legs, and everywhere they touch erupts into fire, pain searing through my body.
"The Forgotten." They chorus, groping and molesting me. Blood soaks through my clothes as lacerations inflict themselves wherever one of them touch me. Their blank faces crowd over me, begging my attention, suffocating me.
"The Forgotten."
The blood slows, my skin growing colder as I slip into the abyss. The mass of bodies close in, aching to touch living flesh, devouring me.
"The Forgotten."
The abyss swallows my soul.
"The Forgotten."
"The Forgotten."
And that's the end of that. This snippet was based on a dream (read: nightmare) that a friend had. I was considering writing a proper short story/novella about it, which would take place after The Forgotten. I never got around to it though, so it's currently sitting in the back of my mind as another "on hold" project.
As always, feedback and thoughts are more than welcome.
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