It felt like he had been pacing the room for hours, still staring back at the wall, its words and trying to figure out what to do. The wall still said "I'm behind you" but it never said how far and so he had little choice but to retrace his steps to find the person behind his current predicament.
Back once again through the monochromatic house that was beginning to feel more homely than his own flat, more familiar and almost comforting in its unchanging details, as unsettling as they were at first. Like the way that small black hand-prints had followed him all along the corridor as he'd first entered, seemingly chasing him into the kitchen wherein the fridge opened by itself to reveal a pulsating interior that screamed his name as he screamed back at it in horror.
Good times.
Now he was working his way back to there. Firstly along the upper hallway, checking into every door and finding the same bloodstained sheets folded neatly (they were all in a pile of dripping rags but he'd been there for so long that he'd gotten bored and made his own order within the mess). From there he hugged the wall as he headed down the broken staircase, avoiding the especially wobbly planks that had sent him tumbling during the first few hours.
Through the dining room, whose plates glistened with freshly hatched maggots writhing over some unidentifiable food source, and finally into the kitchen. The hand-prints moved about the walls in a way he'd never seen before, making gentle plap sounds as if the unseen child was lightly slapping the walls to get his attention.
As soon as he took a step the hand-prints began to scurry back, the fingers arching out of the wall and wriggling along. He chased after them, not wanting to think about who or what they were fleeing from, only knowing that he should do the same.
They stopped at the front door, retreating to one solitary hand that pointed back to the way he'd come,
Back to whatever he'd been running from, the unseen danger that made the unseen children run.
It was still behind him.
Back once again through the monochromatic house that was beginning to feel more homely than his own flat, more familiar and almost comforting in its unchanging details, as unsettling as they were at first. Like the way that small black hand-prints had followed him all along the corridor as he'd first entered, seemingly chasing him into the kitchen wherein the fridge opened by itself to reveal a pulsating interior that screamed his name as he screamed back at it in horror.
Good times.
Now he was working his way back to there. Firstly along the upper hallway, checking into every door and finding the same bloodstained sheets folded neatly (they were all in a pile of dripping rags but he'd been there for so long that he'd gotten bored and made his own order within the mess). From there he hugged the wall as he headed down the broken staircase, avoiding the especially wobbly planks that had sent him tumbling during the first few hours.
Through the dining room, whose plates glistened with freshly hatched maggots writhing over some unidentifiable food source, and finally into the kitchen. The hand-prints moved about the walls in a way he'd never seen before, making gentle plap sounds as if the unseen child was lightly slapping the walls to get his attention.
As soon as he took a step the hand-prints began to scurry back, the fingers arching out of the wall and wriggling along. He chased after them, not wanting to think about who or what they were fleeing from, only knowing that he should do the same.
They stopped at the front door, retreating to one solitary hand that pointed back to the way he'd come,
Back to whatever he'd been running from, the unseen danger that made the unseen children run.
It was still behind him.
No comments:
Post a Comment