Archive for January, 2009

« Older Entries
Newer Entries »

TRAPPED By: N. K. Kingston

Friday, January 23rd, 2009

Alex entered the lift to find her already there, pressed against the back wall, trembling. When he met her eye she managed a weak smile though she still looked ill.

“Going up?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’ve already selected my floor,” she said. Her voice cracked as she spoke, but she seemed determined to conquer it.

Lift etiquette demanded he turn his back to her, but he could still study her reflection in the mirrored doors. Young and pretty, dressed with a certain thirties style of dowdy glamour. She would have been cute in her tweeds but for the sweat prickling her face and her dull, lank hair. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, unlike most women who worked in the building, but it would have taken a shovelful to hide the purple bags under her eyes and the sallow sheen of her nervous skin. She clung to the walnut rail that ran around the lift and her breath came in deep, heavy pants like someone coming up for air after a long dive. Every now and then she would swallow hard, as though repressing the need to retch, and Alex had to stop himself from trying to edge further away.

“Claustrophobia?” he asked as sympathetically as he could. “My aunt has it too.”

The girl nodded, eyes on the plush carpet.

“You don’t need to worry in a lift of this age; it’s not even air tight,” he comforted her.

“It’s being trapped,” she said, voice shaking. “God, I hate being trapped!”

Alex floundered a little at the outburst and wondered if he ought to turn and place a reassuring hand on her shoulder or something.

“My aunt’s having CBT for it. That’s Cognitive - um - Behavioural Theory. Um. Therapy. Apparently it’s quite good.”

With a quiet ‘Ting’ he was saved from saying anything else. The door began to grumble open.

“This is my flo- hey.”

He turned to stare at her then.

She seemed even paler when he looked at her directly.

“When did you get on?” he demanded. “There’s nothing below the ground floor here, and you’d have had to wait with me there. Where did you come from?”

Her arms gave way and she sank to the floor. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she looked up at him with watery eyes. Alex, unsettled, glanced at the other walls for her familiar reflection. It was there, repeating into infinity, but there was something wrong with the angles.

Her resigned sigh drew his eyes back. “The doors will close if you don’t get out. You don’t want to get trapped, do you?” She shrugged, lowering her head.

Behind him the dawn sun rose over the city. The light from the windows behind him hit the mirrored walls of the lift and he lost sight of her in the unexpected glare. He moved to block it with his body, but he could see nothing but his own reflection.

“Go,” he heard her say. “Before you get trapped.”

Alex stumbled out of the lift, eyes turned to the blinding sun so he did not have to see anything else.

___
© 2008 N. K. Kingston

My penname is NKKingston, and my website is http://significantkinks.solelyfictional.org I am an English literature graduate with pieces previously appearing in the Diorama Hallowe’en Anthology and York University’s creative arts magazine.

Tags: , ,
Posted in N. K. Kingston | 5 Comments »

HELL HOLE By: Lars Adams

Thursday, January 22nd, 2009

Kyle didn’t hear the whispers anymore. That’s what scared him. He took another drag of a cigarette, his sixth, and stared at the hole. The landlord said he would fix it. He said. It was too late now. The basement apartment had a concrete floor, no tile, and this horrible fissure spanned three feet long by one inch, right across the entrance to his meager kitchen.


It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t hear the whispers. Sometimes they were loud enough to be heard across the apartment, sometimes he had to have his ear pressed to the hole, but they were always there. Whenever he had to cross it to get his beer, he would be certain something grotesque would leap at him.


It was different now.


The whispers stopped.


It had to be that slug thing, it had to be. But no, not really a slug. Like a blob of tar, the thing squirmed out of the crack.. Not really tar either, just different. Sort of like a deflated rubber ball that still rolled. And black. A deep black. It looked hard, like the carapace of a beetle, but nonetheless rolled, shifted, and contorted its shape.


Kyle watched in unbelief as such an alien creature came from those depths. It moved slow at first, regarding its surroundings perhaps, but with the speed of a cockroach darted to some unknown haunt. It was in there with him. And he didn’t feel anything evil from that hole anymore. It was all around him, choking him.


He coughed as the filter of his smoke burned and left a foul taste in his mouth. He spit on it to put it out and threw it in an empty coffee can on the counter. He didn’t even see the mouse staring at him until he nearly touched it. He jumped back, and was about to kill it, but something was off. This mouse didn’t flinch as it looked at him. Totally unafraid. Stranger, it was stone still. It didn’t lick its paws, it didn’t grind its teeth. Christ, was it even breathing? It looked like a well crafted taxidermy piece. Its eyes. Black as the tar-thing, with glowing white centers.


Kyle moved to the side, and the mouse’s head swivelled with robotic automation. Kyle shivered in spite of the August heat. This mouse had to die. He picked up a pot and was about to move in when a dark furred creature leapt to the counter. His cat, Toby. Toby pounced on the mouse, snapping is spine instantly. The mouse never protested. Toby was licking his paw and cleaning his face, but stopped. Twitched. Vomited. Its head was lowered, and slowly lifted it to meet Kyle’s eyes. Its once blue orbits were tar black, two glowing white dots in the center.


Toby wasn’t Toby anymore.


Kyle backed up slowly, his heart thudding. Gotta get out of here, never come back, he thought. I’ll live on the street if I have to. The cat followed him. It was as if some small part of the cat remained, trying to fight the movements of the puppeteer. The puppet master was stronger, making it walk a slow, rigid line toward Kyle. It wants me. Kyle panicked. This was too much. He ran to his room to get his gun. He tripped on that crack, that hell hole, but he couldn’t get up. He looked to his feet, and saw them fixed in place by the viscous mud that composed the first intruder. The ooze crept past his toes, engulfing him further. It wasn’t cold, it was hot, like it had been singed in the fires of hell.


This can’t be happening. He heard a thump as the cat-thing jumped off the counter. Whatever part of Toby was left had gone. Toby’s body did not breathe or twitch. Its only movements were those that were necessary to forward movement. It’s mouth opened. No. Its teeth were coated in the tar. No, no, no! It moved quickly, but not overly fast. Steady. It clamped its gaping maw on his throat. It did not tear or slash at his jugular, as a wild animal might do. It merely wanted to inject.


The stuff was hot, like the tar at his feet. He screamed at the white-hot agony. The cat collapsed, stone dead. He felt it inside him. Please no, please God! His brain. The heat reached his mind. His thoughts clouded, his vision obscured. There was someone in there with him, crowding him out. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up into a hideous smile he didn’t create. He felt himself slipping. It was as if his eyes were windows he was being pulled away from. He was dragged away, screaming, into the dark.


He heard the whispers again.

___
© 2008 Lars Adams

Lars is from Waukegan Illinois, factory worker by day and writer by night. Lars is currently finishing up his novel, putting the final polishes on it, and is doing short stories to keep him sharp while he proof reads and re-drafts. He too is struggling to stop talking about himself in the third person.

Tags: ,
Posted in Lars Adams | 2 Comments »

« Older Entries
Newer Entries »