| General Fiction posted April 1, 2011 | Chapters: |
2 3 -4- 5... 
|
  |
Steven faces what could shatter his disbelief.
A chapter in the book The Glass Cat Eye
Steven and the Forces of Darkness
by amahra
(Chapter Four)
Midnight--Madame Reece's suburban Home
Steven pulled up to Madame Reece's home. It was an early 1920s red brick colonial house with white trimmed windows that sat afar off the main street. A thick wooded area served as part of its oversized backyard. To its far left, a small brook, glittered under a full moon. He shut the door of his Ford hybrid. The sound hovered over the silence as he stood checking out the areas that surrounded the house. Madame Reece had traveled with her entourage to Cleveland to visit her mom. Her closest neighbors were off to their summer homes. He had done his homework.
A cold wind whistled through the trees that towered over the house. Its long reaching branches seemed almost territorial, as it slapped the top of the house and beat senseless the red brick chimney. Steven walked the narrow path up the hill; a cold chill gripped him. He pulled on the zipper of his short leather jacket that was half zipped, and pulled the zipper up to his neck. The closer he came to the house, the colder he became.
Walking slowly up the hill, he noticed a foul odor; perhaps a dead animal in the woods, he thought; suddenly his car keys felt like an ice cube in the palm of his hand. Halfway there, he was chilled to his bones. By the time he reached the house, his teeth were chattering and water vapor was coming from his nose and mouth. None of this deterred Steven as his flashlight peered around for the opening. He had cased the house when Reece had left for a couple of hours--and knew there was a boarded up window in the basement. He'd decided then, when he came back, this would be his entrance.
Once inside, he fumbled for his camera, determined to be the Sherlock Holmes that took this bitch down. Stumbling through pitch blackness of the basement, the flashlight suddenly went out.
"Damn!"
Steven fumbled with the light, then banged it against his palm. But it seemed dead.
"Son of a bitch!"
He kept banging; but the thing wouldn't budge.
"Jesus Christ!"
After another bang, and it flashed on.
He moved around pointing the flashlight and snapping the camera on whatever looked interesting: Pointing it in a corner and saw a pile of books; shining it on a wall observing a strange looking calendar; then turned slowly, and pointed it in a deep corner where a pair of eyes stared back at him. Steven broke, and dropped the light. He stood there silently, listening to his own heartbeat, but noticed nothing moved on him. He swallowed hard, found the light and picked it up, then moved slowly towards the eyes, his hands were trembling. Steven blew out his breath when he saw it was just a stuffed animal.
He walked around freely, after that, pointing and snapping. He pointed it up at the ceiling, then down to the concrete floor. On the concrete he saw a most unusual pattern. He couldn't quite make it out, but thought it looked like a huge Ouija board. He stepped back a few steps and pulled the focus back on his camera and snapped. A crash, like a large stack of loose papers falling, he whirled around, and shined the light, but there was nothing there.
CRASH!
The sound was closer. Steven whirled around in the opposite direction–both hands on the flashlight, like he was pointing a gun, his camera dangled from his wrist on a strap. But there was nothing there. A foul odor permeated the air; Steven sensed a presence coming up on him.
CRASH!
He turned and scrambled for the boarded up window but in his panic, he couldn't find it.
"Who's there?
CRASH!
He's pointed his flashlight like a crazy man, but couldn't find the window.
CRASH!
"I…I have a gun," he lied.
A freezing cold swept over him. He shivered and put a finger between his chattering teeth. He wanted to vomit, but knew he had to stay focused. With his hand trembling, he pointed the flashlight in the direction of the crash. There was nothing there, but the foul odor. And what he saw next caused his knees to weaken. There...on the other side of the basement, was the boarded up window. In his panic, he had scrambled in the wrong direction. The sound was coming closer and closer.
He shut off his flashlight and braced himself. He knew he had to go for the window. He made a mad dash pass the stinky thing. He knew he had passed it when he heard the crash behind him. He swerved, stumbling blindly into everything in his path, slipping, sliding, and thrashing about like some wild animal caught in a net.
The sound was all around him. And funk swallowed up the air. He fumbled blindly for the boarded window. His hands stung from scrapping it along the wall; he ignored the pain, and felt even harder for the boards; he knew the sticky wetness on his hands was his own blood; but he continued to feel about--it seemed like forever. "Where is this damn thing?!" he cried out; the force of this darkness had come closer. Every bloody finger cursed this window. And a decaying breath blew just above his head. The sound of it was deafening; the smell of it--sickening, until Steven thought he'd pass out.
Then he felt wood and the outside cold on one hand. "Yes!” he yelled out in a whispered voice. With the other hand he pulled himself up, his body halfway free. The butt free. The right leg free. The left leg, grabbed and he was violently snatched back. Something had him on his back and was crushing the life out of him. He thrashed his arms and kicked his legs violently, but was only slicing the air. He thought he knew how it felt to be crushed by a two ton elephant. He heard his bones crack as he tried desperately to breathe. He tried to turn to the left, turn to the right, to lift himself off the cement, but couldn't escape what was holding him down. He continued to thrash and kick, until he felt his eyes pop forward. Gasping for what seemed his last breath, he spoke the name of his love, though she would never know it.
"Esther."
Lights burst inside his skull, and everything went black to nothing.
Steven suddenly found himself on a dark road. He was running from the crashing sound with the foul odor. He stopped running, turned and asked it.
"What do you want?"
"A body," it said.
Steven pointed to a raven that was flying over and said, "Take him."
The raven was snatched out of the air; and the crashing thing put it on like a coat.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked it. And it spoke in Madame Reece's voice.
"No... Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane."
Steven opened his eyes and Madame Reece was leaning over him calling his name. He was in a large bed. His head and chest were bandaged. Debbie gave him a sip of Brandy; another assistant, he didn't recognize, was busy about the room.
"You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Crane," Reece said smiling.
"How did you know my name?"
"What were you doing in my basement?"
(Chapter Four)
Midnight--Madame Reece's suburban Home
Steven pulled up to Madame Reece's home. It was an early 1920s red brick colonial house with white trimmed windows that sat afar off the main street. A thick wooded area served as part of its oversized backyard. To its far left, a small brook, glittered under a full moon. He shut the door of his Ford hybrid. The sound hovered over the silence as he stood checking out the areas that surrounded the house. Madame Reece had traveled with her entourage to Cleveland to visit her mom. Her closest neighbors were off to their summer homes. He had done his homework.
A cold wind whistled through the trees that towered over the house. Its long reaching branches seemed almost territorial, as it slapped the top of the house and beat senseless the red brick chimney. Steven walked the narrow path up the hill; a cold chill gripped him. He pulled on the zipper of his short leather jacket that was half zipped, and pulled the zipper up to his neck. The closer he came to the house, the colder he became.
Walking slowly up the hill, he noticed a foul odor; perhaps a dead animal in the woods, he thought; suddenly his car keys felt like an ice cube in the palm of his hand. Halfway there, he was chilled to his bones. By the time he reached the house, his teeth were chattering and water vapor was coming from his nose and mouth. None of this deterred Steven as his flashlight peered around for the opening. He had cased the house when Reece had left for a couple of hours--and knew there was a boarded up window in the basement. He'd decided then, when he came back, this would be his entrance.
Once inside, he fumbled for his camera, determined to be the Sherlock Holmes that took this bitch down. Stumbling through pitch blackness of the basement, the flashlight suddenly went out.
"Damn!"
Steven fumbled with the light, then banged it against his palm. But it seemed dead.
"Son of a bitch!"
He kept banging; but the thing wouldn't budge.
"Jesus Christ!"
After another bang, and it flashed on.
He moved around pointing the flashlight and snapping the camera on whatever looked interesting: Pointing it in a corner and saw a pile of books; shining it on a wall observing a strange looking calendar; then turned slowly, and pointed it in a deep corner where a pair of eyes stared back at him. Steven broke, and dropped the light. He stood there silently, listening to his own heartbeat, but noticed nothing moved on him. He swallowed hard, found the light and picked it up, then moved slowly towards the eyes, his hands were trembling. Steven blew out his breath when he saw it was just a stuffed animal.
He walked around freely, after that, pointing and snapping. He pointed it up at the ceiling, then down to the concrete floor. On the concrete he saw a most unusual pattern. He couldn't quite make it out, but thought it looked like a huge Ouija board. He stepped back a few steps and pulled the focus back on his camera and snapped. A crash, like a large stack of loose papers falling, he whirled around, and shined the light, but there was nothing there.
CRASH!
The sound was closer. Steven whirled around in the opposite direction–both hands on the flashlight, like he was pointing a gun, his camera dangled from his wrist on a strap. But there was nothing there. A foul odor permeated the air; Steven sensed a presence coming up on him.
CRASH!
He turned and scrambled for the boarded up window but in his panic, he couldn't find it.
"Who's there?
CRASH!
He's pointed his flashlight like a crazy man, but couldn't find the window.
CRASH!
"I…I have a gun," he lied.
A freezing cold swept over him. He shivered and put a finger between his chattering teeth. He wanted to vomit, but knew he had to stay focused. With his hand trembling, he pointed the flashlight in the direction of the crash. There was nothing there, but the foul odor. And what he saw next caused his knees to weaken. There...on the other side of the basement, was the boarded up window. In his panic, he had scrambled in the wrong direction. The sound was coming closer and closer.
He shut off his flashlight and braced himself. He knew he had to go for the window. He made a mad dash pass the stinky thing. He knew he had passed it when he heard the crash behind him. He swerved, stumbling blindly into everything in his path, slipping, sliding, and thrashing about like some wild animal caught in a net.
The sound was all around him. And funk swallowed up the air. He fumbled blindly for the boarded window. His hands stung from scrapping it along the wall; he ignored the pain, and felt even harder for the boards; he knew the sticky wetness on his hands was his own blood; but he continued to feel about--it seemed like forever. "Where is this damn thing?!" he cried out; the force of this darkness had come closer. Every bloody finger cursed this window. And a decaying breath blew just above his head. The sound of it was deafening; the smell of it--sickening, until Steven thought he'd pass out.
Then he felt wood and the outside cold on one hand. "Yes!” he yelled out in a whispered voice. With the other hand he pulled himself up, his body halfway free. The butt free. The right leg free. The left leg, grabbed and he was violently snatched back. Something had him on his back and was crushing the life out of him. He thrashed his arms and kicked his legs violently, but was only slicing the air. He thought he knew how it felt to be crushed by a two ton elephant. He heard his bones crack as he tried desperately to breathe. He tried to turn to the left, turn to the right, to lift himself off the cement, but couldn't escape what was holding him down. He continued to thrash and kick, until he felt his eyes pop forward. Gasping for what seemed his last breath, he spoke the name of his love, though she would never know it.
"Esther."
Lights burst inside his skull, and everything went black to nothing.
Steven suddenly found himself on a dark road. He was running from the crashing sound with the foul odor. He stopped running, turned and asked it.
"What do you want?"
"A body," it said.
Steven pointed to a raven that was flying over and said, "Take him."
The raven was snatched out of the air; and the crashing thing put it on like a coat.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked it. And it spoke in Madame Reece's voice.
"No... Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane."
Steven opened his eyes and Madame Reece was leaning over him calling his name. He was in a large bed. His head and chest were bandaged. Debbie gave him a sip of Brandy; another assistant, he didn't recognize, was busy about the room.
"You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Crane," Reece said smiling.
"How did you know my name?"
"What were you doing in my basement?"
Midnight--Madame Reece's suburban Home
Steven pulled up to Madame Reece's home. It was an early 1920s red brick colonial house with white trimmed windows that sat afar off the main street. A thick wooded area served as part of its oversized backyard. To its far left, a small brook, glittered under a full moon. He shut the door of his Ford hybrid. The sound hovered over the silence as he stood checking out the areas that surrounded the house. Madame Reece had traveled with her entourage to Cleveland to visit her mom. Her closest neighbors were off to their summer homes. He had done his homework.
A cold wind whistled through the trees that towered over the house. Its long reaching branches seemed almost territorial, as it slapped the top of the house and beat senseless the red brick chimney. Steven walked the narrow path up the hill; a cold chill gripped him. He pulled on the zipper of his short leather jacket that was half zipped, and pulled the zipper up to his neck. The closer he came to the house, the colder he became.
Walking slowly up the hill, he noticed a foul odor; perhaps a dead animal in the woods, he thought; suddenly his car keys felt like an ice cube in the palm of his hand. Halfway there, he was chilled to his bones. By the time he reached the house, his teeth were chattering and water vapor was coming from his nose and mouth. None of this deterred Steven as his flashlight peered around for the opening. He had cased the house when Reece had left for a couple of hours--and knew there was a boarded up window in the basement. He'd decided then, when he came back, this would be his entrance.
Once inside, he fumbled for his camera, determined to be the Sherlock Holmes that took this bitch down. Stumbling through pitch blackness of the basement, the flashlight suddenly went out.
"Damn!"
Steven fumbled with the light, then banged it against his palm. But it seemed dead.
"Son of a bitch!"
He kept banging; but the thing wouldn't budge.
"Jesus Christ!"
After another bang, and it flashed on.
He moved around pointing the flashlight and snapping the camera on whatever looked interesting: Pointing it in a corner and saw a pile of books; shining it on a wall observing a strange looking calendar; then turned slowly, and pointed it in a deep corner where a pair of eyes stared back at him. Steven broke, and dropped the light. He stood there silently, listening to his own heartbeat, but noticed nothing moved on him. He swallowed hard, found the light and picked it up, then moved slowly towards the eyes, his hands were trembling. Steven blew out his breath when he saw it was just a stuffed animal.
He walked around freely, after that, pointing and snapping. He pointed it up at the ceiling, then down to the concrete floor. On the concrete he saw a most unusual pattern. He couldn't quite make it out, but thought it looked like a huge Ouija board. He stepped back a few steps and pulled the focus back on his camera and snapped. A crash, like a large stack of loose papers falling, he whirled around, and shined the light, but there was nothing there.
CRASH!
The sound was closer. Steven whirled around in the opposite direction–both hands on the flashlight, like he was pointing a gun, his camera dangled from his wrist on a strap. But there was nothing there. A foul odor permeated the air; Steven sensed a presence coming up on him.
CRASH!
He turned and scrambled for the boarded up window but in his panic, he couldn't find it.
"Who's there?
CRASH!
He's pointed his flashlight like a crazy man, but couldn't find the window.
CRASH!
"I…I have a gun," he lied.
A freezing cold swept over him. He shivered and put a finger between his chattering teeth. He wanted to vomit, but knew he had to stay focused. With his hand trembling, he pointed the flashlight in the direction of the crash. There was nothing there, but the foul odor. And what he saw next caused his knees to weaken. There...on the other side of the basement, was the boarded up window. In his panic, he had scrambled in the wrong direction. The sound was coming closer and closer.
He shut off his flashlight and braced himself. He knew he had to go for the window. He made a mad dash pass the stinky thing. He knew he had passed it when he heard the crash behind him. He swerved, stumbling blindly into everything in his path, slipping, sliding, and thrashing about like some wild animal caught in a net.
The sound was all around him. And funk swallowed up the air. He fumbled blindly for the boarded window. His hands stung from scrapping it along the wall; he ignored the pain, and felt even harder for the boards; he knew the sticky wetness on his hands was his own blood; but he continued to feel about--it seemed like forever. "Where is this damn thing?!" he cried out; the force of this darkness had come closer. Every bloody finger cursed this window. And a decaying breath blew just above his head. The sound of it was deafening; the smell of it--sickening, until Steven thought he'd pass out.
Then he felt wood and the outside cold on one hand. "Yes!” he yelled out in a whispered voice. With the other hand he pulled himself up, his body halfway free. The butt free. The right leg free. The left leg, grabbed and he was violently snatched back. Something had him on his back and was crushing the life out of him. He thrashed his arms and kicked his legs violently, but was only slicing the air. He thought he knew how it felt to be crushed by a two ton elephant. He heard his bones crack as he tried desperately to breathe. He tried to turn to the left, turn to the right, to lift himself off the cement, but couldn't escape what was holding him down. He continued to thrash and kick, until he felt his eyes pop forward. Gasping for what seemed his last breath, he spoke the name of his love, though she would never know it.
"Esther."
Lights burst inside his skull, and everything went black to nothing.
Steven suddenly found himself on a dark road. He was running from the crashing sound with the foul odor. He stopped running, turned and asked it.
"What do you want?"
"A body," it said.
Steven pointed to a raven that was flying over and said, "Take him."
The raven was snatched out of the air; and the crashing thing put it on like a coat.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked it. And it spoke in Madame Reece's voice.
"No... Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane. Mr. Crane."
Steven opened his eyes and Madame Reece was leaning over him calling his name. He was in a large bed. His head and chest were bandaged. Debbie gave him a sip of Brandy; another assistant, he didn't recognize, was busy about the room.
"You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Crane," Reece said smiling.
"How did you know my name?"
"What were you doing in my basement?"
I would like to thank jgrace again for the artwork, "God's Crystal Ball."
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. amahra All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
amahra has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
