lanternjack
07-01-2014, 09:17 AM
"The Wound"
Horror fiction, 821 words.
Last night, I had the sudden urge to write something, and this is what eventually came out. I wrote it pretty much straight through without planning anything. I know it needs some work, but I'm not really a writer so I was hoping for some critique. Any feedback, commendable, constructive, or critical, is welcome. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it.
The floor groaned beneath his bare feet. As slowly as he walked, he could not silence the wooden beams beneath him. He knew that if he was heard, it would be the end of him. He needed to reach the window - it was the only way out.
Voices drifted up from the staircase at the end of the hallway, timid followed by acid.
“Sir. We’ve searched everywhere. He’s not here.”
“Look again.”
“But sir…”
“Don’t ‘but sir’ me. We’ve got four Scouts manned outside looking for a runaway, and they’re the best of the best. If there’s a tunnel leading underground, I’ll hear of it now. Otherwise, continue the search. Don’t report back until he’s found. And hurry it up - those ‘men’ are paid by the hour.”
“Yes sir.”
A light cacophony of voices and boots on wood climbed up the stairs and filled the hall behind him. It was safe to move again. He’d have to move, and fast, if he was to get out of there. But the faster he moved, the more noise he made, so the slower he’d need to move to remain undetected. But if someone were to see him…
The wound itched. He scratched lightly around the scab, and found it still sore. Bits of dried blood flaked off, falling to the floor. The wound was the size of an egg and growing bigger, taking up most of his forearm. It was scabbed and oozed when he picked at it. It oozed now, dark purple, but turned black in the darkness of the hallway.
His arm swelled around it and the skin was tender. It began as a rash, some poison weed he thought, so he washed it and kept it wrapped like normal. The second night was when the boil formed - a blood blister, dark purple and shining beneath stretched skin. It hurt, but it was small and would go away. It grew bigger. The fifth night was when it burst, waking him. He was half covered in the vile fluid. The putrid smell would have overwhelmed him but for the faint tinge of sweetness - the sweetness that drew him in, deeper.
That was when the dreams began. All the rooms were black, devoid of light, but he could see black shapes skittering about in the darkness. They were everywhere and nowhere. He looked up and saw himself standing alone, holding a candle. When the candle moved left, he went right. When the candle went right, he moved left. He had to stay away from the light. He needed it gone. The dream always ended with his body blowing out the light, and his sudden desire for anything but.
A light flickered now from downstairs. Boots thudded against wood, echoing in the stairwell. He could hear the grumbles of the footmen marching. He could hear their thoughts. He could see their thoughts. He saw a young maid, blonde and supple, and she danced an ancient dance, and she cried out a name. He saw a roast pheasant, warm and greasy. There was ale and green peppers and unpleasant company.
Thud.
Time stopped as he first glimpsed the flicker of fire from the lantern. He was frozen. Motes of dust and pollen hung in the air. He exhaled a long breath that lasted years. He watched as it slowly formed a small cloud of vapor. A soft roll of thunder and a flash of lightning, purple and dark and ravenous.
The light reached him then. He could feel the warmth of the light on his body. It traveled through him, pushing him away. He felt himself falling backwards, and then he felt nothing. He couldn’t feel his face anymore, or his toes, or the crust beneath his fingernails. He could move again.
He followed the footmen up the stairs. They saw what they had seen the last time - a small, unlit hallway. Cruel looking symbols were carved into the wood around every doorframe and around the open window. The absence of light from the new moon shone in, filling the hallway with darkness. Stars flickered, but their light was not welcome in the dark place.
The room smelled of decay. Dark blood was smeared on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, everywhere, as though someone had rubbed a flowing gash across the entirety of the space. The two rooms were empty and windowless save one, which had only a straw mattress and a half-spent candle. No clothes, no food, no signs of living here.
Once they had finished their search, they returned downstairs bringing their light with them. The hallway was dark once again.
He stood in the center of the room, and turned towards the window. He could see the stars, and they called to him. The moon wasn’t watching tonight. He could escape. He began to move towards the window, but the floor groaned beneath his bare feet.
Horror fiction, 821 words.
Last night, I had the sudden urge to write something, and this is what eventually came out. I wrote it pretty much straight through without planning anything. I know it needs some work, but I'm not really a writer so I was hoping for some critique. Any feedback, commendable, constructive, or critical, is welcome. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it.
The floor groaned beneath his bare feet. As slowly as he walked, he could not silence the wooden beams beneath him. He knew that if he was heard, it would be the end of him. He needed to reach the window - it was the only way out.
Voices drifted up from the staircase at the end of the hallway, timid followed by acid.
“Sir. We’ve searched everywhere. He’s not here.”
“Look again.”
“But sir…”
“Don’t ‘but sir’ me. We’ve got four Scouts manned outside looking for a runaway, and they’re the best of the best. If there’s a tunnel leading underground, I’ll hear of it now. Otherwise, continue the search. Don’t report back until he’s found. And hurry it up - those ‘men’ are paid by the hour.”
“Yes sir.”
A light cacophony of voices and boots on wood climbed up the stairs and filled the hall behind him. It was safe to move again. He’d have to move, and fast, if he was to get out of there. But the faster he moved, the more noise he made, so the slower he’d need to move to remain undetected. But if someone were to see him…
The wound itched. He scratched lightly around the scab, and found it still sore. Bits of dried blood flaked off, falling to the floor. The wound was the size of an egg and growing bigger, taking up most of his forearm. It was scabbed and oozed when he picked at it. It oozed now, dark purple, but turned black in the darkness of the hallway.
His arm swelled around it and the skin was tender. It began as a rash, some poison weed he thought, so he washed it and kept it wrapped like normal. The second night was when the boil formed - a blood blister, dark purple and shining beneath stretched skin. It hurt, but it was small and would go away. It grew bigger. The fifth night was when it burst, waking him. He was half covered in the vile fluid. The putrid smell would have overwhelmed him but for the faint tinge of sweetness - the sweetness that drew him in, deeper.
That was when the dreams began. All the rooms were black, devoid of light, but he could see black shapes skittering about in the darkness. They were everywhere and nowhere. He looked up and saw himself standing alone, holding a candle. When the candle moved left, he went right. When the candle went right, he moved left. He had to stay away from the light. He needed it gone. The dream always ended with his body blowing out the light, and his sudden desire for anything but.
A light flickered now from downstairs. Boots thudded against wood, echoing in the stairwell. He could hear the grumbles of the footmen marching. He could hear their thoughts. He could see their thoughts. He saw a young maid, blonde and supple, and she danced an ancient dance, and she cried out a name. He saw a roast pheasant, warm and greasy. There was ale and green peppers and unpleasant company.
Thud.
Time stopped as he first glimpsed the flicker of fire from the lantern. He was frozen. Motes of dust and pollen hung in the air. He exhaled a long breath that lasted years. He watched as it slowly formed a small cloud of vapor. A soft roll of thunder and a flash of lightning, purple and dark and ravenous.
The light reached him then. He could feel the warmth of the light on his body. It traveled through him, pushing him away. He felt himself falling backwards, and then he felt nothing. He couldn’t feel his face anymore, or his toes, or the crust beneath his fingernails. He could move again.
He followed the footmen up the stairs. They saw what they had seen the last time - a small, unlit hallway. Cruel looking symbols were carved into the wood around every doorframe and around the open window. The absence of light from the new moon shone in, filling the hallway with darkness. Stars flickered, but their light was not welcome in the dark place.
The room smelled of decay. Dark blood was smeared on the floor, the walls, the ceiling, everywhere, as though someone had rubbed a flowing gash across the entirety of the space. The two rooms were empty and windowless save one, which had only a straw mattress and a half-spent candle. No clothes, no food, no signs of living here.
Once they had finished their search, they returned downstairs bringing their light with them. The hallway was dark once again.
He stood in the center of the room, and turned towards the window. He could see the stars, and they called to him. The moon wasn’t watching tonight. He could escape. He began to move towards the window, but the floor groaned beneath his bare feet.