Post by mattknox on Sept 25, 2021 2:56:50 GMT -5
You can’t breathe, can you?
It’s okay. Just focus..
In through the nose…
Out your mouth…
Again.
Again.
Now, Open your eyes.
Matthew Knox’s eyes shot open, staring at the roof of the same damnedable room he was in before. The dripping of the faucet from the other room echoed like the tolling of Notre Dame’s bells. He let out a groan as he sat up, hands going to his head. Who the hell was talking?
“Keep breathing. You have to get out of here.”
Was that a kid?
Knox blinked a few times, waiting for everything to flood back and his vision to return. His eyes settled on the small figure standing in front of him, then. The kid couldn’t have even been ten years old. His complexion was light, he looked to be of Japanese descent with short, neatly trimmed jet black hair. He was dressed in a way that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, but stuck out like a sore thumb in this macabre tomb. But what was most striking? The eyes.
Glasz, like his own.
“Come on, get up.” he chimed in again, moving forward and grabbing Matt’s arm, trying to help push him vertical. Knox let himself be moved, and then pulled as the boy took him by the hand, leading him out to the hall.
“You can’t let the monsters get to you like last time. Every time you do, you end back there.” the boy explained in a friendly, even tone. Matthew stood dumbstruck as he was led along.
“Who..who are..”
“Shhh..wait..”
He froze, tensing as his eyes darted around the dim environment. Nothing, but the patter of rain outside. Rain he knew wasn’t in the forecast. Rain, and the creaking of the boards above them. Small puffs of dust coming in a trail.
Something was moving above them…
“We have to get you out of here.” the boy repeated, tugging on his hand and taking him to the end of the hallway he couldn’t reach the previous time he was here. He took a moment, tugging for the kid to stop. The confused and annoyed glance didn’t deter him from reaching out, to lay a hand on the wall.
Beneath his palm, he felt it. It ran up his arm, and boomed in his ears.
A Heartbeat.
He slowly pulled his hand back, eyes scanning up the wall, to the dust that fell right above him. The boy seemed to tense, then tug on his hand. He let himself be led away, and down the stairs to the next level. The temperature seemed to drop profoundly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Each ancient board groaning out at the weight of their steps. At the bottom of the steps, a small corridor with three doorways.
Instantly, he was drawn to one. He felt the boy tug on his hand, trying to divert him away from whatever lay within the room but it was fruitless. Matthew stepped through the entryway, feeling his hand drop from the grip of the boy. He turned, finding him standing just outside
“We aren’t supposed to go there. It’s not the way out.”
But what WAS it?
The walls were adorned in framed photos, paintings. An art gallery? He walked along the eastern wall first, eyeing the pieces. A sense of familiarity as he stared at them. They consisted mostly of nature and city scenes. A Church, A shoreline, a dock, a lighthouse in a lightning storm. An unkindness of Ravens.
A dilapidated house, crime tape over the door. A scowling nun stood in the doorway of a classroom, her eyes hollow and emotionless as the rest of her stone face. An old man sat in a big chair sipping brandy as a boy swung a punch at a heavy bag. He froze here, eyes scanning back over his path. He shook his head.
“At least try and surprise me…” he muttered to the house, if it really was one “I know where i’ve been, I know my tragedy. You’re not going to open any wounds like this..” he was surprised he found his voice. But not as surprised as he turned to find him again.
The apparition from last time, a mirror image of himself. But now, the mirror was cracked. The being before him’s skin was gray, blotted and stained with earth. Flesh sagged from high, proud cheekbones as blank glasz eyes stared at him. When it spoke, the voice sounded as though it was being run through white noise. Disjointed.
Unsettling.
Haunted.
“T hen LeTs skIp To t hE eNd.”
“Here we are. Four walls, no roof.”
The camera fades into a dark, empty room. The only illumination being the pale moonlight that spills in from an adjoining room’s window. The voice, a familiar velvety smoke-tinged monotone crooning from the throat of Matthew Knox.
“Spade, I haven’t really had a chance to clarify everything. I’ve kept some cards off the table, let you think you get it. Let you think you get me. In my time in the industry, and even in life, I’ve found that the easiest way to pick a man apart is to let them do all the heavy lifting.”
Slow, distant footsteps.
“Don’t dig for fear, let them tell you what they’re afraid of. Because man? Predictable. Utterly, nauseatingly predictable. And you’re no different, Spade. Why, you’re no daisy. You’re no daisy at all.”
A chuckle echoes from the darkness, the footsteps drawing closer and closer now.
“Couldn’t resist the movie reference. But the point remains. You showed me what you’re afraid of, in your little monologue trying to pick apart my identity. Admittedly, your verbal presentation on Ravens and their imagery was well thought out. Stirring, even. I almost signed the gimmick over to you, face paint and all…”
A pause, silence. No footsteps. No voice. No breath, even..until..
“But it would have been a waste.”
The footsteps return, at the end of the dark hall a figure can be made out, tall and svelte. It stands still as stone though, daring not to move into the light. Not yet.
“Here’s that card, Spade. I’ve put a timeline on my time in the business. I know when to bow out, I know when my shadow goes from a thing of terror to a detriment to our next generation. My hubris isn’t so great that I would choke the life out of new blood just to extend my stay. I’m not you. I’m not afraid of the end.”
The figure remains unmoving, through the old bones of the house a terrible, bone chilling breeze howls for a moment before it’s drowned out once more by the seemingly omnipresent voice of The Raven.
“You speak of a ‘new journey’ you’re starting with OCW, as if your sun is still high in the sky or, even more arrogantly, has only just risen. You’re decorated, you’re in the hall of fame. But what they don’t tell you, Chris? The unspoken truth that everyone knows, deep down? As nice as it is to put that on a resume? The Hall of Fame is really the Hall of ‘Okay, you can leave now’.”
“Seems you didn’t get the message. But that’s fine, I’ve come to courier it to you, and you to the graveyard with the rest of the skeletons, the relics and the ghosts.”
Thump..
Thump…
Thump…..
The spectre drew nearer, the entire house seemed to creak as that terrible, bone chilling howl of wind became a roar. The velvety monotone now takes an edge.
“I’ve set upon my own end, Spade. I know it’s coming, and I know i’ll go out on my boots. I’ve come before you, to show you the mercy of letting you have the same. Because at Masters of Macabre? There will be no talk, no sneak attack, no escape. It’ll be me, it’ll be you, it’ll be steel, and it. Will. Be. Bloody.”
Just out of the light’s touch, the figure looms, the wind howls, the old wood creaks in agony as if any minute it will crumble in upon itself like so many playing cards.
“You have one chance here, Spade. One chance to make this a journey, and not an ending. How, you ask? Let me answer, by asking you the same question I've asked so many. The very same question that keeps getting the same answer over, and over, and over, and over again Christopher. Do you know it? Do you know it like you think you know me? No, you know nothing…”
“So, Christopher Spade. With all your gold. All your accolades. Your bust in some dingy hall of dead and dying retirees who no one thinks about anymore...with all this at your back?”
The figure goes to step into the light...and vanishes, the wind with it. The old bones of the haunted house silence themselves, as a deafening emptiness returns once more. Until the voice comes back, calmer, collected. Velvet in a cloud of smoke…
“Can you stop me?”
A lingering, knowing chuckle as the camera fades to blaclk.
It’s okay. Just focus..
In through the nose…
Out your mouth…
Again.
Again.
Now, Open your eyes.
Matthew Knox’s eyes shot open, staring at the roof of the same damnedable room he was in before. The dripping of the faucet from the other room echoed like the tolling of Notre Dame’s bells. He let out a groan as he sat up, hands going to his head. Who the hell was talking?
“Keep breathing. You have to get out of here.”
Was that a kid?
Knox blinked a few times, waiting for everything to flood back and his vision to return. His eyes settled on the small figure standing in front of him, then. The kid couldn’t have even been ten years old. His complexion was light, he looked to be of Japanese descent with short, neatly trimmed jet black hair. He was dressed in a way that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, but stuck out like a sore thumb in this macabre tomb. But what was most striking? The eyes.
Glasz, like his own.
“Come on, get up.” he chimed in again, moving forward and grabbing Matt’s arm, trying to help push him vertical. Knox let himself be moved, and then pulled as the boy took him by the hand, leading him out to the hall.
“You can’t let the monsters get to you like last time. Every time you do, you end back there.” the boy explained in a friendly, even tone. Matthew stood dumbstruck as he was led along.
“Who..who are..”
“Shhh..wait..”
He froze, tensing as his eyes darted around the dim environment. Nothing, but the patter of rain outside. Rain he knew wasn’t in the forecast. Rain, and the creaking of the boards above them. Small puffs of dust coming in a trail.
Something was moving above them…
“We have to get you out of here.” the boy repeated, tugging on his hand and taking him to the end of the hallway he couldn’t reach the previous time he was here. He took a moment, tugging for the kid to stop. The confused and annoyed glance didn’t deter him from reaching out, to lay a hand on the wall.
Beneath his palm, he felt it. It ran up his arm, and boomed in his ears.
A Heartbeat.
He slowly pulled his hand back, eyes scanning up the wall, to the dust that fell right above him. The boy seemed to tense, then tug on his hand. He let himself be led away, and down the stairs to the next level. The temperature seemed to drop profoundly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Each ancient board groaning out at the weight of their steps. At the bottom of the steps, a small corridor with three doorways.
Instantly, he was drawn to one. He felt the boy tug on his hand, trying to divert him away from whatever lay within the room but it was fruitless. Matthew stepped through the entryway, feeling his hand drop from the grip of the boy. He turned, finding him standing just outside
“We aren’t supposed to go there. It’s not the way out.”
But what WAS it?
The walls were adorned in framed photos, paintings. An art gallery? He walked along the eastern wall first, eyeing the pieces. A sense of familiarity as he stared at them. They consisted mostly of nature and city scenes. A Church, A shoreline, a dock, a lighthouse in a lightning storm. An unkindness of Ravens.
A dilapidated house, crime tape over the door. A scowling nun stood in the doorway of a classroom, her eyes hollow and emotionless as the rest of her stone face. An old man sat in a big chair sipping brandy as a boy swung a punch at a heavy bag. He froze here, eyes scanning back over his path. He shook his head.
“At least try and surprise me…” he muttered to the house, if it really was one “I know where i’ve been, I know my tragedy. You’re not going to open any wounds like this..” he was surprised he found his voice. But not as surprised as he turned to find him again.
The apparition from last time, a mirror image of himself. But now, the mirror was cracked. The being before him’s skin was gray, blotted and stained with earth. Flesh sagged from high, proud cheekbones as blank glasz eyes stared at him. When it spoke, the voice sounded as though it was being run through white noise. Disjointed.
Unsettling.
Haunted.
“T hen LeTs skIp To t hE eNd.”
“Here we are. Four walls, no roof.”
The camera fades into a dark, empty room. The only illumination being the pale moonlight that spills in from an adjoining room’s window. The voice, a familiar velvety smoke-tinged monotone crooning from the throat of Matthew Knox.
“Spade, I haven’t really had a chance to clarify everything. I’ve kept some cards off the table, let you think you get it. Let you think you get me. In my time in the industry, and even in life, I’ve found that the easiest way to pick a man apart is to let them do all the heavy lifting.”
Slow, distant footsteps.
“Don’t dig for fear, let them tell you what they’re afraid of. Because man? Predictable. Utterly, nauseatingly predictable. And you’re no different, Spade. Why, you’re no daisy. You’re no daisy at all.”
A chuckle echoes from the darkness, the footsteps drawing closer and closer now.
“Couldn’t resist the movie reference. But the point remains. You showed me what you’re afraid of, in your little monologue trying to pick apart my identity. Admittedly, your verbal presentation on Ravens and their imagery was well thought out. Stirring, even. I almost signed the gimmick over to you, face paint and all…”
A pause, silence. No footsteps. No voice. No breath, even..until..
“But it would have been a waste.”
The footsteps return, at the end of the dark hall a figure can be made out, tall and svelte. It stands still as stone though, daring not to move into the light. Not yet.
“Here’s that card, Spade. I’ve put a timeline on my time in the business. I know when to bow out, I know when my shadow goes from a thing of terror to a detriment to our next generation. My hubris isn’t so great that I would choke the life out of new blood just to extend my stay. I’m not you. I’m not afraid of the end.”
The figure remains unmoving, through the old bones of the house a terrible, bone chilling breeze howls for a moment before it’s drowned out once more by the seemingly omnipresent voice of The Raven.
“You speak of a ‘new journey’ you’re starting with OCW, as if your sun is still high in the sky or, even more arrogantly, has only just risen. You’re decorated, you’re in the hall of fame. But what they don’t tell you, Chris? The unspoken truth that everyone knows, deep down? As nice as it is to put that on a resume? The Hall of Fame is really the Hall of ‘Okay, you can leave now’.”
“Seems you didn’t get the message. But that’s fine, I’ve come to courier it to you, and you to the graveyard with the rest of the skeletons, the relics and the ghosts.”
Thump..
Thump…
Thump…..
The spectre drew nearer, the entire house seemed to creak as that terrible, bone chilling howl of wind became a roar. The velvety monotone now takes an edge.
“I’ve set upon my own end, Spade. I know it’s coming, and I know i’ll go out on my boots. I’ve come before you, to show you the mercy of letting you have the same. Because at Masters of Macabre? There will be no talk, no sneak attack, no escape. It’ll be me, it’ll be you, it’ll be steel, and it. Will. Be. Bloody.”
Just out of the light’s touch, the figure looms, the wind howls, the old wood creaks in agony as if any minute it will crumble in upon itself like so many playing cards.
“You have one chance here, Spade. One chance to make this a journey, and not an ending. How, you ask? Let me answer, by asking you the same question I've asked so many. The very same question that keeps getting the same answer over, and over, and over, and over again Christopher. Do you know it? Do you know it like you think you know me? No, you know nothing…”
“So, Christopher Spade. With all your gold. All your accolades. Your bust in some dingy hall of dead and dying retirees who no one thinks about anymore...with all this at your back?”
The figure goes to step into the light...and vanishes, the wind with it. The old bones of the haunted house silence themselves, as a deafening emptiness returns once more. Until the voice comes back, calmer, collected. Velvet in a cloud of smoke…
“Can you stop me?”
A lingering, knowing chuckle as the camera fades to blaclk.