-The Door With No Key-
-Teaser-
Begun on 9/4/18. Ended at 9/14/18.
The Interview, Part 1:
I stepped up onto the landing of a quaint craftsman home and knocked on the tired, wooden door. I was in a rather unremarkable part of the inner city: old, but not polished up to modern standards. Huge elm and oak trees lined the quiet street, most of their leaves gone from autumn, and many of the houses were dilapidated or simply worn out, with peeling paint and chipped siding, many with yards infested by weeds or tall with grass. A couple of the houses were like this one - in marginally better condition, just enough to not be an eyesore - but the age on it painfully showed. I looked sadly at the turned spindles of the porch railing, their white gloss now a faded antique yellow, the finish rubbed off in many places revealing a dark wood. One spindle had even broken off and, for some reason, the broken end was sanded down to a smooth stump. The rest of the porch wasn't in much better condition, nor was the siding or the trim, and the shutters had been pulled off at one point and leaned against the wall.
I tried not to stare too much at the home's state and turned my attention back to the door, waiting for someone to answer. A couple of minutes passed where I heard nothing, and I brought my journal out of my handbag in preparation of noting how long it was taking, but just then I heard a stirring. Quickly I dropped the journal back in and put on my most cordial smile.
Click, click, click click - shink, click, click... The smile disappeared at the excessive amount of locks being undone from the other side, and I shot a look back at my car, second-guessing leaving the windows open. Was this really that dangerous of a neighborhood? Everyone did have closed curtains and doors...
I tried not to stare too much at the home's state and turned my attention back to the door, waiting for someone to answer. A couple of minutes passed where I heard nothing, and I brought my journal out of my handbag in preparation of noting how long it was taking, but just then I heard a stirring. Quickly I dropped the journal back in and put on my most cordial smile.
Click, click, click click - shink, click, click... The smile disappeared at the excessive amount of locks being undone from the other side, and I shot a look back at my car, second-guessing leaving the windows open. Was this really that dangerous of a neighborhood? Everyone did have closed curtains and doors...
The door opened, and automatically the smile appeared back on my face. "Hello Ms. Harrier," I introduced myself, "I'm Flora Stern, part of the Farfield Weekly. I'm here to interview you concerning your mother's recent passing."
The heart-shaped face of a young woman stared back at me, her blue eyes distant, and her smile weak. "I told Farfield Weekly that I didn't want an interview," she said quietly.
"I know, dearie, but with the unexplained circumstances..." I faltered off. "Well, we're just looking to see if you're okay. For the Welfare Society's sake."
The woman muffled a scoff and looked at the ground, her dark wavy hair briefly obscuring her face. "Even if they sent me checks I wouldn't accept them."
I didn't have much to say to that, but it would at least make decent paper material. The story was so tragic, yet so unexplained; the front page needed to be filled with something.
"Do you mind if I come in?" I asked amiably, "All of your locks have me a bit nervous."
She looked up in surprise, before calmly smiling in realization, a bit less tense now. "Don't worry Mrs. Stern, it's not the neighborhood we're worried about. Sure, come in; do you want me to get you something? I like tea for the nerves."
"Sure, tea would be nice," I said, and Ms. Harrier stepped back to let me through. She was quick to close the door behind me, promptly redoing all of the locks. It was almost like a scene out of a movie: I swear every type of lock conceived by man was on that door! She then proceeded to walk down the hall, her pastel dress flowing behind her, and took a left out of sight. I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the nearby rack.
The inside of the home was in better repair than the outside, I noted. The stairs to my right went up two steps before turning into a landing at the corner and going up, the hallway ahead split at the end and only had two double doors under the stairs, and to my left was an archway leading to an elongated sitting room, with another archway at the other end, possibly leading to the kitchen in the back. The entry and the hall had aged tiled linoleum, possibly from the 50s, and there were no windows beside the sidelights around the door. I assumed we would be chatting in the sitting room, and went in to situate myself.
Surprisingly, it was minimally furnished. I looked around curiously as I heard Ms. Harrier start boiling some water. The left wall had a row of windows looking out onto the porch, but the curtains were pulled on all of them except for one on either end. To my left in the corner was a display case full of nothing but white candles, some still tall with the original plastic on them, others burnt down to nubs, and ahead of it in the opposite corner sat a piano, dusty from lack of use. To my right against the wall was an old, well-kept couch with a powder-blue weave to match the carpet and the walls. I came forward to the wooden coffee table in front of it, and pulled up one of the two wood dining chairs at either end, supposing Ms. Harrier had set it up to her comfort despite the couch nearby. It didn't bother me beyond being a curiosity; I had interviewed stranger people.
I made myself comfortable and opened up my journal to jot down the layout of the dim room I was in. It was overcast out, but I didn't expect it to feel so grim inside, like a storm was looming overhead. A minute later Ms. Harrier returned with a steaming kettle and a hotpad, and fetched me a cup while the tea cooled.
"Mm, lavender," I commented, accepting the cup when she returned. Again she broke a smile, and looked just a tinier bit relaxed. "I've always loved the smell of lavender."
"It's a shame Mother's plants died," Ms. Harrier agreed, sitting down in the chair opposite of me, "otherwise our whole house would smell like lavender."
"Ah, yes! I thought I saw a garden out front."
"Yes - well, used to be. Some unfortunate circumstances took care of it," she said honestly. I nodded, solemn again.
"I assume your mother took great care of the garden."
"Not necessarily; it was my job for several years."
I waited for Ms. Harrier to elaborate further, but she was quiet, staring down at the tea kettle. She still looked distant; possibly just her version of mourning. She seemed pretty stable, so I decided to save her my usual circumlocution and asked her directly, "Can you tell me anything unusual that happened before your mother's passing?"
It took a moment for her to respond, as if she had to remind herself that I was here for an interview, not just a sympathetic chat. She held on to her empty teacup in a sort of reassurance, letting the silence linger for a few more seconds.
"No," she answered. I made a quick note in my journal.
"Do you remember her saying anything before she left?"
The woman shook her head, turning her gaze to the corner behind me. "It was just the usual shopping trip. One day she left in the car. The next she didn't come back."
"You recall the police report, about how she was a victim of a hit-and-run operation, yes?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything you'd like to contest there? You didn't seem happy with it."
"Yes," she repeated. Still she stared into that corner. I glanced behind me, curious for a second if I had missed something in observing the room, but it was empty.
"Can you tell me what it is you didn't like?"
Her eyes fluttered for a moment, and she began to show anxiety, rubbing her hands over the teacup. "Um..." I gave her a moment to think by pouring myself some tea. "It was too... typical."
I paused and frowned, still holding the kettle over my cup. "What do you mean by 'typical'?"
"It's what I would expect the police to say," she said. I set the kettle back down, picking my pen back up to take notes.
"Wouldn't they only say what it is?" I asked.
"Not if they can't see the other factors."
I was growing intrigued by this odd string of responses, recording her words verbatim. "You say that as if you know something about the case we don't."
"Not anything they consider viable." Ms. Harrier finally set her cup down and poured herself some tea, but didn't pick it back up.
"Any information is useful information, dear."
"Not if it can't be proved or disproved."
Now I was just becoming perplexed and suspicious, looking up at her crestfallen face. "What do you mean by that?" I questioned. Her distant eyes suddenly cleared up back to reality, and they flicked up over my shoulder. The back of my neck prickled, and I turned around, but the entry was as quiet and vacant as it was before; still, the prickling lingered for a little longer, toying with my doubt even after I turned back around. "What is it?"
Ms. Harrier blinked, now very alert, and not answering me directly. "You know of the Mariana Trench, right Mrs. Stern?"
"Of course," I said, "Theodore wrote an article on it last summer."
"So you know that, even though we know it exists, and can go to it, we still don't know everything it holds."
"Yes?"
"What if the whole world was like that? Everything?"
I furrowed my brow, perplexed. "I'm not quite following you, Ms. Harrier."
"The ether," she said unexpectedly. "What if Earth is like the Mariana's Trench, where we know it exists, and can walk on it, and see the plants and the animals, and the ether is like all of the sea creatures laying at the bottom, waiting to be discovered? Completely unknown, unseen and untouched, neither proven nor disproved, as ambiguous as Schrodinger's cat?"
"...Are you talking about ghosts?" I asked slowly, skeptically.
"Far more than ghosts. Everything that will be disputed, in the past and forever," she said frankly. I frowned, uncertain of how I could weave this into a newspaper article. The notion of spirits and hauntings have been dead for decades; if I told the truth I would be painting Ms. Harrier as a quack! She didn't deserve that, not after losing her mother and having no father, now living in this big house all alone. Yet, I couldn't lie in a news article, could I?
I had to be sure I was hearing her correctly, and leaned forward a bit. "You... imply, that a ghost took your mother's life, and the police failed to consider that possibility. But, ghosts don't exist."
"On the contrary," she said confidently, "but it wasn't a ghost's fault. It's more complicated than that."
"Complicated? How? Do you have evidence?"
"It can't be proven," she said, sounding defeated. "I never told anyone what I knew because no one would believe me."
"So, you don't have evidence," I deducted.
"Not anything short of dragging you into this, no."
"'This'?"
Ms. Harrier abruptly fell silent, looking at me before her anxiety returned, and she picked up her tea to sip it. It was done almost cautiously, like she expected me to lunge forward and stop her. My skin prickled at how unusual this interview already was.
I began to suspect that Ms. Harrier was delusional, possibly with a more benign mental illness, possibly being raised with a more traditional family that kept their religion despite the switch of '15. It was even possible that she was just more creative, or lacked more sleep, or some other logical reason. Perhaps the loss of her mother weighed down so heavily on her mind that it cracked it; so much could happen with the human brain. If her blame on ghosts had anything to do with those, then I had reason to suspect that she had to do with the accident that killed her mother, either indirectly, willingly, both or neither. That meant there was something more villainous about the sudden accident that I might be able to find out!
"Ms. Harrier," I began, and the woman looked up at me expectantly. "I know that you're under a lot of stress right now, and I sympathize with that. I had a similar situation with my parents: my mother died when I was two, and my father went to prison when I was sixteen. I couldn't see him again for six years. I had to live on my own too, and the Welfare Society helped me with that. So I know what you're going through, even if you don't believe me. But, your situation is more important; whoever is responsible for your mother's death is, most likely, still doing hit-and-runs. It's imperative to the safety of the city that you tell us everything you know about this incident, no matter how implausible you might think it is. Okay?"
She was tight-lipped as I spoke, and was still hesitant at the end, breaking eye contact to look at her cup. "Please," I implored, "I promise nothing bad will happen to you. You know that Farfield Weekly works with our police force twenty-four seven to keep our reports crystal clear. If you're truly worried, I can call for armed guards, right now..." I faltered off as she began shaking her head in objection.
"No. The guards can't help me."
"Ms. Harrier..."
"Bullets can't pierce the veil, Mrs. Stern."
I waved my hand dismissively. "You don't have to worry about any veils, Ms. Harrier," I said, "Besides, if bullets can't do it, how could any of those creatures in your metaphor? I'm simply offering you solace, because quite frankly I think you're being tormented by some unknown criminal."
Her face fell in disappointment. "I wish it were that benign, Mrs. Stern."
I started feeling frustrated, not understanding why she was so reluctant to believe me and so stubborn to blame fairy tales of ghosts on her hesitance. I finally put my pen and journal down - I had hardly written anything in it anyway - and tried my last tactic. If this didn't work, the interview would go nowhere and we'd simply have to drop the article to the second page.
"Tell me this, then:" I said, "What do I have to do to make you tell me what you know?"
Ms. Harrier blinked slowly, not becoming any less anxious, but hiding it better. "You would have to be involved," she said.
"Involved in what? How?"
"Promise me you'll be careful first."
"I'll be careful, Ms. Harrier. Now please, give me something to write in our column so people can mourn your mother properly!"
The woman only seemed to grow sadder and sadder. Then, she put her cup down, looked up to her left, and pointed, directly at the mirror on the wall.
A mirror... I didn't recall seeing it in the room before. I must have been on a bad angle. It was a very simple portrait mirror, with a thin frame and square corners. It hung above the couch's far seat. I stood up from my chair and approached it, uncertain of what kind of game this was, but willing to entertain this mourning woman. I was almost afraid to see something astonishing in it, somehow proving her right, but I quieted the tiny, wheedling feeling. Ghosts were proven to be fake twenty years ago. There was positively nothing to be scared of. Everything above the sea was explained, even if the ocean depths weren't.
I stumbled a bit in front of the couch and caught myself on the arm of it, and quickly looked down: a blue cat toy. It must have blended in with the carpet. I let out a small chuckle and regained my composure, brushing the toy aside with my foot. Despite the ragtag, chewed-up appearance, it still had a delightful jingle; perhaps the Harriers had a cat at one point.
I stood up in front of the mirror, looking into it. All I saw was my face, framed by faded blonde hair, with brown eyes and the pearly lipstick I had put on while in the car. I looked around in the mirror's reflection of the room, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The blue walls, the white trim, the cream curtains pulled over the windows... no mystical foggy shapes or strange colors.
"I'm not sure what I'm looking for," I said honestly. I turned around, a bit of my amusement betraying itself on my face. "By the way, did your family have a cat at one...?"
My words died away.
Ms. Harrier was gone, without a trace.
"...Ms. Harrier? Hello?"
The heart-shaped face of a young woman stared back at me, her blue eyes distant, and her smile weak. "I told Farfield Weekly that I didn't want an interview," she said quietly.
"I know, dearie, but with the unexplained circumstances..." I faltered off. "Well, we're just looking to see if you're okay. For the Welfare Society's sake."
The woman muffled a scoff and looked at the ground, her dark wavy hair briefly obscuring her face. "Even if they sent me checks I wouldn't accept them."
I didn't have much to say to that, but it would at least make decent paper material. The story was so tragic, yet so unexplained; the front page needed to be filled with something.
"Do you mind if I come in?" I asked amiably, "All of your locks have me a bit nervous."
She looked up in surprise, before calmly smiling in realization, a bit less tense now. "Don't worry Mrs. Stern, it's not the neighborhood we're worried about. Sure, come in; do you want me to get you something? I like tea for the nerves."
"Sure, tea would be nice," I said, and Ms. Harrier stepped back to let me through. She was quick to close the door behind me, promptly redoing all of the locks. It was almost like a scene out of a movie: I swear every type of lock conceived by man was on that door! She then proceeded to walk down the hall, her pastel dress flowing behind her, and took a left out of sight. I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the nearby rack.
The inside of the home was in better repair than the outside, I noted. The stairs to my right went up two steps before turning into a landing at the corner and going up, the hallway ahead split at the end and only had two double doors under the stairs, and to my left was an archway leading to an elongated sitting room, with another archway at the other end, possibly leading to the kitchen in the back. The entry and the hall had aged tiled linoleum, possibly from the 50s, and there were no windows beside the sidelights around the door. I assumed we would be chatting in the sitting room, and went in to situate myself.
Surprisingly, it was minimally furnished. I looked around curiously as I heard Ms. Harrier start boiling some water. The left wall had a row of windows looking out onto the porch, but the curtains were pulled on all of them except for one on either end. To my left in the corner was a display case full of nothing but white candles, some still tall with the original plastic on them, others burnt down to nubs, and ahead of it in the opposite corner sat a piano, dusty from lack of use. To my right against the wall was an old, well-kept couch with a powder-blue weave to match the carpet and the walls. I came forward to the wooden coffee table in front of it, and pulled up one of the two wood dining chairs at either end, supposing Ms. Harrier had set it up to her comfort despite the couch nearby. It didn't bother me beyond being a curiosity; I had interviewed stranger people.
I made myself comfortable and opened up my journal to jot down the layout of the dim room I was in. It was overcast out, but I didn't expect it to feel so grim inside, like a storm was looming overhead. A minute later Ms. Harrier returned with a steaming kettle and a hotpad, and fetched me a cup while the tea cooled.
"Mm, lavender," I commented, accepting the cup when she returned. Again she broke a smile, and looked just a tinier bit relaxed. "I've always loved the smell of lavender."
"It's a shame Mother's plants died," Ms. Harrier agreed, sitting down in the chair opposite of me, "otherwise our whole house would smell like lavender."
"Ah, yes! I thought I saw a garden out front."
"Yes - well, used to be. Some unfortunate circumstances took care of it," she said honestly. I nodded, solemn again.
"I assume your mother took great care of the garden."
"Not necessarily; it was my job for several years."
I waited for Ms. Harrier to elaborate further, but she was quiet, staring down at the tea kettle. She still looked distant; possibly just her version of mourning. She seemed pretty stable, so I decided to save her my usual circumlocution and asked her directly, "Can you tell me anything unusual that happened before your mother's passing?"
It took a moment for her to respond, as if she had to remind herself that I was here for an interview, not just a sympathetic chat. She held on to her empty teacup in a sort of reassurance, letting the silence linger for a few more seconds.
"No," she answered. I made a quick note in my journal.
"Do you remember her saying anything before she left?"
The woman shook her head, turning her gaze to the corner behind me. "It was just the usual shopping trip. One day she left in the car. The next she didn't come back."
"You recall the police report, about how she was a victim of a hit-and-run operation, yes?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything you'd like to contest there? You didn't seem happy with it."
"Yes," she repeated. Still she stared into that corner. I glanced behind me, curious for a second if I had missed something in observing the room, but it was empty.
"Can you tell me what it is you didn't like?"
Her eyes fluttered for a moment, and she began to show anxiety, rubbing her hands over the teacup. "Um..." I gave her a moment to think by pouring myself some tea. "It was too... typical."
I paused and frowned, still holding the kettle over my cup. "What do you mean by 'typical'?"
"It's what I would expect the police to say," she said. I set the kettle back down, picking my pen back up to take notes.
"Wouldn't they only say what it is?" I asked.
"Not if they can't see the other factors."
I was growing intrigued by this odd string of responses, recording her words verbatim. "You say that as if you know something about the case we don't."
"Not anything they consider viable." Ms. Harrier finally set her cup down and poured herself some tea, but didn't pick it back up.
"Any information is useful information, dear."
"Not if it can't be proved or disproved."
Now I was just becoming perplexed and suspicious, looking up at her crestfallen face. "What do you mean by that?" I questioned. Her distant eyes suddenly cleared up back to reality, and they flicked up over my shoulder. The back of my neck prickled, and I turned around, but the entry was as quiet and vacant as it was before; still, the prickling lingered for a little longer, toying with my doubt even after I turned back around. "What is it?"
Ms. Harrier blinked, now very alert, and not answering me directly. "You know of the Mariana Trench, right Mrs. Stern?"
"Of course," I said, "Theodore wrote an article on it last summer."
"So you know that, even though we know it exists, and can go to it, we still don't know everything it holds."
"Yes?"
"What if the whole world was like that? Everything?"
I furrowed my brow, perplexed. "I'm not quite following you, Ms. Harrier."
"The ether," she said unexpectedly. "What if Earth is like the Mariana's Trench, where we know it exists, and can walk on it, and see the plants and the animals, and the ether is like all of the sea creatures laying at the bottom, waiting to be discovered? Completely unknown, unseen and untouched, neither proven nor disproved, as ambiguous as Schrodinger's cat?"
"...Are you talking about ghosts?" I asked slowly, skeptically.
"Far more than ghosts. Everything that will be disputed, in the past and forever," she said frankly. I frowned, uncertain of how I could weave this into a newspaper article. The notion of spirits and hauntings have been dead for decades; if I told the truth I would be painting Ms. Harrier as a quack! She didn't deserve that, not after losing her mother and having no father, now living in this big house all alone. Yet, I couldn't lie in a news article, could I?
I had to be sure I was hearing her correctly, and leaned forward a bit. "You... imply, that a ghost took your mother's life, and the police failed to consider that possibility. But, ghosts don't exist."
"On the contrary," she said confidently, "but it wasn't a ghost's fault. It's more complicated than that."
"Complicated? How? Do you have evidence?"
"It can't be proven," she said, sounding defeated. "I never told anyone what I knew because no one would believe me."
"So, you don't have evidence," I deducted.
"Not anything short of dragging you into this, no."
"'This'?"
Ms. Harrier abruptly fell silent, looking at me before her anxiety returned, and she picked up her tea to sip it. It was done almost cautiously, like she expected me to lunge forward and stop her. My skin prickled at how unusual this interview already was.
I began to suspect that Ms. Harrier was delusional, possibly with a more benign mental illness, possibly being raised with a more traditional family that kept their religion despite the switch of '15. It was even possible that she was just more creative, or lacked more sleep, or some other logical reason. Perhaps the loss of her mother weighed down so heavily on her mind that it cracked it; so much could happen with the human brain. If her blame on ghosts had anything to do with those, then I had reason to suspect that she had to do with the accident that killed her mother, either indirectly, willingly, both or neither. That meant there was something more villainous about the sudden accident that I might be able to find out!
"Ms. Harrier," I began, and the woman looked up at me expectantly. "I know that you're under a lot of stress right now, and I sympathize with that. I had a similar situation with my parents: my mother died when I was two, and my father went to prison when I was sixteen. I couldn't see him again for six years. I had to live on my own too, and the Welfare Society helped me with that. So I know what you're going through, even if you don't believe me. But, your situation is more important; whoever is responsible for your mother's death is, most likely, still doing hit-and-runs. It's imperative to the safety of the city that you tell us everything you know about this incident, no matter how implausible you might think it is. Okay?"
She was tight-lipped as I spoke, and was still hesitant at the end, breaking eye contact to look at her cup. "Please," I implored, "I promise nothing bad will happen to you. You know that Farfield Weekly works with our police force twenty-four seven to keep our reports crystal clear. If you're truly worried, I can call for armed guards, right now..." I faltered off as she began shaking her head in objection.
"No. The guards can't help me."
"Ms. Harrier..."
"Bullets can't pierce the veil, Mrs. Stern."
I waved my hand dismissively. "You don't have to worry about any veils, Ms. Harrier," I said, "Besides, if bullets can't do it, how could any of those creatures in your metaphor? I'm simply offering you solace, because quite frankly I think you're being tormented by some unknown criminal."
Her face fell in disappointment. "I wish it were that benign, Mrs. Stern."
I started feeling frustrated, not understanding why she was so reluctant to believe me and so stubborn to blame fairy tales of ghosts on her hesitance. I finally put my pen and journal down - I had hardly written anything in it anyway - and tried my last tactic. If this didn't work, the interview would go nowhere and we'd simply have to drop the article to the second page.
"Tell me this, then:" I said, "What do I have to do to make you tell me what you know?"
Ms. Harrier blinked slowly, not becoming any less anxious, but hiding it better. "You would have to be involved," she said.
"Involved in what? How?"
"Promise me you'll be careful first."
"I'll be careful, Ms. Harrier. Now please, give me something to write in our column so people can mourn your mother properly!"
The woman only seemed to grow sadder and sadder. Then, she put her cup down, looked up to her left, and pointed, directly at the mirror on the wall.
A mirror... I didn't recall seeing it in the room before. I must have been on a bad angle. It was a very simple portrait mirror, with a thin frame and square corners. It hung above the couch's far seat. I stood up from my chair and approached it, uncertain of what kind of game this was, but willing to entertain this mourning woman. I was almost afraid to see something astonishing in it, somehow proving her right, but I quieted the tiny, wheedling feeling. Ghosts were proven to be fake twenty years ago. There was positively nothing to be scared of. Everything above the sea was explained, even if the ocean depths weren't.
I stumbled a bit in front of the couch and caught myself on the arm of it, and quickly looked down: a blue cat toy. It must have blended in with the carpet. I let out a small chuckle and regained my composure, brushing the toy aside with my foot. Despite the ragtag, chewed-up appearance, it still had a delightful jingle; perhaps the Harriers had a cat at one point.
I stood up in front of the mirror, looking into it. All I saw was my face, framed by faded blonde hair, with brown eyes and the pearly lipstick I had put on while in the car. I looked around in the mirror's reflection of the room, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The blue walls, the white trim, the cream curtains pulled over the windows... no mystical foggy shapes or strange colors.
"I'm not sure what I'm looking for," I said honestly. I turned around, a bit of my amusement betraying itself on my face. "By the way, did your family have a cat at one...?"
My words died away.
Ms. Harrier was gone, without a trace.
"...Ms. Harrier? Hello?"
The Interview, Part 2:
Silence. The room was assuredly vacant. Our tea was still there, but the kettle looked a thousand years older, and flies sat on the rims of our cups. The chairs were rotted. The couch had holes. Curtains were torn and shredded up in pieces, many of them missing entirely. The carpet, walls, and even the ceiling were stained and filthy, and the windows were obscured by dirt and rain splatter. It was eerily silent, more silent than it was before, and despite the light flooding into the room, it felt cold... unreal.
I took a step forward in utter disbelief, looking around. I blinked a couple of times, then pinched myself to make sure I was awake, and winced at the very real pain. I strained my ears to pick up any sign of the woman, but it was so quiet that my own breathing seemed to fill the room.
I thought I must be hallucinating. Maybe Ms. Harrier put something in the tea; but no, I didn't drink my tea. She only took a few sips. I didn't eat or drink anything unusual before driving up here. Was it my contacts? Except, even if they had anything to do with it, contacts don't affect your nose or ears, and this was definitely different... musty, and somehow grim.
"Ms. Harrier?" I tried to call out, but it came out much quieter than I intended, yet still my words echoed in the room, unanswered. I walked out into the center of the room, careful not to touch the coffee table that was now infested by black mold. "Ms. Harrier?? Are... are you in the kitchen?" I called a bit louder, but again, there was no response. I felt cold, and looked around, bemused and, quite honestly, a little bit scared.
I peered out into the entry, which had now transformed to peeling, cracked linoleum, trampled carpet, and dirty walls. The beautiful dark stain that decorated the front door was now faded and scraped off in large, unusual stripes. I took a few steps toward it, intending to go outside and see if Ms. Harrier had left the house, but I stopped in my tracks as my eyes traveled up the wall beside the stairs.
Huge gouges tore it up, following the stairs, as if someone with impossibly-large knives had cut it open while going up. Mold littered the exposed edges of the drywall. I felt another cold blast of air, and shivered, but dismissed it as simply a breeze in this completely bizarre place. Maybe I really had eaten something... maybe I was narcoleptic and didn't know, and now I was dreaming... no matter what, it didn't make sense that it was real, so it must be safe. I just had to find Ms. Harrier and ask her what she put in the tea... ah, yes, it must have been a drug in the aroma, disguised by the lavender. That makes sense.
I walked up to the stairs, stiff and nervous. My dress shoes sounded incredibly loud against the linoleum. I grabbed the banister - what part of it I could distinguish as not being rotted - and peered up the stairs, the prickling sensation on my skin returning.
The stairs ascended up into an indiscernible blackness.
"Ms. Harrier?"
I heard a rustling sound penetrate the silence, and quickly I put a foot up on the first step, suspecting it was her, but the step screamed out an objecting creak. I pulled back my weight, instantly regretting the decision, and listened for the rustling... but no, it was silent again. I scolded myself under my breath about not checking the step first, and peered up into the darkness.
I couldn't see anything... but I could hear something. Not the rustling, but a breathing, so faint I wouldn't have caught it without the thick silence. An animal?... No. Not Ms. Harrier, either. It was too loud, too... big, but it might be a man, someone else in the house.
The prickling sensation was growing, and I couldn't make sense of why a man would be in this place, nor whatever place this was, but if there was a person here then he might be able to tell me. So I called up the stairs, "Hello? Who are you? Do you know where we are?"
The breathing stopped, and I strained to listen for an answer. I leaned over the landing, hoping I could see the person.
Instead, I was surprised by abrupt footsteps! They raced away from me, further into the blackness. "Wait!" I called, running up the stairs, "I'm with Farfield Weekly! I can't hurt you! Please, I just want to know..." I grimaced, my words dying in my throat, and I slowed to a stop halfway up the stairs. I knew I had already lost the person. "Darn it, Flora! How did this happen? How could you not only lose your client, but your potential help, too?"
I shook my head, thoroughly annoyed with myself, and turned around to descend the stairs, wanting to go to the kitchen next to find Ms. Harrier.
Except I stopped right away. My eyes widened with confusion, then fear.
The landing was gone. The light was gone.
I was standing on a step in unknown darkness.
Somehow, I was lost.
I took a step forward in utter disbelief, looking around. I blinked a couple of times, then pinched myself to make sure I was awake, and winced at the very real pain. I strained my ears to pick up any sign of the woman, but it was so quiet that my own breathing seemed to fill the room.
I thought I must be hallucinating. Maybe Ms. Harrier put something in the tea; but no, I didn't drink my tea. She only took a few sips. I didn't eat or drink anything unusual before driving up here. Was it my contacts? Except, even if they had anything to do with it, contacts don't affect your nose or ears, and this was definitely different... musty, and somehow grim.
"Ms. Harrier?" I tried to call out, but it came out much quieter than I intended, yet still my words echoed in the room, unanswered. I walked out into the center of the room, careful not to touch the coffee table that was now infested by black mold. "Ms. Harrier?? Are... are you in the kitchen?" I called a bit louder, but again, there was no response. I felt cold, and looked around, bemused and, quite honestly, a little bit scared.
I peered out into the entry, which had now transformed to peeling, cracked linoleum, trampled carpet, and dirty walls. The beautiful dark stain that decorated the front door was now faded and scraped off in large, unusual stripes. I took a few steps toward it, intending to go outside and see if Ms. Harrier had left the house, but I stopped in my tracks as my eyes traveled up the wall beside the stairs.
Huge gouges tore it up, following the stairs, as if someone with impossibly-large knives had cut it open while going up. Mold littered the exposed edges of the drywall. I felt another cold blast of air, and shivered, but dismissed it as simply a breeze in this completely bizarre place. Maybe I really had eaten something... maybe I was narcoleptic and didn't know, and now I was dreaming... no matter what, it didn't make sense that it was real, so it must be safe. I just had to find Ms. Harrier and ask her what she put in the tea... ah, yes, it must have been a drug in the aroma, disguised by the lavender. That makes sense.
I walked up to the stairs, stiff and nervous. My dress shoes sounded incredibly loud against the linoleum. I grabbed the banister - what part of it I could distinguish as not being rotted - and peered up the stairs, the prickling sensation on my skin returning.
The stairs ascended up into an indiscernible blackness.
"Ms. Harrier?"
I heard a rustling sound penetrate the silence, and quickly I put a foot up on the first step, suspecting it was her, but the step screamed out an objecting creak. I pulled back my weight, instantly regretting the decision, and listened for the rustling... but no, it was silent again. I scolded myself under my breath about not checking the step first, and peered up into the darkness.
I couldn't see anything... but I could hear something. Not the rustling, but a breathing, so faint I wouldn't have caught it without the thick silence. An animal?... No. Not Ms. Harrier, either. It was too loud, too... big, but it might be a man, someone else in the house.
The prickling sensation was growing, and I couldn't make sense of why a man would be in this place, nor whatever place this was, but if there was a person here then he might be able to tell me. So I called up the stairs, "Hello? Who are you? Do you know where we are?"
The breathing stopped, and I strained to listen for an answer. I leaned over the landing, hoping I could see the person.
Instead, I was surprised by abrupt footsteps! They raced away from me, further into the blackness. "Wait!" I called, running up the stairs, "I'm with Farfield Weekly! I can't hurt you! Please, I just want to know..." I grimaced, my words dying in my throat, and I slowed to a stop halfway up the stairs. I knew I had already lost the person. "Darn it, Flora! How did this happen? How could you not only lose your client, but your potential help, too?"
I shook my head, thoroughly annoyed with myself, and turned around to descend the stairs, wanting to go to the kitchen next to find Ms. Harrier.
Except I stopped right away. My eyes widened with confusion, then fear.
The landing was gone. The light was gone.
I was standing on a step in unknown darkness.
Somehow, I was lost.
Instinctively I fumbled for my handbag to search for a light, but I had left it behind in the sitting room. My grasping hands only met air. I tried reaching for the banister next to me and my hand met a wall, its texture rough like sand. I felt around for a handrail and quickly found it, and leaned against it in assurance, reaching for the wall opposite of it. There! Two walls, still on either side. I must still be in the stairwell… the blackness must be the hallucination or something…
Believing that, I cautiously took a daring step forward.
“Agh!” I yelped. My hands flew to the handrail and held onto it tight, one foot still on the step, the other dangling beneath me. Nothing! There were no steps down!
I heaved myself up onto the step, staring down into the darkness I nearly fell into. How was that even possible?! If I was hallucinating I would have landed on something, right?
…I need to find Ms. Harrier. This is absurd. She directed me to the mirror so she must know what’s going on.
I turned and went up the stairs, cautious with the first steps to ensure that they were actually there. The stairs were long, and I kept one hand on the rail and the other on the wall to feel my way up, and eventually my feet came onto a level floor. I moved my right hand to feel around in front of me, suspecting it was another landing. There was space, so I took a step forward, keeping my left hand on the railing; another step, and my left hand stopped. I paused to feel the end of the railing. This must be the top, then?
I sighed and let go of it, exasperated by how much of a chore this became. I came here though to write a story, so I was going to leave with one even if it meant exploring this entire house! Although I do wish I brought my handbag with me… my hand was a bit sweaty from gripping the handrail so tightly.
I tried not to think about my lack of tissues and looked around for any indication of where to go. It was still utter blackness all around, even the stairs I just walked up, except for my left: a strange, ambient glow highlighted things just enough for me to see that it was a hallway. It was quite long too, with six doors going down its length. I could see the glint of the doorknobs and the rims of panels on each one, suggesting each was closed; yet I saw an additional line of light on the third door down. Puzzled as to why I was seeing things so strangely, I decided to take a deep breath and approach the door, sure in my step. I may be hallucinating, but at least I could still see clues as to where Ms. Harrier went. Though, my heart pounded with growing unease, and my doubt returned with the quick reminder that a disappearing staircase is not a trick of the senses.
Reasoning drowned out the fear, though. I walked up to the door, boldly calling out, “Ms. Harrier? Are you here? I know someone is.”
To my surprise, the door creaked, stopping me in my tracks, and the odd light on its edge grew a little wider. So it opened? Why was it the only open one?
“Ms. Harrier?” I asked, coming up to the door more slowly. “You better be in there. I asked for an interview, not… whatever this is!” I nearly grumbled the last part, becoming annoyed. “What did you put in the tea?”
There was no response. I sighed and folded my arms, thinking about what to do next, and decided to knock to grab her - or whoever’s - attention. It looked heavy and made of solid wood, but before my knuckles even touched it, the door swung all the way open with an aching squeak.
I froze, studying the room before me. I couldn’t see anything… but something was off. Like the blackness had a sort of… stench, but I could only feel it, as rough and grating as the wall texture. The air was heavy and stagnant. My whole body was prickling now, and it wasn’t just unease.
I regretted my decision; but it was just a hallucination, right? You can’t feel a smell. Every instinctual reaction said otherwise though: I tried to turn around to check the other doors, but I wouldn’t move. I opened my mouth to demand for Ms. Harrier, but nothing came out. I felt rising panic as I couldn’t piece together what was going on.
I closed my eyes and gave my head a small shake. Get ahold of yourself, Flora! It’s just the drug! I scolded myself, You’re just confused. It’s just a room. Just make sure it has a floor, first… I almost chuckled aloud at the thought, already feeling silly about how I thought the stairs were gone. Ridiculous! The mind sure can be fooled easily.
The thought seemed to trigger something. Suddenly, I saw, somehow, some… figure, who I couldn’t place but I knew was important. She was waving me inside - she? Wait, that was Ms. Harrier!
“There you are!” I gasped, surprised by the clear image; the blackness, the stagnation, the unease, it all vanished! Did the drug wear off? “I’ve been looking for you!”
She just smiled, her eyes wide and clearly focused. She gestured at the goldenrod-and-olive gown she wore in explanation, “I just wanted to change into something more formal.”
“But why?” I asked, “Though don’t get me wrong, it’s very pretty - but why so suddenly? And what was with the torn-up house?”
“Torn-up house?” she echoed, looking at me in surprise.
I opened my mouth, but was uncertain of how to explain the strange environment I just witnessed. It had started and ended so suddenly; this room even looked okay now, with ordinary blue walls, a single window in the back, with the same cream curtains and a twin bed nearby. It even had a closet to the right, which was open and revealed several other dresses, including the worn pastel one I saw Ms. Harrier in earlier. So instead I said tersely, “Did you put something in the tea? I was very confused for a little bit.”
She was bemused for a second, before her face suddenly lit up in realization. “Oh!...” she gasped softly, “I… must have mixed up some of the herbs… I hope you weren’t hurt!”
“Not at all,” I said, instantly forgiving. “I know you’re mourning your mother, but you ought to be more careful!”
“Yes,” she agreed readily, nodding. Then her smile returned, and she came up to me cordially. “Let’s go dump that tea and continue the interview.”
“Gladly,” I said, relieved that the whole mess was resolved. It still didn’t explain the missing stairs, but… on second thought, maybe I just slipped and thought the stairs were gone. You react strangely when seeing strange things, logically.
Ms. Harrier gestured for me to go first, and I did so, turning back to the hallway.
It was filled with blackness, thicker than morning fog. The same blackness...? My jaw dropped in shock, confusion erupting in my mind. Then the horror dropped into a pit in my stomach when I felt something slimy and cold latch onto my side. I whipped around.
Ms. Harrier’s face was split down the middle, both halves parted with suckers lining them like teeth. The split continued down her body as if she were a dissected frog, the ribs poking out like fangs, the inside a pulsing, throbbing mass of red flesh. The hair was gone and the bulging eyes were an ugly, veiny silver. The dress slipped off as the amorphous, snotty creature slurped onto me, the insect limbs on its back clawing at my face and trying to pull me into the gaping jaws.
I didn’t know what the hell it was. I didn’t know why it smelled so bad I gagged before screaming, or why it was slimy and sticky at the same time, or why it made those horrible gulping noises as it tried to eat me, or why my skin hurt so bad it was like being stabbed by millions of pins and needles! I was both frozen and in outright panic. My free left arm swung wildly, grasping for something to pull me out. I tried to kick away but the creature’s mouth was glued to me. I couldn’t feel my right arm anymore. The creature was growing in size. I punched its face and the fist sunk into its face like it was bread dough, cold and somehow clumpy. I gagged again, resumed screaming, somehow drowned out by its disgusting hacking noises. It pulled me to the floor and I kicked at it, trying to pull my right arm free and ignore its filthiness at the same time. The further I pushed it back, the further it turned itself inside out, remaining attached to me.
At this point I was sobbing. I was still hallucinating, right? Right?! What was happening?!
I opened my mouth wide and screamed out,
“HEEEEEELLLLLPPPP!”
I gave that scream all of the energy I had; or at least, I thought I did, until the creature reacted to it by somehow making the painful prickling worse. I shrieked as I felt a hundred somethings stab into my right arm, and suddenly I could feel it again - just not the way I wanted.
DON’T CALL IT. The voice, with no origin and a tone as pleasant as brackish water, rang loud in my head. I didn’t recognize it as a man, or a woman, or anything remotely similar, so I screamed again and my lungs tightened up in pain, unaccustomed to it.
DON’T CALL IT! the voice screeched. I grimaced at the creature, tears streaking down my face, terrified at how close its “face” was to mine.
Then I suddenly felt more pain in my opposite side. A different pain, two in groups of five, not throbbing, but sharp. I cried out in realization that they were claws. It was going to tear me apart!
The claws yanked me away from the creature, and it lurched. The throbbing pain in my arm lessened a tiny bit but the beast remained.
NO! the voice snarled defiantly. The claws were helping?!
“Get me away!” I pleaded, willing to take the save, “Please!”
NOOOOO! the angry voice drowned me out, SHE’S MINE! SHE CAME TO ME! MINE!!
The claws sank in for a better grip, but somehow it was less excruciating than this slimy thing attached to me. I reached for the claws’ source with my free hand. It found something rough and scaly and I latched onto it. The beast began screaming and cursing deafeningly as I was torn away, its grip on me slipping. MIIIINE!! MIIIIIINNEEE!!!!!
It tried to pursue me, but I was pulled through something cold, suffocating, and dark: the stagnant blackness. It lasted for only a moment before I was suddenly thrown to the floor, free of the dark and of the creature! Free! It was no longer on me!
The sensation in my arm returned fully and I sat up, kicking away from the door, putting my back up against the wall. Through the veil of blackness I could see the creature still in the facade of a room, and it rushed at me, still screaming about how it owned me.
“You own NO ONE!” Another voice split the air, high and harsh like an eagle, and there was a bright flash! I gasped, unable to close my eyes before the light dissipated. The creature’s raving turned into cries of agony as it combusted and writhed in flames.
I just watched, stupefied. The door frame began to glow red hot, and steel grew over it. It was like a time lapse of ice forming, but with steel instead, glowing so intensely I could feel the heat even with several feet of space separating me from it. The creature still squirmed, still writhed, and shriveled up like toasted worm.
I’LL GET YOU! it screamed at me, I’LL GET YOU! I’LL GET YOU…! YOU…! I stared in horror as it gasped for air beneath the flames, fighting the inevitable shrinkage. YOU’RE…! MINE……!
My unknown savior snarled at it, and the creature tried to respond, breaking crusty skin to crane its head up at her… then it wheezed… and burnt to ashes.
As soon as it was gone, the room began to literally peel apart, its facade decaying, the rust-red frame beneath it curling up faster than the creature’s demise. All of the disintegrating parts sucked toward the blackened window - the closet, the bed, the curtains - until the window sucked itself inward. The vast, empty space left behind lasted only for a couple of seconds before the steel door frame cooled and filled itself in with drywall, blocking us from the deceitful pocket for good; now, the only thing remaining was the door frame, sitting in the wall as a warning of what used to be there.
An eerie silence fell. The throbbing in my right arm was subdued, but still there; a frightened look down at it revealed horrible, long, black gashes along it, and the flesh was inflamed red with darker veins, like the inside of that monster. I bit my lip to keep the flood of emotions and tears back, and looked up to my left.
Now that the hallway was miraculously clear - although it had the same, dilapidated appearance as the downstairs - I could see the large being beside me. Her back was turned, and adorned by huge, scaled wings, a sort of cross between a bat and a bird’s. The same large scales that decorated them covered her whole body, and on her head they streaked back in a crest of many horns. They also sprouted off her shoulders in towering spikes. A hefty tail lay curled up to her side, its tipped adorned with feather-like scales similar to her wings.
I stared at her, speechless for several long moments. Her back was hunched, and she said nothing, almost as if she regretted something, and she toyed with an orange light in front of her that I couldn’t see past her wings.
I sat up a bit further, grunting and wincing at the pain in my arm. I wrapped my unharmed hand around it where the wounds stopped and squeezed in hope it would help. I almost didn’t pay attention to it though, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
Then it dawned on me: the voice was familiar!
“M-Ms. Harrier?” I squeaked. The dark gold creature looked up, and the orange light disappeared. I quivered as she turned around.
Unlike the slime monster, she was more awing than terrifying… I still felt uneasy, but it was different, somehow. The scales decorated her like a suit of armor, and the spires on her shoulders were mimicked on her elbows and knees. Her toes were replaced by three broad claws on each foot, and hooked talons tipped her fingers. The only part of her that wasn’t scaled was her face and the front of her neck: they were both a solid, indiscernible black, but unlike the fog I felt as though there was some shape to it that I just couldn’t see. Because of this her face was invisible, except the eyes: they were a bright, piercing yellow, rectangular in shape with whiter pupils. It was completely alien, but I still felt a thousand times calmer than I did when I was attacked by that… thing.
Ms. Harrier - or what I thought was Ms. Harrier - stepped toward me and knelt down, examining my arm. She picked it up with both hands and shifted it so it was flat in her palms; I simply waited anxiously, not knowing what to expect next.
I should have expected fire, because that’s what suddenly erupted from it. I yelped out, half in surprise and half in pain as the intense heat engulfed it. The searing sensation was uncomfortable, but I didn’t notice it as much as the throbbing began to substantially decrease, the black gashes sizzling and closing up, reverting my arm back to its normal size. The creature didn’t waste a second in letting go once the last gash had diminished to a slit, and as quickly as it came, the fire was gone. Aside from a couple of unusual lines from where the gashes were and the reddened skin, the limb now looked completely normal; but that’s not how cauterization worked! Although, after having been attacked by something completely illogical, I didn’t care either.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until she stood up, helping me in the process by heaving me onto my feet. I wobbled uncertainly beside her, still amazed by the bizarre cauterization. “D-Did you heal me? Is it gone?” I asked.
“It’ll stave off the infection, for now,” the dragon-like person said; her voice sounded more open, in a way, now that I could hear it clearly. She sighed. “I knew it was a bad idea to show you… I should have just tried explaining instead. I didn’t realize he would go after you with me around.”
“I-I don’t understand…” I stammered, “Show me what? What is this place? What was that monster? What are you?”
“I’m June Harrier,” the being said, “Or just Harrier, now that my mother has left… I have a lot to tell you.”
Believing that, I cautiously took a daring step forward.
“Agh!” I yelped. My hands flew to the handrail and held onto it tight, one foot still on the step, the other dangling beneath me. Nothing! There were no steps down!
I heaved myself up onto the step, staring down into the darkness I nearly fell into. How was that even possible?! If I was hallucinating I would have landed on something, right?
…I need to find Ms. Harrier. This is absurd. She directed me to the mirror so she must know what’s going on.
I turned and went up the stairs, cautious with the first steps to ensure that they were actually there. The stairs were long, and I kept one hand on the rail and the other on the wall to feel my way up, and eventually my feet came onto a level floor. I moved my right hand to feel around in front of me, suspecting it was another landing. There was space, so I took a step forward, keeping my left hand on the railing; another step, and my left hand stopped. I paused to feel the end of the railing. This must be the top, then?
I sighed and let go of it, exasperated by how much of a chore this became. I came here though to write a story, so I was going to leave with one even if it meant exploring this entire house! Although I do wish I brought my handbag with me… my hand was a bit sweaty from gripping the handrail so tightly.
I tried not to think about my lack of tissues and looked around for any indication of where to go. It was still utter blackness all around, even the stairs I just walked up, except for my left: a strange, ambient glow highlighted things just enough for me to see that it was a hallway. It was quite long too, with six doors going down its length. I could see the glint of the doorknobs and the rims of panels on each one, suggesting each was closed; yet I saw an additional line of light on the third door down. Puzzled as to why I was seeing things so strangely, I decided to take a deep breath and approach the door, sure in my step. I may be hallucinating, but at least I could still see clues as to where Ms. Harrier went. Though, my heart pounded with growing unease, and my doubt returned with the quick reminder that a disappearing staircase is not a trick of the senses.
Reasoning drowned out the fear, though. I walked up to the door, boldly calling out, “Ms. Harrier? Are you here? I know someone is.”
To my surprise, the door creaked, stopping me in my tracks, and the odd light on its edge grew a little wider. So it opened? Why was it the only open one?
“Ms. Harrier?” I asked, coming up to the door more slowly. “You better be in there. I asked for an interview, not… whatever this is!” I nearly grumbled the last part, becoming annoyed. “What did you put in the tea?”
There was no response. I sighed and folded my arms, thinking about what to do next, and decided to knock to grab her - or whoever’s - attention. It looked heavy and made of solid wood, but before my knuckles even touched it, the door swung all the way open with an aching squeak.
I froze, studying the room before me. I couldn’t see anything… but something was off. Like the blackness had a sort of… stench, but I could only feel it, as rough and grating as the wall texture. The air was heavy and stagnant. My whole body was prickling now, and it wasn’t just unease.
I regretted my decision; but it was just a hallucination, right? You can’t feel a smell. Every instinctual reaction said otherwise though: I tried to turn around to check the other doors, but I wouldn’t move. I opened my mouth to demand for Ms. Harrier, but nothing came out. I felt rising panic as I couldn’t piece together what was going on.
I closed my eyes and gave my head a small shake. Get ahold of yourself, Flora! It’s just the drug! I scolded myself, You’re just confused. It’s just a room. Just make sure it has a floor, first… I almost chuckled aloud at the thought, already feeling silly about how I thought the stairs were gone. Ridiculous! The mind sure can be fooled easily.
The thought seemed to trigger something. Suddenly, I saw, somehow, some… figure, who I couldn’t place but I knew was important. She was waving me inside - she? Wait, that was Ms. Harrier!
“There you are!” I gasped, surprised by the clear image; the blackness, the stagnation, the unease, it all vanished! Did the drug wear off? “I’ve been looking for you!”
She just smiled, her eyes wide and clearly focused. She gestured at the goldenrod-and-olive gown she wore in explanation, “I just wanted to change into something more formal.”
“But why?” I asked, “Though don’t get me wrong, it’s very pretty - but why so suddenly? And what was with the torn-up house?”
“Torn-up house?” she echoed, looking at me in surprise.
I opened my mouth, but was uncertain of how to explain the strange environment I just witnessed. It had started and ended so suddenly; this room even looked okay now, with ordinary blue walls, a single window in the back, with the same cream curtains and a twin bed nearby. It even had a closet to the right, which was open and revealed several other dresses, including the worn pastel one I saw Ms. Harrier in earlier. So instead I said tersely, “Did you put something in the tea? I was very confused for a little bit.”
She was bemused for a second, before her face suddenly lit up in realization. “Oh!...” she gasped softly, “I… must have mixed up some of the herbs… I hope you weren’t hurt!”
“Not at all,” I said, instantly forgiving. “I know you’re mourning your mother, but you ought to be more careful!”
“Yes,” she agreed readily, nodding. Then her smile returned, and she came up to me cordially. “Let’s go dump that tea and continue the interview.”
“Gladly,” I said, relieved that the whole mess was resolved. It still didn’t explain the missing stairs, but… on second thought, maybe I just slipped and thought the stairs were gone. You react strangely when seeing strange things, logically.
Ms. Harrier gestured for me to go first, and I did so, turning back to the hallway.
It was filled with blackness, thicker than morning fog. The same blackness...? My jaw dropped in shock, confusion erupting in my mind. Then the horror dropped into a pit in my stomach when I felt something slimy and cold latch onto my side. I whipped around.
Ms. Harrier’s face was split down the middle, both halves parted with suckers lining them like teeth. The split continued down her body as if she were a dissected frog, the ribs poking out like fangs, the inside a pulsing, throbbing mass of red flesh. The hair was gone and the bulging eyes were an ugly, veiny silver. The dress slipped off as the amorphous, snotty creature slurped onto me, the insect limbs on its back clawing at my face and trying to pull me into the gaping jaws.
I didn’t know what the hell it was. I didn’t know why it smelled so bad I gagged before screaming, or why it was slimy and sticky at the same time, or why it made those horrible gulping noises as it tried to eat me, or why my skin hurt so bad it was like being stabbed by millions of pins and needles! I was both frozen and in outright panic. My free left arm swung wildly, grasping for something to pull me out. I tried to kick away but the creature’s mouth was glued to me. I couldn’t feel my right arm anymore. The creature was growing in size. I punched its face and the fist sunk into its face like it was bread dough, cold and somehow clumpy. I gagged again, resumed screaming, somehow drowned out by its disgusting hacking noises. It pulled me to the floor and I kicked at it, trying to pull my right arm free and ignore its filthiness at the same time. The further I pushed it back, the further it turned itself inside out, remaining attached to me.
At this point I was sobbing. I was still hallucinating, right? Right?! What was happening?!
I opened my mouth wide and screamed out,
“HEEEEEELLLLLPPPP!”
I gave that scream all of the energy I had; or at least, I thought I did, until the creature reacted to it by somehow making the painful prickling worse. I shrieked as I felt a hundred somethings stab into my right arm, and suddenly I could feel it again - just not the way I wanted.
DON’T CALL IT. The voice, with no origin and a tone as pleasant as brackish water, rang loud in my head. I didn’t recognize it as a man, or a woman, or anything remotely similar, so I screamed again and my lungs tightened up in pain, unaccustomed to it.
DON’T CALL IT! the voice screeched. I grimaced at the creature, tears streaking down my face, terrified at how close its “face” was to mine.
Then I suddenly felt more pain in my opposite side. A different pain, two in groups of five, not throbbing, but sharp. I cried out in realization that they were claws. It was going to tear me apart!
The claws yanked me away from the creature, and it lurched. The throbbing pain in my arm lessened a tiny bit but the beast remained.
NO! the voice snarled defiantly. The claws were helping?!
“Get me away!” I pleaded, willing to take the save, “Please!”
NOOOOO! the angry voice drowned me out, SHE’S MINE! SHE CAME TO ME! MINE!!
The claws sank in for a better grip, but somehow it was less excruciating than this slimy thing attached to me. I reached for the claws’ source with my free hand. It found something rough and scaly and I latched onto it. The beast began screaming and cursing deafeningly as I was torn away, its grip on me slipping. MIIIINE!! MIIIIIINNEEE!!!!!
It tried to pursue me, but I was pulled through something cold, suffocating, and dark: the stagnant blackness. It lasted for only a moment before I was suddenly thrown to the floor, free of the dark and of the creature! Free! It was no longer on me!
The sensation in my arm returned fully and I sat up, kicking away from the door, putting my back up against the wall. Through the veil of blackness I could see the creature still in the facade of a room, and it rushed at me, still screaming about how it owned me.
“You own NO ONE!” Another voice split the air, high and harsh like an eagle, and there was a bright flash! I gasped, unable to close my eyes before the light dissipated. The creature’s raving turned into cries of agony as it combusted and writhed in flames.
I just watched, stupefied. The door frame began to glow red hot, and steel grew over it. It was like a time lapse of ice forming, but with steel instead, glowing so intensely I could feel the heat even with several feet of space separating me from it. The creature still squirmed, still writhed, and shriveled up like toasted worm.
I’LL GET YOU! it screamed at me, I’LL GET YOU! I’LL GET YOU…! YOU…! I stared in horror as it gasped for air beneath the flames, fighting the inevitable shrinkage. YOU’RE…! MINE……!
My unknown savior snarled at it, and the creature tried to respond, breaking crusty skin to crane its head up at her… then it wheezed… and burnt to ashes.
As soon as it was gone, the room began to literally peel apart, its facade decaying, the rust-red frame beneath it curling up faster than the creature’s demise. All of the disintegrating parts sucked toward the blackened window - the closet, the bed, the curtains - until the window sucked itself inward. The vast, empty space left behind lasted only for a couple of seconds before the steel door frame cooled and filled itself in with drywall, blocking us from the deceitful pocket for good; now, the only thing remaining was the door frame, sitting in the wall as a warning of what used to be there.
An eerie silence fell. The throbbing in my right arm was subdued, but still there; a frightened look down at it revealed horrible, long, black gashes along it, and the flesh was inflamed red with darker veins, like the inside of that monster. I bit my lip to keep the flood of emotions and tears back, and looked up to my left.
Now that the hallway was miraculously clear - although it had the same, dilapidated appearance as the downstairs - I could see the large being beside me. Her back was turned, and adorned by huge, scaled wings, a sort of cross between a bat and a bird’s. The same large scales that decorated them covered her whole body, and on her head they streaked back in a crest of many horns. They also sprouted off her shoulders in towering spikes. A hefty tail lay curled up to her side, its tipped adorned with feather-like scales similar to her wings.
I stared at her, speechless for several long moments. Her back was hunched, and she said nothing, almost as if she regretted something, and she toyed with an orange light in front of her that I couldn’t see past her wings.
I sat up a bit further, grunting and wincing at the pain in my arm. I wrapped my unharmed hand around it where the wounds stopped and squeezed in hope it would help. I almost didn’t pay attention to it though, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
Then it dawned on me: the voice was familiar!
“M-Ms. Harrier?” I squeaked. The dark gold creature looked up, and the orange light disappeared. I quivered as she turned around.
Unlike the slime monster, she was more awing than terrifying… I still felt uneasy, but it was different, somehow. The scales decorated her like a suit of armor, and the spires on her shoulders were mimicked on her elbows and knees. Her toes were replaced by three broad claws on each foot, and hooked talons tipped her fingers. The only part of her that wasn’t scaled was her face and the front of her neck: they were both a solid, indiscernible black, but unlike the fog I felt as though there was some shape to it that I just couldn’t see. Because of this her face was invisible, except the eyes: they were a bright, piercing yellow, rectangular in shape with whiter pupils. It was completely alien, but I still felt a thousand times calmer than I did when I was attacked by that… thing.
Ms. Harrier - or what I thought was Ms. Harrier - stepped toward me and knelt down, examining my arm. She picked it up with both hands and shifted it so it was flat in her palms; I simply waited anxiously, not knowing what to expect next.
I should have expected fire, because that’s what suddenly erupted from it. I yelped out, half in surprise and half in pain as the intense heat engulfed it. The searing sensation was uncomfortable, but I didn’t notice it as much as the throbbing began to substantially decrease, the black gashes sizzling and closing up, reverting my arm back to its normal size. The creature didn’t waste a second in letting go once the last gash had diminished to a slit, and as quickly as it came, the fire was gone. Aside from a couple of unusual lines from where the gashes were and the reddened skin, the limb now looked completely normal; but that’s not how cauterization worked! Although, after having been attacked by something completely illogical, I didn’t care either.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until she stood up, helping me in the process by heaving me onto my feet. I wobbled uncertainly beside her, still amazed by the bizarre cauterization. “D-Did you heal me? Is it gone?” I asked.
“It’ll stave off the infection, for now,” the dragon-like person said; her voice sounded more open, in a way, now that I could hear it clearly. She sighed. “I knew it was a bad idea to show you… I should have just tried explaining instead. I didn’t realize he would go after you with me around.”
“I-I don’t understand…” I stammered, “Show me what? What is this place? What was that monster? What are you?”
“I’m June Harrier,” the being said, “Or just Harrier, now that my mother has left… I have a lot to tell you.”
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