April 2010. Written as part of the "Three Word Game" I made up for /x/.
Everyone had heard the rumours about her, those tantalising tales that told of how you could ask her any question, and she'd tell you the answer... for a price. Sure, same old stuff everyone's heard a hundred times, right? Well, Gabriella Wallace certainly fit the profile:
Long, scraggly grey hair that went down to her hips; fingers like bones, the skin just hanging off of them like a deflated balloon; broken, crooked teeth. She even lived in that house in the woods, from which everyone swore issued faint cries at night. What intrigued me most about her, however, was that she never went outside without her hood drawn up over her head, shielding her eyes from being seen. Summer nights that sweltered with humidity, late Autumn evenings rife with lightning bugs, no matter the day-- she'd never go outside without her hood.
Curiosity got the best of me one day, you know. It always does. I got off of work, and on the way home I passed the road that led into the woods, through those somehow-terrifying trees that grew just on the city line.
Of course, it was natural. I had to go back and take the road through the woods. Just to look. Not to stop.
So I drove through those trees, you know the kind. The kind that make you slow down, make your eyes dart back and forth to catch every movement in them, make your blood pressure rise for no reason. Then, just like that, I was driving past the footpath that led up to the old house. I was just going to take a look. I wasn't going to get close, I wasn't going to knock or anything, Just look.
I locked my car, stuck my keys into my pocket. Only a quick look, I told myself, only to see the place. When my knuckles hit the door, though, I was already in too deep. The wooden door was cracked, warped, rotting, but it swung open slightly when I tapped on it, just like in all the movies.
I was only going to take a look inside, and if there was anything there I was going to book it back to my car, hit the gas, and get out of there. Nothing more. But then, how many promises to myself had I broken already? Just how daring did I think I was?
hrough one of the old, crumbling door frames, I could see flickering light, like that given off by a candelabra. No, don't go that way, of course that's the wring way to go, I told myself, but there is no impetus like a man's morbid curiosity to push him from behind into the room. In the room, dimly lit by the flickering light of five candles on a wooden table, sat that old crone Wallace, in a rocking chair by an empty, cold hearth. I stumbled a bit, startled, and started to try to find words of excuse, something to forgive myself for intruding, and then run like hell, but before I even had a chance, the hooded lady motioned to the table, to a chair which sat where no chair was just seconds ago.
I should have known better, in hindsight, but then, of course hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn't it? I barely even hesitated! I just waltzed over to the table and sat down.
You're not too uncomfortable, are you? Good. I think it's difficult to listen to stories when one is uncomfortable. Let's continue.
She was on the other side of the table, where she was not, just a second ago. I could only see her mouth, twisted and wrinkled, under her hood, but it was definitely just like I had heard-- cracked, dry, old. A crooked tooth poked out from one side. All I could do is stare. Don't you think that's impolite?
"Ask," she said, her voice reminding me of fingernails on old paper. But ask what? I hadn't actually expected anything like this! I didn't think beforehand of what I would ask if she WERE there, if she were even real. My throat was really, really dry. You know how it gets, when you are about to talk, and suddenly you choke?
I thought about it for a second, and the first question that popped into my head was "What are you?" Foolish, I know. Such questions should be left for AFTER she grants you the magic wish or hands you the pot of gold or whatever, but I wasn't really thinking too far ahead. She smiled, her rows of crooked, broken teeth like a razor-wire fence behind her grey lips.
"A collector," she replied, and she leaned up just enough for me to see her eyes. Her eyes! God, I'd never seen something like them before. They were red, black, decaying! Like some sort of pus-spewing corpuscle whose very existence was a sin!
"And just now, child, I'm in need of new ones," she said. But! She didn't take mine, no. As you can see, I still have both of my eyes, clear and healthy. No, that's the rub: she's got herself a helper, now. And let's be honest-- you don't really need your eyes, do you? Honestly?
You're not too uncomfortable, right? The straps are not too tight? Good, good. Let's begin the extraction. This might hurt.
No comments:
Post a Comment