This had gone badly wrong. The burglar felt his way up the familiar staircase in absolute darkness. Not an ideal situation, but stealth necessitated overriding the convenience of being able to see. Truth be told, while the darkness was intimidating, he was far more afraid of what the light might show him.
It was not an old house, yet every crack of the stairs and scuff of Bryce’s feet against the worn carpet betrayed his presence as if he were ringing a bell. Leaning gently forward to spread his weight over hands and feet just seemed to multiply the sound rather than diminish it. The problem wasn’t his weight, it was the mouldering wood itself.
A silent smile filled the air and The Thing that was in here with him seemed to be enjoying itself; in no hurry to end this game, even if it stalled in making its own moves. He could hear short breaths rasping theatrically in front of him. Panicking, Bryce stopped. But which other way could he go now? Doubling back down the stairs with no light would almost certainly create more noise, not to mention more uncertainty in navigating them safely. Bryce twisted his head round more quickly than he should, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to send him crashing to the bottom. Through the white noise reverberating in his brain he could hear the breathing down the stairs, too. Then, just managing to stifle a sob of hysterical relief, Bryce admonished himself for an utter fool; that had been his own breath.
He forced himself on, as silently as shaking limbs could manage. The combination of screaming nerves and stress-amplified tinnitus meant that Bryce could no longer be sure how much noise he was making anyway, not that this was an excuse for carelessness.
Having lost count of the stairs once he took to all fours in their ascent, Bryce exhaled more loudly than he should have when, instead of reaching upward to the next step, his right hand collapsed loudly onto the flat landing. This part was over, at least. Straightening would be tricky while maintaining any level of silence or balance, and so he resolved to stick to floor-level until he was safely inside his old bedroom.
The now-empty landing reduced the chance of bumping into furniture at least, but it also stripped away some of Bryce’s spatial instinct – especially crouched at this height. The floorboards beneath him proved to be no less treacherous than their splintered comrades on the stairs, and the creaks half way to his door again tempted him to stand up and give in. But why come this far only to embrace defeat? He owed more to himself at any rate, and certainly to the others. Wherever they'd gotten to.
Not far now, just-- Bryce wasn’t sure if his hand or his head hit the bedroom door first, but the result was the same; shock from the impact followed by the crushing realisation that the old, round doorknob would make more noise in its opening than everything else combined. Perhaps he could stand, open the door and slide through in one fluid motion? Unlikely, given the protesting ache already resident in his knees.
Reaching blindly above him, Bryce gingerly felt for the handle. Slightly sticky to his touch, he eased it downward to try and minimise its loose rattle and slowly - excruciatingly - turned it toward him. He felt the latch slide through the housing and pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges.
Scuttling inside on hands and knees, Bryce pushed the door closed behind him as it audibly protested once again. And breathe.
Reaching into a jacket pocket, Bryce retrieved his phone. Holding his breath, he pressed the power button once, its faint plastic click being nothing in comparison to the screen illuminating and advertising his face, at the expense of his own limited night-accustomed vision. But there was nothing else for it.
Slowly, deeply exhaling then holding his breath, Bryce slid up the control center on the phone’s screen and activated the torch-mode...
The Thing appeared in his vision instantly, with horrifying floodlit clarity. And it was far too close. It was inches away, and the lack of scuffling noises meant he'd probably crawled straight into its lair. Bryce didn’t scream. He didn’t even whimper. Every instinct was now anaesthetised by sheer crippling terror.
Flesh hung off The Thing’s face in bubbling, peeling ribbons, glistening in the torchlight as it shook in Bryce’s hand. Both of the eyes were technically intact, yet glazed over as if to suggest they were there for decoration, or perhaps a default convention, rather than actual use. It had found its way around effortlessly in the darkness, after all.
What was left of the jaw bobbed silently up and down on decaying sinews, with little left of lips to form words, but still undulating slightly to the left and right, as if in the vague memory of speech.
Faint puffs of steaming air plumed in the light between them, and Bryce realised that this is what he’d been able to smell since the power had cut off. Primal blackness surged up from beneath, its promise of swift and painless oblivion almost too tempting to refuse. But now was not the time for that reprieve, for who was to say how long it would last? What good to check out now, only to be roused in the agony of being torn apart by The Thing and whatever else it had dragged up with it?
All of this occurred in an instant, a rollercoaster of fear, reason and realisation compressed to a microsecond. When The Thing finally managed to make a noise, it was a short, high-pitched creak, exactly like the ones created by the stairs and door. No. Not like those. It was those. The Thing had been toying with him over every single stair.
And as Bryce inhaled after what seemed an eternity, The Thing seemed to grin in a lop-sided way. The burglar's own next sound was disbelieving yet instinctive:
“…mother?”
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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