Sinking (7/13)
Title: Sinking, Part 7
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Some violent imagery at the start of this one.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
Something was wrong with his head. It didn't hurt, it didn't itch, he just knew something was wrong. He ran his hands over his face, through his hair, dreading the moment his fingers would slide over some anomaly. But he didn't feel anything, not a bump, not a scar, and the wrong feeling just got worse. He began to panic, fingers skittering over his face and scalp, hair getting caught between the digits, nails scratching his skin. Still nothing, still that growing horror. Hair ripped out of his head, his face burned as his nails tore it open, and a scream surged up his throat as he finally lowered his arms to stare at his trembling blood-covered hands.
“Stephen!” A sharp whisper. Stephen's eyes snapped open and he abruptly sat up. “Jesus!” Allison hissed, recoiling and pressing a hand to her chest.
He quickly checked his palms. Clean. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of this hand and breathed deeply. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.
She frowned. “I thought you were gone already,” she said. “Practically everyone else is. It's like a race to see who's last one left with the ghost.”
He wanted to say there was no ghost, even though he knew she didn't believe it, but the nightmare kept replaying in his head.
“You alright?” she asked, peering at him in the dim room.
He hesitated, but nodded. “Bad dream is all,” he said with a cough. He checked the clock. Nearly eleven. He'd been asleep for about two hours. He didn't feel very refreshed, though, after yet another disastrous day, starting with Jon's bewildered phone call and ending with an unhumored audience.
“What are you still doing here?” Stephen groaned.
“Had some calls to make, did a little writing, got on a roll.” She rubbed his shoulder. “You look like hell, Stephen. Go get some sleep at home. There isn't even anyone waiting outside.”
He got up and stretched. She picked her purse up off the floor and asked, “Want me to walk out with you?”
He shook his head, jerking his thumb towards the computer. “I'll be a few more minutes. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Alright. Goodnight!”
“Night,” he replied, sitting down at his desk.
“Stephen?”
He looked up. Allison lingered in the doorway with an encouraging smile. “It'll get better. It's just a slump.”
He managed to smile back, but only until she left. He spent fifteen minutes saving open files, doing a quick check of Google News and scribbling ideas on a notepad, and listening to a couple messages. During all this he tried to pull his thoughts from his dream, but of course the more he tried not to think about it, the more insistent the imagery became. Finally he gave up. He shut the computer down, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.
He was downstairs in the entry hall, a few yards from the front door, when the lights went out. He stopped dead in his tracks, confused at first, then annoyed as he felt the fear creep up. Lights went out all the time. No big deal. No ghost.
He wasn't sure if he should leave. There was probably one or two of the cleaning staff still around, and they were adults capable of caring for themselves, but it was pretty rude leaving them in the dark. He turned around and called down the hall, “Hello?” He didn't get a response and called out again. “Hey! You need help with the lights?” Nothing again.
Maybe he really was the only one left? It was not a comforting thought, even if he didn't believe in ghosts. The building was undeniably eerie: dark, quiet, the only light coming in from outside, through the streaked glass of the door ahead. The studio strangely felt like it was abandoned, not like everyone had gone home, but like they had disappeared.
Stephen scowled. Someone else had to be there. If not the building manager, then one of the custodians, if only to lock up for the night. He ventured to yell out for anyone again, and again got no response. Maybe they were upstairs and couldn't hear. Maybe they were hurt, he suddenly thought. But rather than trip around the building, it would be better to get the lights back on.
Really, he could've easily left. He wasn't afraid the building wouldn't be locked up properly. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid.
He made his way down the dark hallway, to the door to the basement. He pulled it open, ignoring its strained creak, and purposefully went right down the stairs without hesitation. It was darker than upstairs, with no windows for light, so he took out his phone and opened it, shining the blue glow around the subterranean room. It was a storage space mostly, containing stacks of boxes and some props that never made it upstairs. Ignoring an inexplicable chill, he crossed the room and opened the door on the other side. He shined his phone across the boiler and over to the wall where the circuit breaker waited. He pulled open the panel and examined the switches; only the main one was off, and he turned it back on. Nothing. But then again, he hadn't switched on the basement light before coming down here.
He closed the panel and went back into the first room, heading right for the stairs. He looked up as he ascended, his phone light revealing that the door was closed. His gut twisted, but he told himself to relax. It could've easily swung shut. He made a point of turning the light switch on before trying the door. Light flooded the concrete room and zapped up the stairs into his eyes, and he fumbled for a moment to get his phone back in his pocket. Then he tried the door.
The knob didn't turn. He rattled it, slammed into the door with his shoulder, and it didn't budge. That's when it occurred to him: maybe whoever had attacked Katie was in the building with him, had trapped him down here. Suddenly it seemed perfectly reasonable to panic.
A drawn-out sigh drifted around the basement, and it wasn't his.
He didn't want to look. Not because he was afraid of the person who'd clawed Katie's cheek off, but because the voice sounded nothing like a person. It was wispy, ethereal, didn't seem to come from any certain spot. He forced himself to turn his head, to look down the stairs, and he saw a long shadow, like someone standing in front of a bright light shining from the boiler room. Stephen couldn't see that doorway from the top of the stairs, and didn't want to see, and he pounded the door with his fists, screaming for help. But no one answered, no one came, and the door still wouldn't open. He glanced back and God help him, the shadow stretched, extending across the floor to the foot of the stairs. Stephen flattened his back against the door when the lengthening shadow crooked sharply, slinking up the steps towards his feet.
He was trapped. There was nothing he could do. Nothing nothing nothing nothing... "O God," he gasped, closing his eyes, bowing his head, "Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils that by reason of the weakness of our nature we cannot stand upright..." It was cold, so so cold. "... grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome--"
He fell.
He wasn't sure if God had saved him or if the shadow had swallowed him up. But when he landed hard on his back and snapped his eyes open, he found he was looking up at a custodian's surprised face. His mind went momentarily blank.
“Yo, Mr. Colbert!” Darren exclaimed, pulling Stephen to his feet. “You alright, man?”
“I... I...” It took a few moments for Stephen to piece it together, that Darren had opened the door, that he had been leaning against the door, that that was why he had been on the floor. He looked down the stairs and saw nothing. He swallowed. “It was locked.”
“Opened just fine without a key,” Darren replied. “Must've been stuck. Still, all that hollerin' and slammin', I thought you were dying in there.”
“I just... I...” How could he explain?
Darren just seemed to think Stephen was easily spooked. “Must've taken you some balls to go down there in the pitch black to begin with if you react like that to a stuck door!” he chuckled. He gestured to the front door with his keys. “You ready to go for the night?”
"Yeah. Thanks. S-see you tomorrow," Stephen said quickly, backing away from the basement door. He lost his restraint after only a few steps. Not caring how he looked, he turned and ran, slamming his way out the door.
He struggled to sleep that night, but even with the dog sleeping peacefully at the foot of his and Evie's bed, the shadows on the walls seemed to shift without reason.
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Some violent imagery at the start of this one.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
Something was wrong with his head. It didn't hurt, it didn't itch, he just knew something was wrong. He ran his hands over his face, through his hair, dreading the moment his fingers would slide over some anomaly. But he didn't feel anything, not a bump, not a scar, and the wrong feeling just got worse. He began to panic, fingers skittering over his face and scalp, hair getting caught between the digits, nails scratching his skin. Still nothing, still that growing horror. Hair ripped out of his head, his face burned as his nails tore it open, and a scream surged up his throat as he finally lowered his arms to stare at his trembling blood-covered hands.
“Stephen!” A sharp whisper. Stephen's eyes snapped open and he abruptly sat up. “Jesus!” Allison hissed, recoiling and pressing a hand to her chest.
He quickly checked his palms. Clean. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of this hand and breathed deeply. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.
She frowned. “I thought you were gone already,” she said. “Practically everyone else is. It's like a race to see who's last one left with the ghost.”
He wanted to say there was no ghost, even though he knew she didn't believe it, but the nightmare kept replaying in his head.
“You alright?” she asked, peering at him in the dim room.
He hesitated, but nodded. “Bad dream is all,” he said with a cough. He checked the clock. Nearly eleven. He'd been asleep for about two hours. He didn't feel very refreshed, though, after yet another disastrous day, starting with Jon's bewildered phone call and ending with an unhumored audience.
“What are you still doing here?” Stephen groaned.
“Had some calls to make, did a little writing, got on a roll.” She rubbed his shoulder. “You look like hell, Stephen. Go get some sleep at home. There isn't even anyone waiting outside.”
He got up and stretched. She picked her purse up off the floor and asked, “Want me to walk out with you?”
He shook his head, jerking his thumb towards the computer. “I'll be a few more minutes. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Alright. Goodnight!”
“Night,” he replied, sitting down at his desk.
“Stephen?”
He looked up. Allison lingered in the doorway with an encouraging smile. “It'll get better. It's just a slump.”
He managed to smile back, but only until she left. He spent fifteen minutes saving open files, doing a quick check of Google News and scribbling ideas on a notepad, and listening to a couple messages. During all this he tried to pull his thoughts from his dream, but of course the more he tried not to think about it, the more insistent the imagery became. Finally he gave up. He shut the computer down, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.
He was downstairs in the entry hall, a few yards from the front door, when the lights went out. He stopped dead in his tracks, confused at first, then annoyed as he felt the fear creep up. Lights went out all the time. No big deal. No ghost.
He wasn't sure if he should leave. There was probably one or two of the cleaning staff still around, and they were adults capable of caring for themselves, but it was pretty rude leaving them in the dark. He turned around and called down the hall, “Hello?” He didn't get a response and called out again. “Hey! You need help with the lights?” Nothing again.
Maybe he really was the only one left? It was not a comforting thought, even if he didn't believe in ghosts. The building was undeniably eerie: dark, quiet, the only light coming in from outside, through the streaked glass of the door ahead. The studio strangely felt like it was abandoned, not like everyone had gone home, but like they had disappeared.
Stephen scowled. Someone else had to be there. If not the building manager, then one of the custodians, if only to lock up for the night. He ventured to yell out for anyone again, and again got no response. Maybe they were upstairs and couldn't hear. Maybe they were hurt, he suddenly thought. But rather than trip around the building, it would be better to get the lights back on.
Really, he could've easily left. He wasn't afraid the building wouldn't be locked up properly. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid.
He made his way down the dark hallway, to the door to the basement. He pulled it open, ignoring its strained creak, and purposefully went right down the stairs without hesitation. It was darker than upstairs, with no windows for light, so he took out his phone and opened it, shining the blue glow around the subterranean room. It was a storage space mostly, containing stacks of boxes and some props that never made it upstairs. Ignoring an inexplicable chill, he crossed the room and opened the door on the other side. He shined his phone across the boiler and over to the wall where the circuit breaker waited. He pulled open the panel and examined the switches; only the main one was off, and he turned it back on. Nothing. But then again, he hadn't switched on the basement light before coming down here.
He closed the panel and went back into the first room, heading right for the stairs. He looked up as he ascended, his phone light revealing that the door was closed. His gut twisted, but he told himself to relax. It could've easily swung shut. He made a point of turning the light switch on before trying the door. Light flooded the concrete room and zapped up the stairs into his eyes, and he fumbled for a moment to get his phone back in his pocket. Then he tried the door.
The knob didn't turn. He rattled it, slammed into the door with his shoulder, and it didn't budge. That's when it occurred to him: maybe whoever had attacked Katie was in the building with him, had trapped him down here. Suddenly it seemed perfectly reasonable to panic.
A drawn-out sigh drifted around the basement, and it wasn't his.
He didn't want to look. Not because he was afraid of the person who'd clawed Katie's cheek off, but because the voice sounded nothing like a person. It was wispy, ethereal, didn't seem to come from any certain spot. He forced himself to turn his head, to look down the stairs, and he saw a long shadow, like someone standing in front of a bright light shining from the boiler room. Stephen couldn't see that doorway from the top of the stairs, and didn't want to see, and he pounded the door with his fists, screaming for help. But no one answered, no one came, and the door still wouldn't open. He glanced back and God help him, the shadow stretched, extending across the floor to the foot of the stairs. Stephen flattened his back against the door when the lengthening shadow crooked sharply, slinking up the steps towards his feet.
He was trapped. There was nothing he could do. Nothing nothing nothing nothing... "O God," he gasped, closing his eyes, bowing his head, "Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils that by reason of the weakness of our nature we cannot stand upright..." It was cold, so so cold. "... grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome--"
He fell.
He wasn't sure if God had saved him or if the shadow had swallowed him up. But when he landed hard on his back and snapped his eyes open, he found he was looking up at a custodian's surprised face. His mind went momentarily blank.
“Yo, Mr. Colbert!” Darren exclaimed, pulling Stephen to his feet. “You alright, man?”
“I... I...” It took a few moments for Stephen to piece it together, that Darren had opened the door, that he had been leaning against the door, that that was why he had been on the floor. He looked down the stairs and saw nothing. He swallowed. “It was locked.”
“Opened just fine without a key,” Darren replied. “Must've been stuck. Still, all that hollerin' and slammin', I thought you were dying in there.”
“I just... I...” How could he explain?
Darren just seemed to think Stephen was easily spooked. “Must've taken you some balls to go down there in the pitch black to begin with if you react like that to a stuck door!” he chuckled. He gestured to the front door with his keys. “You ready to go for the night?”
"Yeah. Thanks. S-see you tomorrow," Stephen said quickly, backing away from the basement door. He lost his restraint after only a few steps. Not caring how he looked, he turned and ran, slamming his way out the door.
He struggled to sleep that night, but even with the dog sleeping peacefully at the foot of his and Evie's bed, the shadows on the walls seemed to shift without reason.