Sinking (12/13)
Title: Sinking, Part 12
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.
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)
Stephen sat alone in the studio, in his office. He hadn't left the building since the meeting that morning. Evie had probably called in the afternoon. His cell phone was off, lying beside the memo handed out to the staff and posted in the halls.
Everyone else had gone home. They'd given up. But that was fine. This had never been about them, he realized. If it was, they would've felt the same wariness, the same daunted anticipation, the silent call.
This was about him, about getting his attention, about getting inside his head.
So he stayed, and he waited.
The sun had gone down, and it was dark. He'd never bothered with the lights. The light from the hall was giving him a headache as it was. His stomach growled, but he'd already realized hours earlier that he hadn't eaten since that half-slice of buttered toast for breakfast.
In the dim light, he watched the clock on the wall flick to 8:30.
“I hope you realize,” Stephen said quietly, “how rude it is to make me wait.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. said the clock.
“I guess we can't all be raised right.”
The ticking was interrupted by a car honk outside.
“If you were ever alive to be raised.”
The clock remained his only audience. It occurred to Stephen for the first time that day that, perhaps, he should go home.
He pushed his chair back and slowly stood, stretching his stiff joints. He slipped his unconscious phone into his pocket and looked around for his jacket. His eyes fell on the shadow in the hallway.
It stretched past his doorway from beyond his line of sight, and it swayed to and fro like someone in a pleasant daydream. A quiet, wavering sigh floated past Stephen's good ear, almost a moan, deep, longing, lingering.
“What are you?” Stephen whispered. A creeping feeling played along his spine.
Still no answer. He didn't hear the clock anymore, or even his own heartbeat. But he could see the shadow defying the light of the hallway and the deepening darkness of the office, could feel the temperature drop, like he'd fallen into a hole in the ice over a black lake.
“What do you want me to do?” Stephen choked out. Suddenly he couldn't tell if the shadow swayed on its feet or by its neck.
The lights flickered once, twice, and in a flash the shadow receded, retreating. Stephen chased after it, stumbling around his desk and throwing himself into the hall, colliding with something much more solid than a shadow.
“Whoa!” Jon exclaimed, grabbing Stephen's shoulders before the other man knocked him over. “Okay there?”
“Did you see it?!” Stephen shouted, looking frantically up and down the hall. “Where did it go?”
“Huh?”
“It was right here!” Stephen burst, waving his arms haphazardly.
“You and I are the only ones here,” Jon said carefully.
Stephen took a moment to breathe, and he realized that everything was normal. The light above buzzed steadily, the temperature no longer made him shiver, and they were, in fact, alone. Just him, Jon, and that pitying expression on Jon's face.
“Don't look at me like that!” Stephen snapped, whirling around and stalking back into his office.
Jon rested against the door frame as Stephen planted himself back behind his desk. “How am I supposed to look at you?” the graying man asked.
“Like I'm your friend, not some raving lunatic.” Stephen could hardly look at him, this man he trusted, this man who hadn't spoken a kind word to him in days. “What are you even doing here?”
“Evie called me. She said you didn't come home this morning. Why won't you answer your phone?”
“What, are you afraid a little solitude will really send me over the edge?” Stephen said with a bitter grin.
“More afraid that something bad could have happened to you, but here you are.” Jon stepped inside and glanced around the dark office. “Have you been here all day?” he asked, turning on the desk light.
Jon wasn't reacting to Stephen's tone the way he thought he would. He seemed bored, like Stephen was some petulant kid. Stephen gritted his teeth. “My time is my own business.”
“Well, if you don't mind, I need to talk to you.”
“I thought you were here for Evie,” Stephen said accusingly.
Jon didn't rise to the bait. He pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down. He was hesitant, Stephen thought suddenly. Maybe he had found something out, something more sinister than all this being in the staff's heads. But then he finally spoke. “We got you a new studio.”
Stephen stared. “I'm sorry?”
“Considering the stigma this place has gotten, the bad press, the faulty facilities, we think it'd be better for everyone if you just moved to a new studio.”
“You can't just do that!” Stephen snapped.
“Like hell I can't,” Jon retorted. “Allison agrees, Rich agrees, the guys at Comedy Central agree. We've already got a place lined up, not far from here.”
“You...” Stephen wanted to laugh, cry, scream. “You did this without me.”
“Everyone wants you to concentrate on your work the best you can. You can't do that here.”
Stephen rapped his fingers against his desk, locking Jon in a glare. “You kept this from me.”
“Do you remember what you told me when I asked you if you wanted to move?” Jon said, shooting back the glare as good as he got it. “You said it was probably all nothing. Then you said if it wasn't you'd want to see where it goes. You said it was okay to keep the staff in danger, even if that danger isn't real. This environment is no longer suitable for the show.”
Stephen didn't know what to say to that. He laughed. The sound was bitter and hard. “I'm not crazy.”
“I don't think you are,” Jon said carefully.
“Yes, you fucking do.”
“I don't. If I did I would've taken you off the show. I think you're stressed. And that's all,” Jon said with finality, getting up. “Let everyone know they're moving. End of story.”
The desk lamp hit the wall and the bulb shattered. Jon scrambled backwards so quickly that his chair fell over. He looked from the broken lamp back to Stephen through the sudden dark and their eyes locked. Stephen felt such terrible loathing. His fingernails tore into the arms of his chair and his head felt hot, like it was boiling, about to burst, and he snarled, “This building will burn to the ground before I leave.”
Jon didn't say anything, didn't move at first. Then he carefully extended his hand. “I think,” he said, “we should go for a walk.”
Stephen was repulsed by the gesture, and he pressed back into his chair. He didn't want to be here any more, but nothing was wrong here, everything was fine, and he could prove it if Jon would just leave him alone, but he didn't know what he would do if Jon left.
“Stephen. Come on.” Jon spoke slowly. “Get some fresh air. Clear your head.”
He didn't move.
Jon didn't either. “I don't know what's happening, okay? But you're my friend, and I think we should get out of here.”
Jon was talking to him like he was five years old, and God, he wanted to be, he wanted Jon to pick him up and carry him out of here because he didn't want to be here anymore but he couldn't leave. Oh, God, I feel like I'm dying.
“Stephen,” Jon said quietly, still holding out his hand.
Stephen's hand was shaking, but he forced it to move, forced his trembling fingers to wrap around Jon's.
Perhaps worse than the tension, the feeling like his body was an immovable iron shell, was when that feeling left, and it was instead like he had no support at all. He slumped forward in his chair and covered his face. Hot tears hit his palm.
Jon pulled him out of his seat and wordlessly led him out of the building.
It was cold outside. Stephen wrapped his arms around himself and took deep breaths. Slowly the hot dread dissipated, rose up and away from him, and he felt safe, like he could think calmly, not defensively. Suddenly he was very tired, and his eyelids closed halfway.
Jon peered at him. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” And suddenly he had no balance at all.
Everything went black for a moment. When Stephen opened his eyes he was on his knees on the sidewalk, and he heard Jon shouting at him. He looked up at his friend. Jon's hands held securely onto Stephen's shoulders, his form backlit by the white light over the studio door. Stephen reached up and put a hand on the side of Jon's face. Jon fell quiet and stared at him.
“Jon,” Stephen said, “I think you're an angel.”
The bewildered look on Jon's face switched to exasperation. “I think you're delirious.”
Stephen laughed. He didn't find anything funny.
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.
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)
Stephen sat alone in the studio, in his office. He hadn't left the building since the meeting that morning. Evie had probably called in the afternoon. His cell phone was off, lying beside the memo handed out to the staff and posted in the halls.
Everyone else had gone home. They'd given up. But that was fine. This had never been about them, he realized. If it was, they would've felt the same wariness, the same daunted anticipation, the silent call.
This was about him, about getting his attention, about getting inside his head.
So he stayed, and he waited.
The sun had gone down, and it was dark. He'd never bothered with the lights. The light from the hall was giving him a headache as it was. His stomach growled, but he'd already realized hours earlier that he hadn't eaten since that half-slice of buttered toast for breakfast.
In the dim light, he watched the clock on the wall flick to 8:30.
“I hope you realize,” Stephen said quietly, “how rude it is to make me wait.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. said the clock.
“I guess we can't all be raised right.”
The ticking was interrupted by a car honk outside.
“If you were ever alive to be raised.”
The clock remained his only audience. It occurred to Stephen for the first time that day that, perhaps, he should go home.
He pushed his chair back and slowly stood, stretching his stiff joints. He slipped his unconscious phone into his pocket and looked around for his jacket. His eyes fell on the shadow in the hallway.
It stretched past his doorway from beyond his line of sight, and it swayed to and fro like someone in a pleasant daydream. A quiet, wavering sigh floated past Stephen's good ear, almost a moan, deep, longing, lingering.
“What are you?” Stephen whispered. A creeping feeling played along his spine.
Still no answer. He didn't hear the clock anymore, or even his own heartbeat. But he could see the shadow defying the light of the hallway and the deepening darkness of the office, could feel the temperature drop, like he'd fallen into a hole in the ice over a black lake.
“What do you want me to do?” Stephen choked out. Suddenly he couldn't tell if the shadow swayed on its feet or by its neck.
The lights flickered once, twice, and in a flash the shadow receded, retreating. Stephen chased after it, stumbling around his desk and throwing himself into the hall, colliding with something much more solid than a shadow.
“Whoa!” Jon exclaimed, grabbing Stephen's shoulders before the other man knocked him over. “Okay there?”
“Did you see it?!” Stephen shouted, looking frantically up and down the hall. “Where did it go?”
“Huh?”
“It was right here!” Stephen burst, waving his arms haphazardly.
“You and I are the only ones here,” Jon said carefully.
Stephen took a moment to breathe, and he realized that everything was normal. The light above buzzed steadily, the temperature no longer made him shiver, and they were, in fact, alone. Just him, Jon, and that pitying expression on Jon's face.
“Don't look at me like that!” Stephen snapped, whirling around and stalking back into his office.
Jon rested against the door frame as Stephen planted himself back behind his desk. “How am I supposed to look at you?” the graying man asked.
“Like I'm your friend, not some raving lunatic.” Stephen could hardly look at him, this man he trusted, this man who hadn't spoken a kind word to him in days. “What are you even doing here?”
“Evie called me. She said you didn't come home this morning. Why won't you answer your phone?”
“What, are you afraid a little solitude will really send me over the edge?” Stephen said with a bitter grin.
“More afraid that something bad could have happened to you, but here you are.” Jon stepped inside and glanced around the dark office. “Have you been here all day?” he asked, turning on the desk light.
Jon wasn't reacting to Stephen's tone the way he thought he would. He seemed bored, like Stephen was some petulant kid. Stephen gritted his teeth. “My time is my own business.”
“Well, if you don't mind, I need to talk to you.”
“I thought you were here for Evie,” Stephen said accusingly.
Jon didn't rise to the bait. He pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down. He was hesitant, Stephen thought suddenly. Maybe he had found something out, something more sinister than all this being in the staff's heads. But then he finally spoke. “We got you a new studio.”
Stephen stared. “I'm sorry?”
“Considering the stigma this place has gotten, the bad press, the faulty facilities, we think it'd be better for everyone if you just moved to a new studio.”
“You can't just do that!” Stephen snapped.
“Like hell I can't,” Jon retorted. “Allison agrees, Rich agrees, the guys at Comedy Central agree. We've already got a place lined up, not far from here.”
“You...” Stephen wanted to laugh, cry, scream. “You did this without me.”
“Everyone wants you to concentrate on your work the best you can. You can't do that here.”
Stephen rapped his fingers against his desk, locking Jon in a glare. “You kept this from me.”
“Do you remember what you told me when I asked you if you wanted to move?” Jon said, shooting back the glare as good as he got it. “You said it was probably all nothing. Then you said if it wasn't you'd want to see where it goes. You said it was okay to keep the staff in danger, even if that danger isn't real. This environment is no longer suitable for the show.”
Stephen didn't know what to say to that. He laughed. The sound was bitter and hard. “I'm not crazy.”
“I don't think you are,” Jon said carefully.
“Yes, you fucking do.”
“I don't. If I did I would've taken you off the show. I think you're stressed. And that's all,” Jon said with finality, getting up. “Let everyone know they're moving. End of story.”
The desk lamp hit the wall and the bulb shattered. Jon scrambled backwards so quickly that his chair fell over. He looked from the broken lamp back to Stephen through the sudden dark and their eyes locked. Stephen felt such terrible loathing. His fingernails tore into the arms of his chair and his head felt hot, like it was boiling, about to burst, and he snarled, “This building will burn to the ground before I leave.”
Jon didn't say anything, didn't move at first. Then he carefully extended his hand. “I think,” he said, “we should go for a walk.”
Stephen was repulsed by the gesture, and he pressed back into his chair. He didn't want to be here any more, but nothing was wrong here, everything was fine, and he could prove it if Jon would just leave him alone, but he didn't know what he would do if Jon left.
“Stephen. Come on.” Jon spoke slowly. “Get some fresh air. Clear your head.”
He didn't move.
Jon didn't either. “I don't know what's happening, okay? But you're my friend, and I think we should get out of here.”
Jon was talking to him like he was five years old, and God, he wanted to be, he wanted Jon to pick him up and carry him out of here because he didn't want to be here anymore but he couldn't leave. Oh, God, I feel like I'm dying.
“Stephen,” Jon said quietly, still holding out his hand.
Stephen's hand was shaking, but he forced it to move, forced his trembling fingers to wrap around Jon's.
Perhaps worse than the tension, the feeling like his body was an immovable iron shell, was when that feeling left, and it was instead like he had no support at all. He slumped forward in his chair and covered his face. Hot tears hit his palm.
Jon pulled him out of his seat and wordlessly led him out of the building.
It was cold outside. Stephen wrapped his arms around himself and took deep breaths. Slowly the hot dread dissipated, rose up and away from him, and he felt safe, like he could think calmly, not defensively. Suddenly he was very tired, and his eyelids closed halfway.
Jon peered at him. “Feel better?”
“Yes.” And suddenly he had no balance at all.
Everything went black for a moment. When Stephen opened his eyes he was on his knees on the sidewalk, and he heard Jon shouting at him. He looked up at his friend. Jon's hands held securely onto Stephen's shoulders, his form backlit by the white light over the studio door. Stephen reached up and put a hand on the side of Jon's face. Jon fell quiet and stared at him.
“Jon,” Stephen said, “I think you're an angel.”
The bewildered look on Jon's face switched to exasperation. “I think you're delirious.”
Stephen laughed. He didn't find anything funny.