(no subject)
Title: Hitchhiker
Chapter: One
Rating: PG-13 for some descriptive portrayal of (non-sexual) unpleasantries
Graphics: none . . . YET
Disclaimer: Rowan's name comes from RP-ing with Auss so much.
The pretty blonde young lady switched lanes in the Georgian darkness, feeling her mind go dangerously fuzzy; she had been driving too long. At eighteen years old, most of her friends traveled with family over long distances, especially in the sedan laden with important treasures and necessities to fill a new dorm room. But then again, none of her friends were Rowan Blackwood, the girl who had made her life a rigid structure of practicality and no-nonsense actions. From the moment she could walk, Rowan always seemed to put careful consideration into every action she took. Whereas other parents were less than confident about their children driving a distance such as the one between southern Florida to Georgia, Rowan’s had learned long ago to never doubt their daughter’s good judgment and common sense.
Rowan turned her brights down as headlights appeared on the road before her and her mind shifted back to the last moment with her parents before her departure. Survivors of the infamous hippy era as well as firm believers in the powers of the supernatural, both parents had exchanged dark looks when Rowan informed them that she was accepted into Arthur Cloverdale’s College of Liberal Arts, just outside Savannah. Her father looked back to Rowan with a raised eyebrow. “Savannah ranks as the most haunted city in America right now, you know? Lots of bad energy over there, sweetheart, are you sure you’d be okay?”
Rowan had merely smiled amusedly as she often did when her parents tried to warn her of these things. Reverting back to the usual argument that she had with her family, she cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows in a move that indicated she was unwavering on the subject still. “Dad, I don’t believe in such things. ‘Supernatural’ in its literal definition can’t exist; nothing can be above nature. Furthermore,” she said in a voice mocking sternness, heading off the arguments, “until the two of you can give me a better counterargument that does not include the phrase ‘mind not open’, I’m not even considering changing my mind.”
As the car in front of her passed, Rowan switched the brights back on. Always preferring her mathematical equations, complex measurements and her sciences as a preferred hobby instead of pondering the fantasy world that her parents and many others created to explain mysterious occurrences, she was not easily swayed from going to a school with a strong psychology department because of a few campfire ghost stories.
Rowan reached Savannah on that cold night in late August, and only having a mere quarter-hour more of travel, she stopped to give herself time to relax from a mundane day’s drive. She pulled into a small park-a large grassy area with crude wooden tables by an inky lake. The dimmed echo of twilight painted streaks across the sky as tiny stars tried to poke through gathering clouds. In the lake, there were few reflections, as the moon ducked behind the passing clouds, peeking out occasionally over the waters. Rowan walked along the shore, her footfall involuntarily falling into rhythm with the softly lapping water. Silvery-blonde streaks of hair danced in the warm breeze that caressed her cheek.
To her left, just by her foot, she saw something most peculiar in an instant of moonlight; it was a large stone with the weathered details of a female face. She kneeled to the ground; her usual curiosity took over as she inquisitively examined the stone with quickly moving blue eyes. She went through her habitual process of studying the object, taking in the size, color, and distinct shape. The pristine white caught pieces of twinkling moonlight and held captive her gaze in an unnatural appeal (if she were to believe such things could happen). She then focused her scrutinizing stare on the finer details; the worn ridges and fissures came together to form a pair of weary, haunted eyes that looked up from their mineral encasement. Finally, she pressed her thin index finger against the abrasive surface of the stone.
The physical world was blotted out violently as an image blazed to life from within her mind, flashing right before Rowan’s eyes like a theatre screen. A young woman, thin and pallid, dangled above a molded wooden floor, a silk rope tied tightly around her neck. Rowan felt her stomach turn as she noted the bloated skin surrounding the rope had taken on a morbid red and blue color. The woman’s thin black hair hung lank and raggedly around her gaunt cheeks and fell past scrawny shoulders to her bony elbows. Her white, faded dressing gown billowed loose over her malnourished frame and fell just above tiny ankles. The most prominent piece of the image, however, was the young lady’s eyes; their periwinkle color was muted and glassy, but did not seem at all lifeless-they were unquestionably fixed on Rowan in a penetrating gaze that froze her body so much the whimper fighting to escape from her throat was painfully caught. The corpse-like figure’s wine-red lips suddenly twisted into a thin, wicked smile.
Just as quickly as the image appeared, it vanished. Rowan felt a burning sting across her neck and shoulders, and she suppressed a shudder. Her hands burned strangely and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen backward onto a rough patch of ground.
Rowan’s sharp mind searched frantically for a logical explanation. Surely she was just tired, exhausted even. And perhaps stressed. Yes, she was just stressed and exhausted-moving surely did that.
She quickly rose to her feet and walked away from the stone, rubbing her neck. Why was it hurting? What could she have done to bother her neck when she fell on her hands? Perhaps she could have hit a nerve just right? Yes, it just simply had to be like hitting your elbow just right and feeling the effects in your hand.
She climbed into her car, twisting the key rougher than she had intended to; the machine responded with an angry buzz of the engine, awaking her from her ponderings. She shook her head a little; she needed to concentrate on the drive. She gently pressed against the gas pedal as she began to navigate back to the road, checking her review mirror as she switched lanes. Her eyes traveled back to the road for a moment, but darted toward the mirror again.
She could have sworn she saw periwinkle eyes watching her from the backseat.
****
Rowan awoke late the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head. She pushed her body up from the lumpy hotel mattress and gazed around half dazed as she realized slowly that the throbbing was her bedside alarm, warning her that it was 10:30-and hour and a half before she planned to be at the school. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt so groggy, as she had fallen asleep somewhere near the three o’clock hour; seven hours was often a perfect amount of sleep for Rowan. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to remember if she had dreamed anything. She was usually very good at remembering what she had dreamt the night before, but now nothing was coming to mind. Just strange sounds in the form of a cold, high voice . . . helve mirror.
The words were nonsensical to Rowan, but the chill and the foreboding malice in the voice made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She pressed her palms firmly into the mattress as though to ground herself, then stood to advance toward her overnight bag against the wall. She pulled out her clothes for the day; a simple green t-shirt and blue jeans that were long enough to bunch over her blue clogs. She sat the clothes on the foot of the bed and rummaged for her shampoo, soap, and razor. Finally satisfied with her findings, she went into the bathroom to shower before leaving. The sound of the water spray and the warmth of it against her skin pushed the memory of the eerie voice out of her mind. After she was done, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Rowan dried off and dressed, no longer groggy or fatigued, but alert and ready for the day as she wiped the mirror free of condensation and picked up her hairbrush. She glanced down at the countertop, but suddenly returned a horrified gape back to the mirror, her eyes widening as her mouth opened in surprise.
Looking over her shoulder was the same black-haired skeletal figure that she had seen last night. Periwinkle eyes stared at Rowan from over her shoulder, and thin lips pressed into a grimace. Rowan quickly leapt and turned to look behind her as her breath refused to come out of her mouth.
The shower curtain swayed from the force of her movements, but the bathroom was completely devoid of any life aside from her.
She took steadying breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She tried to think of something logical to explain the incident, but for once, nothing would come to soothe her frantic mind. She stood trembling with her hairbrush still gripped in her right hand. The pains along her neck and shoulders were back, as though something was tightening around them, cutting off her breath. Slowly, she turned back toward the mirror, lifting her eyes to her reflection. Rowan’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. Her blood felt as though it was leaving her shaking hand and the hairbrush fell from her loosened fingers, clattering to the tiled floor next to her bare feet.
The figure was still behind her, eyes focused on Rowan’s. Its lips were now twisted into the same cruel smile that Rowan had seen the night before, as though amused with the girl’s reaction. But before Rowan could react again, the figure stretched its arms out, clasping bony ice cold hands on Rowan’s elbows, stealing her voice with fear. She heard the words from her memory this morning-helve mirror. It came from behind her this time, though the figure never moved its lips from the twisted smile.
Rowan tried to scream but her fear continued to mute her. She ran from the bathroom, stumbling as she slammed her left shoulder painfully against the threshold of the doorway in her hurry and began to quickly gather her things. She grabbed her keys from the bedside table while she slipped her clogs on and pulled the hotel keycard from the desk. She was just opening the hotel door, pushing wet locks of hair from her eyes, when she stopped.
Her clothes, her soap, her shampoo . . . there were still some of her things in the bathroom. For one wild moment, Rowan considered leaving them, trying to convince herself she could replace them.
However, a familiar voice scolded her; you’re being childish. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this, even if it’s unclear right now. Go back into that bathroom like an intelligent adult and get your things.
Rowan hesitated, but she knew it was useless to try to argue with that part of her brain that she had been so dependant on the majority of her life. She walked back to the bathroom and hesitantly opened the door. She peered around inside, and almost against her will, she peered into the mirror.
Nothing.
Rowan breathed a sigh of relief and quickly grabbed her things out of the bathroom. She rushed into the bedroom and threw everything in the overnight bag, zipping it up and slinging it over her right shoulder. She opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway of the hotel, seeing the sunlight filter through the corridor.
She gave one last look around the room before closing the door behind her.
Chapter: One
Rating: PG-13 for some descriptive portrayal of (non-sexual) unpleasantries
Graphics: none . . . YET
Disclaimer: Rowan's name comes from RP-ing with Auss so much.
The pretty blonde young lady switched lanes in the Georgian darkness, feeling her mind go dangerously fuzzy; she had been driving too long. At eighteen years old, most of her friends traveled with family over long distances, especially in the sedan laden with important treasures and necessities to fill a new dorm room. But then again, none of her friends were Rowan Blackwood, the girl who had made her life a rigid structure of practicality and no-nonsense actions. From the moment she could walk, Rowan always seemed to put careful consideration into every action she took. Whereas other parents were less than confident about their children driving a distance such as the one between southern Florida to Georgia, Rowan’s had learned long ago to never doubt their daughter’s good judgment and common sense.
Rowan turned her brights down as headlights appeared on the road before her and her mind shifted back to the last moment with her parents before her departure. Survivors of the infamous hippy era as well as firm believers in the powers of the supernatural, both parents had exchanged dark looks when Rowan informed them that she was accepted into Arthur Cloverdale’s College of Liberal Arts, just outside Savannah. Her father looked back to Rowan with a raised eyebrow. “Savannah ranks as the most haunted city in America right now, you know? Lots of bad energy over there, sweetheart, are you sure you’d be okay?”
Rowan had merely smiled amusedly as she often did when her parents tried to warn her of these things. Reverting back to the usual argument that she had with her family, she cocked her head to the side and raised her eyebrows in a move that indicated she was unwavering on the subject still. “Dad, I don’t believe in such things. ‘Supernatural’ in its literal definition can’t exist; nothing can be above nature. Furthermore,” she said in a voice mocking sternness, heading off the arguments, “until the two of you can give me a better counterargument that does not include the phrase ‘mind not open’, I’m not even considering changing my mind.”
As the car in front of her passed, Rowan switched the brights back on. Always preferring her mathematical equations, complex measurements and her sciences as a preferred hobby instead of pondering the fantasy world that her parents and many others created to explain mysterious occurrences, she was not easily swayed from going to a school with a strong psychology department because of a few campfire ghost stories.
Rowan reached Savannah on that cold night in late August, and only having a mere quarter-hour more of travel, she stopped to give herself time to relax from a mundane day’s drive. She pulled into a small park-a large grassy area with crude wooden tables by an inky lake. The dimmed echo of twilight painted streaks across the sky as tiny stars tried to poke through gathering clouds. In the lake, there were few reflections, as the moon ducked behind the passing clouds, peeking out occasionally over the waters. Rowan walked along the shore, her footfall involuntarily falling into rhythm with the softly lapping water. Silvery-blonde streaks of hair danced in the warm breeze that caressed her cheek.
To her left, just by her foot, she saw something most peculiar in an instant of moonlight; it was a large stone with the weathered details of a female face. She kneeled to the ground; her usual curiosity took over as she inquisitively examined the stone with quickly moving blue eyes. She went through her habitual process of studying the object, taking in the size, color, and distinct shape. The pristine white caught pieces of twinkling moonlight and held captive her gaze in an unnatural appeal (if she were to believe such things could happen). She then focused her scrutinizing stare on the finer details; the worn ridges and fissures came together to form a pair of weary, haunted eyes that looked up from their mineral encasement. Finally, she pressed her thin index finger against the abrasive surface of the stone.
The physical world was blotted out violently as an image blazed to life from within her mind, flashing right before Rowan’s eyes like a theatre screen. A young woman, thin and pallid, dangled above a molded wooden floor, a silk rope tied tightly around her neck. Rowan felt her stomach turn as she noted the bloated skin surrounding the rope had taken on a morbid red and blue color. The woman’s thin black hair hung lank and raggedly around her gaunt cheeks and fell past scrawny shoulders to her bony elbows. Her white, faded dressing gown billowed loose over her malnourished frame and fell just above tiny ankles. The most prominent piece of the image, however, was the young lady’s eyes; their periwinkle color was muted and glassy, but did not seem at all lifeless-they were unquestionably fixed on Rowan in a penetrating gaze that froze her body so much the whimper fighting to escape from her throat was painfully caught. The corpse-like figure’s wine-red lips suddenly twisted into a thin, wicked smile.
Just as quickly as the image appeared, it vanished. Rowan felt a burning sting across her neck and shoulders, and she suppressed a shudder. Her hands burned strangely and it took her a moment to realize that she had fallen backward onto a rough patch of ground.
Rowan’s sharp mind searched frantically for a logical explanation. Surely she was just tired, exhausted even. And perhaps stressed. Yes, she was just stressed and exhausted-moving surely did that.
She quickly rose to her feet and walked away from the stone, rubbing her neck. Why was it hurting? What could she have done to bother her neck when she fell on her hands? Perhaps she could have hit a nerve just right? Yes, it just simply had to be like hitting your elbow just right and feeling the effects in your hand.
She climbed into her car, twisting the key rougher than she had intended to; the machine responded with an angry buzz of the engine, awaking her from her ponderings. She shook her head a little; she needed to concentrate on the drive. She gently pressed against the gas pedal as she began to navigate back to the road, checking her review mirror as she switched lanes. Her eyes traveled back to the road for a moment, but darted toward the mirror again.
She could have sworn she saw periwinkle eyes watching her from the backseat.
****
Rowan awoke late the next morning with a dull throbbing in her head. She pushed her body up from the lumpy hotel mattress and gazed around half dazed as she realized slowly that the throbbing was her bedside alarm, warning her that it was 10:30-and hour and a half before she planned to be at the school. She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt so groggy, as she had fallen asleep somewhere near the three o’clock hour; seven hours was often a perfect amount of sleep for Rowan. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, trying to remember if she had dreamed anything. She was usually very good at remembering what she had dreamt the night before, but now nothing was coming to mind. Just strange sounds in the form of a cold, high voice . . . helve mirror.
The words were nonsensical to Rowan, but the chill and the foreboding malice in the voice made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She pressed her palms firmly into the mattress as though to ground herself, then stood to advance toward her overnight bag against the wall. She pulled out her clothes for the day; a simple green t-shirt and blue jeans that were long enough to bunch over her blue clogs. She sat the clothes on the foot of the bed and rummaged for her shampoo, soap, and razor. Finally satisfied with her findings, she went into the bathroom to shower before leaving. The sound of the water spray and the warmth of it against her skin pushed the memory of the eerie voice out of her mind. After she was done, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Rowan dried off and dressed, no longer groggy or fatigued, but alert and ready for the day as she wiped the mirror free of condensation and picked up her hairbrush. She glanced down at the countertop, but suddenly returned a horrified gape back to the mirror, her eyes widening as her mouth opened in surprise.
Looking over her shoulder was the same black-haired skeletal figure that she had seen last night. Periwinkle eyes stared at Rowan from over her shoulder, and thin lips pressed into a grimace. Rowan quickly leapt and turned to look behind her as her breath refused to come out of her mouth.
The shower curtain swayed from the force of her movements, but the bathroom was completely devoid of any life aside from her.
She took steadying breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. She tried to think of something logical to explain the incident, but for once, nothing would come to soothe her frantic mind. She stood trembling with her hairbrush still gripped in her right hand. The pains along her neck and shoulders were back, as though something was tightening around them, cutting off her breath. Slowly, she turned back toward the mirror, lifting her eyes to her reflection. Rowan’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. Her blood felt as though it was leaving her shaking hand and the hairbrush fell from her loosened fingers, clattering to the tiled floor next to her bare feet.
The figure was still behind her, eyes focused on Rowan’s. Its lips were now twisted into the same cruel smile that Rowan had seen the night before, as though amused with the girl’s reaction. But before Rowan could react again, the figure stretched its arms out, clasping bony ice cold hands on Rowan’s elbows, stealing her voice with fear. She heard the words from her memory this morning-helve mirror. It came from behind her this time, though the figure never moved its lips from the twisted smile.
Rowan tried to scream but her fear continued to mute her. She ran from the bathroom, stumbling as she slammed her left shoulder painfully against the threshold of the doorway in her hurry and began to quickly gather her things. She grabbed her keys from the bedside table while she slipped her clogs on and pulled the hotel keycard from the desk. She was just opening the hotel door, pushing wet locks of hair from her eyes, when she stopped.
Her clothes, her soap, her shampoo . . . there were still some of her things in the bathroom. For one wild moment, Rowan considered leaving them, trying to convince herself she could replace them.
However, a familiar voice scolded her; you’re being childish. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for this, even if it’s unclear right now. Go back into that bathroom like an intelligent adult and get your things.
Rowan hesitated, but she knew it was useless to try to argue with that part of her brain that she had been so dependant on the majority of her life. She walked back to the bathroom and hesitantly opened the door. She peered around inside, and almost against her will, she peered into the mirror.
Nothing.
Rowan breathed a sigh of relief and quickly grabbed her things out of the bathroom. She rushed into the bedroom and threw everything in the overnight bag, zipping it up and slinging it over her right shoulder. She opened the door and stepped out into the breezeway of the hotel, seeing the sunlight filter through the corridor.
She gave one last look around the room before closing the door behind her.