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Games of Imagination
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Games of Imagination |
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Anvrill Senior Member
since 2002-06-21
Posts 710in the interzone now 
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The fall of night transformed the entire world. An innocent park of childhood adventures was suddenly a leering, twisted world where the colors disappeared and the shadows came to life. Unique trees became nothing more than deformed, misshapen messed. Blythe had been here thousands of times before. After she had been uprooted from the small city where she grew up, she had spent most of her family life amongst these trees. It was a way to escape from the city, which was to her scary and unappealing. All those dispassionate, identical houses; the stacked apartments that kept climbing until they were lost from view in the sky. It was surrounded by an impersonality that scared her. In this park, she had spent a great deal of her life pretending she was in the true wilderness, leaving the bike paths so she could risk life and limb on the feral back trails. The discovery of a crushed can of beer was almost always enough to snap her back into reality, where she was really still standing securely in the heart of civilization. It had been two years since she set foot here, five years since she left her parents’ house behind. She had returned on an impulse, with the sky already losing light. Things had been left unfinished, though she couldn’t remember what anymore. Through the darkness, the park had taken on the foreboding danger she used to imagine there. There were eyes amongst the trees, watching her. Watching. Waiting. For what? Blythe gasped in air, realizing she had been holding her breath for quite some time. She had been straining her ears, listening for something that wasn’t there. With a sigh, she walked over to the boat landing that stretched and sloped into the man-made lake. Before stepping onto it, she stared at the darkness between it and the ground, halfway sure that something in there had moved. As she stared she saw nothing, so she continued, and walked down to where the landing widened out then ended in the water. She sat down, hugging her knees tight against her body. The water moved in subtle waves away from the dock every time she shifted her weight. She stared into it, trying to see past the black surface, through the reflection of the full moon. Nothing. Games of imagination didn’t come as easily to her anymore. As a child, her entire world was based on fancy. The hammock hanging between the two evergreens that touched the sky was a jail cell where the evil queen was always bound to lock away the tragic heroine. The storm door leading down to the basement, staircase and all, was the good guys’ hideout. The strange gap where the yard ended and the fence started was an animal burial ground, where the dead birds and squirrels still lingered (that’s why it was always so cold). Then when she’d left that house and the sense of moral righteousness behind, this park had become her next hideout. It was a magical place where such strange, foreign things like wolfsbane and hemlock grew. Every branch was charmed and powerful. Every rock could fuel a spell. There was a certain line where the intoxication ended, though, a line she had only ever crossed with hushed whispers and pockets full of magical herbs. This place was where the back trails came upon a footbridge spanning what may have once been an off-branch of the river, but had been sickly black runs of mud since she moved there. Across this bridge was another dirt path that led to the ruined foundations of what Blythe had always thought of as a farm for some reason. There were four buildings that existed only as the broken, charred pieces from the very bottoms of the houses. One was cement, with the outline of every room easily distinguishable. The rest were wood. One of them almost had the floorboards intact, except for a concentration in the middle where they were broken in half. Blythe had made wild stories about the tragedy that must have occurred in this sad place. She would sprinkle crushed flowers over it, trying to get rid of the vibe that terrified her every time she drew near. Her curiosity had always prevented her from leaving it, of course. It had been two years after she moved here that she discovered there was an entire house to go along with the ruins. Past the thick trees, on the bike path she’d never used. Its windows were boarded up, and it was slowly giving in to decay. The thing had to have been one hundred years old. In all the years Blythe had lived here, she had never once set her foot on the property line. Even now that the house was torn down and she had put away the superstitions of a child, she wouldn’t enter that property. The reflection of the moon on the black water was disturbed by a sudden gust of wind. Blythe released her legs and leaned forward, curious as to whether she could see her own face in the water. She couldn’t. She sighed and slid her sandals off, then put her legs into the lake. It was chilly, but not cold. A relief on a summer day, and a slight discomfort on a summer night. She didn’t care. Leaning back on the bobbing wooden dock, she stared up into the clear night sky. The moon was bright enough that she had to squint against it. As a child, she had sometimes come to this landing with her brother to make up scary stories. There had been many, but she could only remember fleeting glimpses of a few. One that she had told had always stayed somewhat on the surface of her mind. It had been about a carnival and its tent full of trick mirrors. Having never been to a carnival in her life, Blythe was rather proud of the image she had evoked with the story, at the young age of 12. The red and white circus tents with their extravagant canopies, barren sandy ground reflecting back the images of failing lights. It had been night in the story, just like it was now. Night in an empty carnival. Empty except for the boy who had snuck into the house of mirrors on a dare, who stood staring at one of his twisted reflections, reciting the names of every mirror-ghost he had ever heard of, from Bloody Mary to Candyman. The strange distortions in the mirror had come to life, and he had run away. They chased for a long time, limping after him with eerie precision, before he finally left them behind. Relieved, the boy had gone home and told himself it was his imagination. He went upstairs to his room, and he had shut the door before realizing that the one that had come to life from the mirror in front of him had been waiting for him here. And he didn’t even have a chance to scream. That wasn’t the story in its entirety of childish indulgence, but it was close enough. Blythe had had a preoccupation with mirrors since her older brother convinced her that Bloody Mary had been invoked in the bathroom of the elementary school in the old city. From there, she had come to dread any ghost or creature that could be summoned by name. She had been introduced to a new one when she moved to the newer, bigger city. CCS. Click-Click-Slide. This was a creature named for its sound effect. It was a long snake-like thing with two arms (each of which had one razor sharp claw on the end). Each claw would click on impact with the floor, then the body would slide along behind. CCS was the only story other children had been able to scare her with. She had spent most of her time scaring them with already-told ghost stories and blatant lies about her encounters with Bloody Mary. But the year she moved, a new friend had exchanged one scary story for another. She had had a unique name; one that Blythe couldn’t recall. Something like Taban or Tatia. A t-name. The t-name girl had jumped in with her own ‘true encounter’ just after Blythe was finished with her latest. Apparently, if you call the name Click-Click-Slide five times, he will appear and drag you away. The t-girl, of course, told everyone she hadn’t believed in the myth and never would have. Only... There had been a sleepover. Everyone she knew was there (and she had conveniently not known anyone listening to the story at the time). One girl brought up the story of CCS, and they all decided to try it. Just to prove it wasn’t real. So they called the beast five times by its name, then waited in silence (and candlelight). Silence for so long, they all started laughing. This is where t-girl had really taken advantage of a story-telling ability. She went silent for a moment then told everyone that a sound had started up. Barely able to be heard over the laughter. “Click. ... Click. ... Sliiide...” She made the words into their sounds, leaned in closer to the group of listeners around her. “Click. Click. ... Sliiiide... Clickclick .... sliiiide...” And they knew CCS was coming closer and faster, without her even telling them. She kept repeating click-click-slide until all the words had collided and she screamed, then collapsed on the floor, thereby outdoing any of Blythe’s stories through sheer dramatic effect. Blythe smiled. She had continued telling stories for years after, but had never outdone t-girl. At least there had only ever been one other story in that time to scare her, and her brother had told it. It had been about the lake she was at, actually. She sat up and splashed her legs around in the black water. Her feet were going numb, but the water was keeping her awake and half-aware. Her mind was wandering so badly already that she didn’t want to think what would happen if she had nothing physical to keep her attention. The moon’s reflection was fading. She narrowed her eyes, remembering how her brother had talked about something in the lake. In this story, it had been an ugly, ancient, twisted tree... And an old man. Blythe tried to remember why there had been an old man in the lake. Her brother had talked about a girl and a boy walking past the lake, when they (for some reason) decided to look into the water; maybe they were throwing stones. The water was strangely clear, and they could see that there was a tree at the bottom. A dead, twisted tree. Reaching up almost to the surface of the water, its branches were like claws. The girl was scared, the boy curious. They stepped closer for a better look, and the tree rose out of the water; it looked like the branches were caught in a rainstorm, with water running in torrents down to the lake. When this monstrous tree was finally settled on top of the lake, the children could see there was an old man, just as gnarled as the tree, sitting amongst the roots. There were coins scattered across the roots, caught in little pools of water. The old man promised them their wishes granted if they, too, threw their money into the mess of roots. They did, without even questioning. Next, the old man beckoned them come nearer to the water. Just a little closer, just a little closer. At the shore, they stood and waited for the realization of their wishes. Blythe closed her eyes, focusing her mind into the past. She knew that the tree had drawn in the children, and they had gone down to the bottom of the lake, but she didn’t remember how the story had gotten there. Oh well. That had been a long time ago. Childhood fears and stories didn’t matter. She took her legs out of the water, anyway, afraid she had felt the brush of wood against her foot. She hugged her knees again, waiting in the still darkness for something to come bursting out of the lake. Naturally, the only thing that disturbed the surface was another small breath of wind. The night remained still. Insanely still. After her feet felt dry, she slipped her sandals on and stood up. The dock shifted in the water and she almost lost her balance. She left that place behind quickly. The path was almost lost to darkness, but her memory led her without hesitation. There was the fork where one path backtracked on the lake and the other led to a circular pond. She followed it, moving just off the path so she didn’t have to feel the cement under her feet. In the darkness, she could once again pretend this was the wilderness. She wondered where she was going. This path led to the bad ground, the place that had the ruins and the property of the torn-down house. She had never dared set foot on the property in daylight, why go there in the darkness? There had been a few times she had passed by the property at night, as a teenager. Surrounded by a pack of friends, holding her best friend’s arm so tightly that he must have lost circulation. The first time had been the night of the suicide pact. The only night her best friend had been unable to make himself bleed, so she had broken his skin for him. Four signed names, four drops of blood. The entire night had been drowned in a fatalistic air, making it that much worse when passing by the property. Since that night, the property had held the still echoes of their frightened whispers and sad devotions. “None of you kill yourselves, okay?” It had fed off their thoughts of death, and its danger had grown. “I’ve got a lot of living left to do.” The pact had since been broken; first when the blood was washed off and the paper was burned, then with the inevitable death of the most troubled boy she had ever known. Spilling blood had almost always come so easily to him. No one followed him into the ground, though she had spent hours sobbing on his grave, trying her best to dig herself in beside him with her nails. It had since been years, though not many. She had been living with him and two other friends when he finally gave up. The only other time she had passed the property as a teen was on her 17th birthday. Everyone was still alive, still together. Everyone had on dark, gothic makeup and clothing, boys and girls alike. Blythe had been wholly responsible for that. It was a time when she’d had a passion and a style that occupied her sometimes-morbid imagination so none of her rogue thoughts went too far. It seemed now that her rogue thoughts were taking over. Anything to prevent her from really living; her mind had been doing that for years, and it was just now--after two years--that she had been declared fit enough to take care of herself again. She wondered about that. She found herself now standing at the edge of the property, where a foolish friend of hers had once wanted to step out onto it and call whatever spirits there were lurking there to do their best and attack him. Her best friend had stopped him with the threat of actual physical violence. That had been her birthday, and something from the property had followed them home. Something that had stayed with her as an overly possessive, controlling presence then faded away when she moved out of her parents’ house. That’s why she was here, she realized. To rediscover anything that had been a constant, even if that constant was fear. She would take anything--anything--from her old life. This was where she had left everything behind, where she had cursed them all with talk of the suicide pact. With a breath to steady herself, she walked up to the property line. Standing on the edge, she could see the entire space still clear of anything alive. Plants had never properly taken root since the house was torn down. Even the trees surrounding it were dying, falling over into the dead yard. There was a path she had never seen before, leading back to where the ruins might still be. One tree was bent over the path, just too high to comfortably step over, and too low to easily duck under. Behind it, the path was almost pitch black. Holding her breath, Blythe stepped out over the property line. The air rushed up around her, pressing into her. Her entire body felt like it was full of electric currents. She closed her eyes. “You called me here.” She held her shoulders. “You’ve been calling me for years. Take me.” It took all her willpower to open her eyes after that. The world seemed to be spinning and dipping. Before she could fall, though, she saw something that took away her ability to move. Leaning back against the tree blocking the path with a pensive languor, there was the dead boy. He had a soft, honest smile on his face; one she had only ever witnessed after months of their separation. It was a smile that only existed for her. “Goddess,” she whispered, then she reached out her hand to the phantom. He pushed off from the tree, but before he had walked over to her, he faded into the night air. “No...” She rushed over to the tree. There were warm spots on it, like a living body had been leaning there. “Please.” A shadow far down the path moved. She stared as it came closer. As it took shape. A man; an unfamiliar man, ageless and dangerous, sharp-featured. Blythe pulled back from the tree. She tried to back away, but it was as though a wall had risen up behind her. Her eyes were fixed on the approaching figure, and the only thing she could wonder was whether or not he would disappear too. “I won’t be doing that.” His voice was familiar, somehow. “You’re finally here.” “I am.” But she didn’t know what it meant to be here. “It means nothing. And alternately, everything. I‘ve been waiting.” “Who are you?” “You know.” She narrowed her eyes. There had been an overriding presence that took over her dreams for years, filled with a feeling of ownership, but also the same strange air as this property. “You don’t own me.” “That’s a nice thought, but I’m afraid it’s untrue.” He had reached the fallen tree. “You’re not real.” That had to be truth, because it’s what she’d been taught in the last two years of her life to believe about the spirit that followed her home from this very property years ago. “Doctors equate spiritual awareness to insanity. That doesn’t mean you’re insane, it doesn’t mean your words will make me disappear. I am a far more permanent fixture in your life than that.” “What are you?” He reached his hand past the boundary of the tree. A cold, long, delicate hand. So human, while at the same time he couldn’t be that. His fingers rested at the side of her neck. “I can guarantee you that you don’t want to know.” She put her hand over his, wanting to push it away but unable. Her own fingers felt frozen where they were. He smiled, and it was so similar to the smile of her dead friend that she cringed. “It was inevitable.” His voice was low. “Why fight it?” “What is ‘it’?” “Shh, no questions.” He took a step back from the tree. She found herself closing the distance by approaching. “I am your fate,” he told her. “Come with me.” Then he walked back down the shadowed path, past her line of vision. It took her moments of staring before she could act, and even then it was against her own will. She climbed over the tree blocking the path, and walked into the darkness after him. written in blood before everything went black |
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| © Copyright 2002 LL Hager - All Rights Reserved | |||
bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
Knowing exactly where that path is now in Calgary reaaallly makes the story that much more creepy. Hmm, wonder if clickclick
was after us that night? I love you. *kiss* Mikhail She said burn ... together. -TON [This message has been edited by bsquirrel (07-24-2002 04:04 PM).] |
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Anvrill Senior Member
since 2002-06-21
Posts 710in the interzone now |
That was cruel, and you damn well know it! No playing with my silly, childish fears. *pout* Love you too. Cruel li'l thang. written in blood before everything went black |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
  She said burn ... together. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
Hey you--love the eerie quality of this, evokes surrealism in the way that anxiety does, (which, I suppose is the POINT--smile) And forgive Mike for the analysis--it's hard not to do...grin...)for instance, thaat lack of reflection is classic identity crisis) but I also read the classic fear of vulnerability here (almost ALL horror movies, and not coincidentally? FAIRYTALES--ain't they awful?) But I want to give this another leisurely read....but Lady A? You're good. Sure this was a few technical difficulties--but hey? that's what editors are for!  (that, and hanging...)Hugs you. |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
 If she'd only post her novels, then you'd really see something ... This is a great story, but her novels are great, great, sprawling, beautifully ugly, ugly-beautiful, sick and sweet, special, awesome, inspiring, spiritual, dark, fallen stories ......She said burn ... together. |
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Anvrill Senior Member
since 2002-06-21
Posts 710in the interzone now |
Babe, I am NOT editing any of my work down to a state where it's 'safe' for PiP. This one was just already understated in every way shape and form; the entire thing is mentally and emotionally held back and dead, which is greatly the point. Nothing else I wrote would be able to be posted here, and I'm not throwing out any self-worth or integrity I have to slice up Pete's or Kim's story to pieces just to have more people capable of seeing it. Huh, see if I ever feel strongly about something? written in blood before everything went black JCV [This message has been edited by Anvrill (07-26-2002 03:45 PM).] |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
God I love you, my cranky/sweet writergrrl!She said burn ... together. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
pssst...Lori? I would love to read you, unedited. perhaps you would consider....MAIL ME SOMETHING!?! |
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