I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the cabin, days, weeks, months, time didn’t seem to move. There was no light outside. The inky darkness that surrounded the cabins exterior blocked out the world in which I had left, it locked me in, consumed my thoughts and dreams, took away my diminishing hope.
For a while the cabin was empty, I existed alone, the writer, the man who dared to rewrite destiny. I had written the manuscript to save the only person to ever matter to me, my wife, my muse.
I battled through plot twists, drama, and horror, fought against creatures of the night; I called them Taken, the empty shells of those dominated by the dark presence. I had sacrificed myself and many others to save her; I took on the darkness with a childhood myth, the clicker. I then ended the story with a metaphor.
I thought with the story over I could leave, but I kept writing. I couldn’t stop. It wasn’t Departure anymore, not even the sequel, my writing had lost rhythm, it no longer flowed like it used to when I had motivation, words were disjointed, jumbled and lacking any sense. Alice was saved but the story had died. Did I die?
At some point I noticed a change in the small house, a presence, one of dark twisted insanity. When I was completely alone, everything seemed calm; I still seemed to have my sanity intact somehow. Then he appeared. The man that existed outside of logic, I wasn’t sure if my manuscript had brought him here or if my sanity had slowly started to disintegrate, either way he was here. But why?
He would smile at me, maniacally like a psychopath restrained. His eyes were wide and bloodshot; they never lost contact with my own, as if he only existed in my gaze. He spoke in mutters, never directed to anyone, insane whispers about no escape.
His features were identical to those of my own, like a clone or an evil twin, his clothes were copies of my own, the same tweed jacket and black hoodie combination, that 5 o’clock shadow, even the same plaster I had received after the car accident, he looked so real but was he. Was I real?
It was unsettling. Zane had called him Mr. Scratch, he told me not to worry about him, he would meet my friends when I was gone. But I was worried. Why was he here? What had happened to my friends?
Sometimes my mind would shift outside of the cabin, into a world of my own twisted imagination, a world fighting me, dragging me deeper into insanity; its surroundings were familiar yet strange, like something out of a demented dream. The landscape was cracked and broken, shifting every time I slipped deeper into the dark void. Zane tried to help me through these times, told me to follow the signal to safety, he gave me tools to aid me through the darkness but they were not the only things that helped me. It had been the memories of times long forgotten that had kept me going the most, memories of Alice, of our times together before I lost my creativity, memories of Barry Wheeler my literary agent and sheriff Sarah Breaker who had aided me on my mission to save my wife who was trapped beneath the black waters of Cauldron lake.
Unfortunately Scratch had followed me into the nightmares too, he watched me suffer through the TV, tried to drag me back under into the darkness that I was trying to escape. He had dictated the horrors that came at every turn; created a new breed of Taken which were both stronger and faster than anything I had faced up in the real world, if that had been the real world. He forced me to fight, forced me to use up my short supply of batteries and bullets. He spoke like a demented storyteller, as if being trapped within the four walls of Bird Leg Cabin had driven him insane. If what Zane had said was true, if he really was so harmless, then why was he trying to kill me?
I’m trying to escape the cabin now, hunting through the scattered pages of the manuscript for a loophole, insurance, the key to escaping the nightmare that I have locked myself in. There has to be one here. I need to discover the truth about the dark presence and the power of Cauldron Lake, stop this from ever happening again, I need to finish what Thomas Zane started.
How did I get here…?
There’s no way out, no way out of here, I need to get out of here, get out of here, how do I get out!
…
The line "Did I die?" thrills me. As you go on to build it up with more of his questions the whole mood of the piece is set. Alan has no idea and your words reflect this, giving him more questions and giving the readers more questions.
ReplyDeleteI can see that this piece is roughly finished, the final lines giving it a certain finality, but to reach your word count you can include snippets of what he experiences outside the cabin, or inside his head, as we truly don't know. Fighting waves of Taken, fighting possessed items, the blobs of Darkness (souls of the Taken? They do "scream" when you shine the torch on them), memories of Alice (like the Memory snippets in The Signal). This could be anything from his experiences/hallucinations, things to keep himself sane while Mr. Scratch grins in the corner like the insane narrator he is.
I can't put my finger on exactly what you've done here, but this piece seems to make so much more sense now, but without losing the overall insanity of the characters thoughts. Despite the character still being extremely lost, there is a definite process to the thoughts now, which were easy to follow as a reader.
ReplyDeleteI like how most paragraphs end with questions, reflecting the characters mindset, and making the reader want to know more at the same time. The final question is very intriguing indeed.
Nitpicking ahoy! :P
ReplyDeleteThe paragraphs "For a while the cabin was empty..." and "I had written the manuscript..." could fit together, since they're both related in a way.
The line "I took on the darkness with a childhood myth the clicker." should be "I took on the darkness with a childhood myth, the clicker." The act of continuing on to "In typical fashion I ended the story with a metaphor." somehow weakens the rest of the paragraph, since it seems oddly placed.
I see you changed your "The story had died. Did I die?" lines into a bit more detailed one, and I have to say I'm slightly disappointed, I really liked that line as it was.
"I still seemed to have my sanity in tacked somehow." It should be "intact" there.
In the line "He talked in mutters, never directed to anyone, insane whispers." The use of "spoke" rather than "talked" would fit better. And perhaps "He spoke in muttered tones".
I think in the line "the same tweed jacket and black hoodie combo" the use of "combination" as a full word would fit better, but that might just be my dislike of shortened words coming to the fore. Also, "his stubble was that 5 o’clock shadow," I think it would be better to change the line to "the same 5 o'clock shadow" as the readers are probably familiar with the fact that you're referring to stubble.
The final line, "If he was so harmless, then why did he try to kill me?" is suitable, but I think using "why was he trying to kill me?" would be better, since he hasn't stopped, has he?
Love the fleshing out beyond these little errors. Great work!