3 comments/ 5033 views/ 0 favorites Beloved Darkness Ch. 01 By: NobodyWorthKnowing When Freddy Gordon hired in at J. Carrol Grady publishing, he expected to rise to the top - not quickly, necessarily - but eventually. This had never happened. Since day one, if there were odd jobs, from mopping, to fetching lunch, or coffee, Freddy was the one they sent. The phrase "...we'll send'in the kid." had become synonymous with he, in particular. There were other people, working numbly in their cubicles, filing papers, shuffling papers, editing grammar, formatting structure, and falling into the daily routines he had still yet to know, and may never get to know. Freddy had a fair education, a bachelors in literature, and even some minor publishing experience, both as the publisher (he ran an E-Magazine for some time, before everyone discovered that real magazines were better), and as the published. It wasn't nothing terribly big, a few poems, and a few short stories. Before, he was not certain where he would end up. Now, he was certain he would not end up anywhere at all. That was the air in J. Carrol Grady publishing. Freddy had a better life, once. Once. Before his big move, he lived in a nice enough apartment, with a pretty girl who gave the above average blow job, even if she insisted she keep her virginity until they were married. Somehow, for some reason, he was not surprised to find she was sleeping with someone behind his back. He was however vaguely disgusted that the person was an on again, off again vagrant. He knew. He would see him, time, to time, cleaning random windshields for change, or sleeping under an overpass during the spring, and summer. Gross. It was a miracle that Freddy had not caught a sexually transmitted disease, though he guessed it was more likely from the abundance of a good blow job, and lack oh actual sexual intercourse. This had all, of course, been once upon a time. Now, he ate, slept, shit, shaved, and showered in a studio apartment with the dimensions of a giant shoebox. The walls were uneven, and the floors creaked in the dryer weather, and sagged with the slightest hints of moisture. This was his life now. "I dunno, Chuck. Fuck. We'll send'in the kid." The last words Freddy Gordon heard, before the editor hang up his phone, and stepped out of his office. By them, Freddy was seated comfortably as possible on a black pleather office chair, just outside the door. The editor, J. Carroll Grady, peered over half moon bifocal spectacles. "Y'hear any of that, kid?" Kid. Freddy hated when they called him kid, but it was better than the names they used to call him, and not the traditional accidentals, like Frankie, Finny, or once even, Fergus. "Well, son, speak up!" Grady's impatience was only matched by his tireless discord for the 'lessers working in their cubicles. 'Lessers. He hated that term, too. It was something Freddy hoped to outgrow, professionally speaking. From a 'lesser, to a better. Better was after all, better. Grady let out an abrupt cough. "You catch a case o'the adult onset retardation, kid?" "No'sir." No'sir. Nossir. No, sir. Freddy tried hard as he could to adopt the strange accent, and dialect Grady spoke. It never came out a hundred percent genuine. "So'd you hear?" Freddy decided to lie, and shook his head. "No'sir. Not a word." Grady examined him a moment, still peering over his spectacles. He gave a single, concise shake of the head. "Ain't goin'a move up telling half cocked shit stain lies like that. Work on your lying more, Feddic." "Freddy" "Whatever. Cooley's out sick today. Here's your assignment. Do this right, 'might even earn a promotion." Freddy fought the urge to ask what failure meant, but Grady clearly had it in mind. "Y'do this wrong - well - there's worse work to do here than janitorial." "'Won't let'cha down, sir." Freddy tucked his assignment, a fresh 8x11 yellow envelope made from heavy stock paper, under his arm. "...an' Frieda? Y'stop talkin' like that, 'hear? No one here talks like that." Freddy bowed his head a moment, feeling red warmth in his cheeks. "Yes, sir. Won't let you down, sir." _ _ _ _ _ _ "Time. Time is the fruitless attempt of control - this, these seconds, minutes, hours, days, and years - all which lead a fearful humanity away from their mortal coil. Time, once defined, cannot be stopped, and is always in motion. Time, which cannot, and will not ever explain the elusive expanse of an unimaginable eternity. Time, our enemy, and greatest ally in the struggle to live. Love, like eternity, is not bound by the constraints of distance, time, or space. Love is, like eternity, unbound." Freddy reached for the CD player, struggling to find the eject feature, and swerving widely on the road. He steadied the steering wheel along highway 927, his powder black primer Sentry chugging along. The two decade old car looked like a child drew it into reality, uneven bumpers, exaggerated wheels, and all. In all his time, in all his driving - which was usually home, to work, and from - Grady had not once acknowledged his existence. Freddy mopped floors his first year there, before being promoted to mail room, shipping, and receiving, and sorting. The majority of the staff were either sons, or nephews of the editor, young enough men that Freddy knew a real promotion was well out of his reach. Nepotism at its most absolute. The old CD player whined in protest a moment, and spat the disk halfway out in a rude buzz of grinding gears. For a moment, just a moment, Freddy feared the CD scratched. This assignment was a joke. Grady sent him out as a rep to sign some semi-french kid into publishing. For Freddy, the drivel he'd just listened to was a bunch of pseudo intellectual philosophy on love, time, and who really cared? This was a test. This had to be a test... of course, if it were not, there were worse jobs than janitorial, and he had no doubt Grady would find him one. Highway 927 was a long stretch of poorly kept road, uninhabited with exception to he, filled with potholes which reminded both he, and his car, that the shocks, and suspension were long gone. To, and from work. That's what he told the insurance agent when he drove his rolling promise of collision, and destruction into the lot. Romance. Existential theory was not romance. Grady had to have made a mistake. No. Grady never made mistakes. Freddy glanced at the CD player. Music - hell - talk radio, which he hated, would have been fine, right about now. The ride took an ass numbing turn for the worse as the road became more, and more fragmented. Freddy winced at every bump, and dent in the road, as though he were riding along the asphalt bare ass. He rolled down his window. It stopped half way. Goddammit. Rolls or cirrus clouds were gathering in the distance. Freddy saw a brief flash of light. A vague rumble spread out across the sky. God. Damn. It. He reached to roll up his window, and the handle creaked in protest, cracked a little, and came off the door in his hand. "I can't believe this." _ _ _ _ _ _ It was true, the car itself being a relic. It got good mileage, but Freddy suspected it had to do with the fact that the majority of the car was gutted out. The back seat, gone. The spare tire, gone. Heater core? Gone. Air conditioner? Gone. It was a wonder his car was legal on the street, save the fact that both the breaks, and the emergency break worked well enough. About ten miles back he past a white sign, paint peeling, edges rusted. The sign read: Hope Valley Fifty Miles The car chugged along, as usual. The skies darkened somewhere along the twenty mile mark, and the winds were tossing him all over the road. It was all he could do not to lose control of his car. Then, as though the wind were not enough, it began to rain. The real irony, though, was neither the winds, or the rain. It was not the fact that he could not roll up his window, or turn on the radio, or that his cellular phone was sitting in his locker, at work, fully charged. The real irony was when his car broke down right at the forty-five mile marker. Hope Valley Population: 78 Freddy stared at the dashboard a moment. The plastic shield that usually protected the odometer, and all of the working gears, and dials, was gone. The battery light was not on. None of the dials showed any indication of what was wrong. He turned the key. Not even a click. Fine. Unbuckling, Freddy reached across the cab, leaning a shoulder down beneath the passenger seat (which was mostly a seat cover over bare springs, and a patchy foam pillow), and pulled the yellow envelope free. He opened the envelope, and put the CD back inside it. Above, and beyond the line of duty, Freddy thought, and allowed himself a brief smile. Five miles into town. He'd find a phone, call this Jacques kid, ask him to meet up. Then he'd make another phone call, and somebody would send something his way, so he could get the hell out of town. Freddy called this his worse case scenario, and with a self affirming nod, opened his door, and rose out of his piece of shit car. _ _ _ _ _ _ "Seventy-eight, my ass." Freddy said, looking around the empty, cracked streets of Hope Valley. He passed a gas station, overgrown with weeds. A young pine was growing out of the auto repair garage, its aluminum door propped up by a block of old wood. He could hear skittering echo through the dark recess of the garage as he passed by. There was absolutely no one in Hope Valley. The only phone booth he saw was missing the actual phone itself, the silver metal coil had rust spots, and frayed wire hanging out in wild, stiff colors, some remnants longer than others. Others bearing bare copper wire. Rain came now in irregular, fat drops, splattering on the dirty concrete sidewalks like insects on a bus windshield. The winds picked up in gusts now, dying down, whispering through old, dead trees, and branches, and picking up again. The town itself was small. A village. A hamlet. There were old, boarded up houses of colonial, and Bostonian style littering random places on the outskirts of the town. In the distance, just before the city limits, Freddy spotted the warm yellow glow of soft light flickering through brightly lit windows. The Victorian style home was within walking distance (everything was, considering he had to walk anyway). He figured he would make it there soon enough. _ _ _ _ _ _ By the time Freddy made it to the house - which in reality looked now more like a manor up close - there were no lights. The windows were dusty, however intact, and the pain was chipping off of the horizontal wooden slats of the mansion. "Fuck my life." Freddy turned away from the house. He surveyed the open streets, realizing for the first time that there were neither cars, nor any signs that a vehicle had come this way in some time. There was a brief click, and a groan. Freddy turned, sharply, and took an involuntary step back. The front door was wide open. Beloved Darkness Ch. 02 "No." Freddy shook his head, backpedaling into the road. Despite the lack of traffic, cars, or people, he found himself looking both ways. "I saw this movie. The guy died." The door stayed open. Clouds gathering into a dense blanket across the sky, thunder rumbled again. Freddy felt the impression as though the sky itself were hungry, and the lack of traffic, cars, and people were no coincidence to this - yet of course this could not be the reason. Still. Wherever a thought like that came from, it wasn't a bright, or warm place. The door hung open over the entry, two granite steps would be all it took, and he would be dry, and warm - or warmer than he was now, at least. There he was, at a crossroads. The imminent rain, and storm. No car. No phone. No way out of town - at least not for now. Or. Shielding from the elements, in the very least. "I guess." Freddy knew better than this. In every story, and movie he'd ever seen. Ever. When someone was presented with an ominous opportunity, and accepted it, they always died. Or became one of the monsters. Even the latter of those two options was horrible. Monsters, like vampires, always said that they weren't scared anymore. That they were scared because they didn't understand - but now they understood. That it only hurts for a second. Freddy shook his head. That's bullshit. It hurts for a second. Then you die. Then you're undead. Then you're hungry forever, and that hurts. That hurts more than dying to some monster, because at least then you're dead. You're not hurting yourself, or other people because of what you've become. The fuck with Zombies, or other unintelligent monsters. Get bitten, and that's it. Mindless corpse. You're body's a host, but your mind, and soul is gone. At least you're dead. ...but that's the point. They always die, or turn into something worse than death. That's exactly what he didn't want to become. Dead, or something worse. Freddy held his breath, and stepped over the stairs, past the threshold. _ _ _ _ _ The door did not close shut behind him with a loud slam, or a soft click. It hung on its hinges, wide open as it had before he entered. Outside, the winds were picking up. Freddy fought the urge to call out Hello?, knowing that was only another opportunity for some horrible creature to kill him, and climb into his skin. Or make him into a human leather couch, lampshade, and matching curtains. There were plenty of shadows, but that was because there was plenty of darkness to go around. The wall fixtures were lamps, not electrical lights. He reached out to the door, and closed it behind him. Darkness enveloped him, only for a moment, and then his eyes adjusted to the fading light from outside. Freddy was good at being quiet - too good, but those days were long behind him - and he edged through the main entry, and into the parlor. It was as he feared. No electricity. Likely, no phone. Fuck. There were antique couches, positioned around a hearth the way modern people positioned furniture around a television set. Entire homes, where the focus of design was wherever they were watching movies. The hearth had a partly burned log in it, though the dust around the brickwork, and on the tongs, and poker showed its disuse. Next to the hearth was a small bundle of cut logs, well over seasoned wood, probably dry enough to go up in flames over so much as a spark. The mantle held various porcelain figurines, similar to the ones his grandma kept in her lifetime, if not much older looking, and more rudimentary in their sculpture. Looming over the mantle was a large oil painting of a girl - a young woman - in a forest green dress. It looked like it could have been satin, or silk, or crushed velvet. The artist captured what must have been her likeness, but was very ambiguous with the material in the dress itself. Freddy coughed, clearing his throat. There was dust on everything, and immediately he understood that this house, like the town itself, had not seem people in a long time. Footprints on the dusty floorboards revealed to him that he was, and had been for some time, the only person to set foot here. Fine, he thought. There's no one else here. It seemed worse, than better. Now he was in the middle of nowhere in a town so unfrequented that it was dead. Freddy sighed. What am I going to do? Decisively, he trod toward the next room, which turned out to be the kitchen. In there, a table set with empty plates, and a seat at the head of the table half pulled as though someone had just risen from it. The table, set in lace crocheted settings, was classic Victorian in design. The crystal candelabra in the center was covered in old web. The candles were half melted, brittle wicks, and yellow with age. sitting beneath them, beneath the candelabra, an old silver framed matches case. Half opened, and empty. No dead match sticks anywhere in sight. Somewhere between a half hearted grunt, and a sigh, Freddy turned away from the kitchen. Outside, thunder crackled aggressively across the storm cloud infested sky. He needed fire before it got really dark. O O O In all the years working for J. Carrol Grady, he had seen, and done it all as far as odd jobs were concerned. Every time he had to wince at the acrid smell of rat piss while cleaning the ducts, or scrape pigeon carcasses off the roof of the building, along with pigeon shit, and the random dead rat, he felt it would all come to a point where it paid off. One certainty in working for Grady, Freddy developed a Jack-of-trades skill set. In the very least, he could be - and was - a skilled janitor. This may have come across to many as a mundane task, but there's a certain amount of pride in knowing the difference between clean, and clean. He could make a mean cup of coffee, serve food, and host. He did this a few times for office mixers (which he was never invited). With all he learned in dealing with vermin, he could have been an exterminator. None of these things were in his interest. All he ever wanted was a gig as an investigative journalist. Freddy moved through a long hallway. There were two doors on each wall, and one at the far end. They were all closed. He crept up on the door at the end of the hall, and knocked. Silence. Of course silence. Freddy felt a little ridiculous in that moment. ...but not so ridiculous. He entered college a bright eyed kid, just out of high school. Mom, and dad were paying for college, and the world was his. That sort of thing. He was the chief editor for his high school news paper, and yearbook. His paper was always interesting, and sometimes controversial. A hybrid of tabloid, and legitimate news. He did well - very well - for the college news paper. He made assistant editor his freshman year, and editor the following. There, he stayed until graduation. During his time there, he took courses that weren't necessarily applicable to his major, but handy all the same. Criminology, and psychology. He even took a home course on private investigation. That was a joke, if ever there were a joke of home correspondence courses, but in college he was idealistic, and he learned what he could from it, even if it wasn't for credit. He excelled in anything journalism, or related, but was at best, average in every other class, or subject. He did not mind then, and he did not mind now. ...but. There was a nagging detail, one that pulled at the fringes of his attention since he set foot in the house. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. There were no evidence marks, or signs of habitation. Everything - everything - looked like it simply stopped mid breath, and froze. One of the easiest things for him to figure out, once he got the hang of it, was finding the rats. Details, like their tiny (and sometimes not so tiny) hand, and footprints led him to places they frequented, and sometimes, upon them in the act of haunting a duct, or a dank corner. There were no prints in the dust. No skittering in the walls, or through the ceiling. Here, the dust settled evenly, and the only evidence marks in the house were his, footprints across the floor, fingerprints, a smudge here, or there where he brushed against a surface. Freddy paused a moment longer, his hand now on the cool crystal doorknob. He sucked in a breath of air, fought the urge to cough, and opened the door. Freddy shivered. A small empty bassinet stood nestled in a corner, half covered under a sheet of canvas. Everything, or mostly, was covered under sheets. Freddy choked back the acidic taste of bile, as the urge to look into the bassinet was choked off by the need not to. The walls were decorated in delicate paisley wallpaper, the designs leafed in gold. A mobile hung down over the bassinet on a long, glistening wire that could have been gold, or silver, or copper, or any of them - or none. It hung with the same terrible, absolute, and unmistakable silence he had grown so familiar. The same silence his car made, some few miles back on the side of the road. Dead silence. An engine that wouldn't turn. A sound, even with the sound of his breathing, that came hollow, and meaningless in a place that swallowed sound. A silence where a baby should be crying, or laughing, or cooing. Dead silence. Freddy closed his eyes under the threat of tears, and backed out, closing the door as he did. There were four more doors, excluding whatever was up stairs. Up stairs. Freddy shook his head. Two of the remaining four doors were closets. The other two were smaller rooms than the room at the far end of the hall. Empty. Disappointing. The lower level was, with exception to the baby's room, a parlor room, a dining room, a kitchen, and a laundry room, complete with tub, washboard, and wringer. Freddy was losing light. He made his way around, hoping to heart he understood the basic floor plan enough to find the foyer. _ _ _ _ _ _ The stairwell was magnificent, not one, but two sets of stairs arcing upward on either wall. The stairs were a black, dense looking wood, covered in a plush, dirty, though red carpeting. The carpeting was accented by a black, and gold border, complimenting the gold leaf banisters. Upstairs was the last place Freddy wanted to be. It was no man's land. Irrevocable. Inescapable. Whatever his gut insisted he was afraid of, he swore it would be on the second level. The same gut instinct said whatever he needed for light would be up there, too. The banister rails were cool to the touch, grimy, but dry. The air, Freddy noticed with mild abandon, was very easy to breathe for a place that suggested itself so old, and so untouched. He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breathe. Freddy raised a foot, and stepped forward, releasing his breath as he took the first step up the stairwell. _ _ _ _ _ _ To his relief, and possibly a subtle horror, Freddy found light much easier than he expected. Freddy deduced the first room -just right of the stairwell ascending- was the guest room. Within, the basic essentials of guest life in a Victorian era home. The vanity chest of drawers, a four post full size bed, night stands, and lamps. On the vanity, a small silver match case, not unlike the empty one on the kitchen table. Next to it, a hybrid perfume-lamp bottle, which turned out to be a lighter. It still has a little fuel. "Deus ex Machina." Freddy said, holding the silver match case to eye level. It rattled in his hand. Take that Euripides. Freddy open the silver case, adorned in etched paisleys and inlaid with a golden looking filigree. He pulled one of eight matches out of the box, and stared at it. A round timber stick, small, thicker than modern matches, and the match head was a quarter the length of the matchstick itself. Freddy struck it against the strike pad. It lit up, maybe a little too well. He held it steady and moved toward the lamps on the end table. The wicks lit as easily as the match, and there was light. This is too easy. Freddy shook his head, and answered his thoughts aloud. "No, this is coincidence. Enough already, with the magical thinking." Freddy was grateful to the silence that greeted him. He lit the second lamp, the wall sconces and some candles he found in the next room. The manor was now, at least, no longer under threat of darkness. Thunder rumbled aggressively, and rain began as though cued by nature itself to set the tone. Freddy shrugged it off. After an hour, between the upstairs, and down, the house glowed warmly with a life seeming all its own. Freddy made his way into the master bedroom, and sat carefully on the large bed in its center. It was soft, and not at all dusty as everything else had been. The bed was made. He could rest for a moment. Only a moment. _ _ _ _ _ _ Freddy sat up, eyes wides, adrenaline coursing through him, scattering his bearings if only for a moment. No, it had not been a dream. Freddy sat up, posturing himself on his elbows. The room seemed excruciatingly bright for simple lamplight. He rolled his head first to the left, and then the right. He was under the covers, the rain outside pelting the manor, and windows heavily. The room was surprisingly warm. Freddy groaned, rubbing his forehead for a moment, and then massages his face. How long had he been out? A blur of movement caused him to double take, the motion something between an invisible shadow, like those cast from heatwaves, or fumes. Freddy shook his head, but saw nothing more, though he felt something akin to an impression, or the impression of a sound. The impression of a giggle. Not some kindergarten squeal of joy, or excitement. It was less a sound, than a feeling, the thrill you feel when you hear the musical laughter of a loved one. ...without the sound of their musical laughter. _ _ _ _ _ _ Beloved Darkness Ch. 03 That was all Freddy needed to react. He burst out of the bed, to the door way, and up to the stairwell. The sconces lining the stairwell flickered, and went out as a cold rush of air passed through Freddy. Downstairs, he saw the light flicker, grow dimmer, and flicker again. Finally, there were only stairwells descending into absolute darkness. "No, hell no!" Freddy turned on his heel and bolted down the hall back for the master bedroom. The doors closed firmly in the hall as he ran, until finally the master bedroom was closed up. Freddy, unable to stop, ran into the door full force. The door did not yield, and Freddy found himself flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. The sound of a girl's laughter echoed through the hallway, from above him, and all around him. Freddy rubbed his temples, climbing to his feet. "Ouch. This isn't funny!" The giggle, again. This time is sounded closer, less disembodied. He thought he saw the shimmering blur of green silk flats, as a fleeting shadow dashed past him. Then, Silence. Gritting his teeth, Freddy found himself walking on wobbling legs, uncertain if it was fear, adrenaline, or from running into the door as fast and hard as he did. Faint footsteps in the hallway, fast this time, but not running. Freddy inched toward the hall, regaining his bearings. "Wait!" The footsteps sped up. They stopped suddenly to the sound of creaking, groaning wood. There was a thud in the hallway, and it was silent. Freddy crept along the way. He could sense someone holding their breath, keeping their silence as though they were locked in an unspoken game of hide, and seek... but he wasn't having it. Not when his job - his life as he knew it - was on the line. Outside, gale force winds hammered fat droplets of rain into the old house. He could hear the splatter as water rattled top-thinning windows, and pelted the shingles on the roof. There. He heard it. She exhaled. In his ear. Freddy swung an arm out instinctively, and felt his arm pass through something. It felt solid, but not, like thick, electric water. He felt an immediate smack along the right of he face. The sound was very real. Hmph! The sensation in the air swam around him, and the presence, whatever it was - wherever she was, began to fade away. Freddy sighed, feeling stupid. He thanked God he wasn't in a horror movie. No, He thought with a level head. My story is more akin to a badly written attempt at fiction. Silence hung in the air a moment, and Freddy glanced around a moment, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched by more than one presence. He itched nervously at the back of his neck, and chocked at least some of it as paranoia. Like anyone would ever read his story anyway Freddy closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing, steadying his voice. "My name is Frederick - Freddy - Gordon. My car broke down a way back. I need a phone - a telephone. I couldn't find one. Can you help me?" The hair on the back of his neck stood up. No. He felt her say. There was a definite current in the air, the same energy he felt in an electric storm, or near the generators in the basement at J. Carrol Brady Publishing. "I don't believe in ghosts." He said in a tone that reflected fact, but a voice that resembled fear. "I'm a Christian." Good for you. Freddy got the impression that it - she - wasn't too far away from him. Idle conversation wasn't doing any good, considering that she wasn't really talking. For all he knew, and it was likely, it could all be his imagination. It certainly made sense, considering the strange circumstances. You will have to wait until after the storm. Her voice carried this time, in a whisper. Faint enough to be a breeze, strong enough that he could tell for certain it was in fact a girl. "You can talk." He felt her shaking her head. "You can't talk?" I can... but... Freddy felt the sudden urge to stretch, and yawn. "...but it makes you tired." The room grew a little cooler. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, the feeling of cold in his bones. "Where are you?" Knocking from the rafters. "If you're trying not to scare me, you're doing a terrible, terrible job. I'm not used to this." Who ever is? He shrugged. "I'm not going to go up into the attic. I saw this movie. The dumb guy dies. I don't want to be that guy." Her presence shifted in the hallway. I'm not going to hurt you. "No, but maybe the evil presence that is imprisoning you here will. Or the curse. Or the object you're bound to." Idiot. "I read what the experts on the afterlife say." ...if they're not dead, they're not experts." Behind him, there was a brief clack of sliding metal, followed by a hiss of stale air. He heard, rather than saw the ladder descending, touching lightly on the carpeted hall. "No." ...why not? "I don't want to die." No one wants to die. I'll take away your lights..." "You're not inspiring a lot of confidence in me, uh..." Fereshte. "Bless you." There was an empty silence, where all at once her presence was gone. The hall was quiet the way a library is quiet, or an empty garage is quiet. Then, at once her presence was back, heavily, and he felt a subtle pat on the back of his head. Jerk. Freddy shook his head. "I don't believe in ghosts. I'm sorry, eh - Fere..." Fereshte. Fair. Esh. Teh. "...Fereshte. I'm overtired, terrified of this empty town, and this empty house, and this storm, and just about everything in between." There is no one else. "In this house?" ...in this town. More knocking from the attic rafters. Deliberate knocking. Shave and a haircut. "...two bits." Freddy whispered, and then: "Fine. I admit you're definitely here, but I'm not going into the attic of an old house in the middle of an old town where there's no phones, or cars, or - " - escape. "That's not funny." Freddy took two steps toward the stairwell. It was pitch black down stairs. He could hear the deep sound of ticking now, the sound made by a pendulum, it's sway in time echoing from a void he could not hope to see through, no less navigate. Even the blind would call it darkness. Please. He sat in the lingering air of her pleading. He could literally smell her, the faint scent of musk and roses, like a subtle perfume in the otherwise stale air. He shook his head. "I want to see you. If anything, out of morbid curiosity. I can't." ...please? "I'm barely a reporter. Not even a reporter. I have one job to do, and if I don't do it... well there's worse things than mopping floors." ...like being dead, and alone in an empty town by yourself? "Don't play the guilt trip on me, I don't even know you! You could be some demon, or some succubus bent on swallowing my soul." Succubus? "...nothing. I think I've been spending too many hours on Literotica reading Many-Eyed-whatever his name's stories." ...what's a succubus? "Look, nevermind okay?" Freddy blushed. "I don't want to talk to you about what I may, or may not read eagerly when the mood strikes, alright?" Jerk. "Fuck my life!" Freddy said, throwing his arms up into the air. "I'm so done with this!" ...visit me. "No." ...how about now? "No." Now? He gritted his teeth, and actually felt one of his molars crack. It hurt. He stifled the pain by squeezing his eyes shut tight. There was a brief flash in his squeezed-shut-eyes, like being punched, or getting hit with a baseball. He saw her - or what he could only assume was Fereshte. A briefest glimpse of green, on green, pale olive skin, and the blackest of blue-black hair, thick, and curly. Her expression was in mourning, eyebrows slanted in a sorrowful furrow. hazel-green eyes imploring. Her slender arms rested balefully at her sides. ...please Freddy. Just once?