This is the first story I have written in a loooonng time! There's a book with pictures and captions, and I decided to write a story to go with each caption... I gave up and got lazy after 2, who would have guessed. But the one I finished, this one, and the one I started (Archie Smith Boy Wonder) are pretty good, for short stories. So, read on!
Under The Rug
"Two weeks passed, and it happened again."
Slowly, Thomas lifted one leg, then the other. He stretched out his arms and then sunk into his chair. The days work was done. The small clock on the coffee table read 8:15. Just the right time, he thought.
He glanced over at his book, lying next to the clock, a green book mark tucked neatly into it�s gold rimmed pages. Shutting his eyes, he emitted an enormous yawn. His arm flung over the arm rest and grasped the book.
The small clock ticked away the minutes, then the hours. Quietly echoing the grandfather clock in the entryway. Finally, the clock chimed twelve o�clock, and he slipped the bookmark neatly back into it�s pages and stood up, stretching.
"Ah, time to rest my eyes a bit before tomorrow," He said aloud. His words were crisp. They echoed on the walls of his small apartment.
"Ah, time to rest my eyes a bit before tomorrow," they answered. Tom stopped for a moment.
"I never realized my home had such a strong echo . . ." His words, a bit unsure.
"I never realized my home had such a strong echo . . ." it called back. He was silent. Nothing, but the small clock ticking, mounting his fears, could be heard.
He opened his mouth to say something, but he shut it, speechless. What was he to say? The only thing that he would get from it is another empty echo. Another haunting echo was more like it. He thought another moment, and realized that the suspicion would be worse than saying something else.
"Who�s there?" He asked, beefing his voice up a bit. "I�m going to call the police. Please, leave now."
"Who�s there?" It hollered back. Ah, Thomas thought. There as someone here.
"My name is Thomas. I live he-"
"I�m going to call the police. Please, leave now." Thomas slapped his forehead. Echoes. Haunting, yes. But, in reality, nothing, but empty echoes.
"My name is Thomas I live he-" The walls continued. This time it was not the timid voice of himself. It was a deep raspy voice. One that sent a cold sliver down his spine, making him shiver helplessly.
Thomas stepped into the dining room. Not a soul, but himself He stifled a cough. The walls echoed him. He looked around for some safety, some reassurance. His eyes darted to the corner for a baseball bat. No, there would be no baseball bat. Thomas was never one for sports. He didn�t even own a set of golf clubs. Nervous, he grabbed a chair and attempted to heave it out of the room.
He thought about hollering some other nonsense, but he knew he was only to hear some sort of twisted demonic echo. Chair in hand, he fumbled into the living room.
He looked around a moment, then shook his head.
"No one�s heard," he said quietly. His heart beat slowed down. Yet, as he turned around to walk back, the carpet was torn from under him. He squeaked out a small yelp of pain, the came crashing down to the ground. Everything went silently black.
His foot twitched for a moment. His eyes slowly opened. The carpet and chair were undisturbed, sitting as they should be. A dream. He must have tripped here, and had a simple dream. He stood up, head throbbing.
What a night, he thought to himself. He walked to his room, and, without changing into his pajamas, fell asleep on his bed.
The night was quick, but rather painful. All he could feel, as he tossed and turned, was his neck cracking, with piercing anguish. At about one o�clock in the morning he woke up, and listened to the grandfather clock chime once, then fall into ceaseless ticking. Thomas closed his eyes again.
Tic toc tic toc. He coughed. Tic toc tic toc. His eyes fluttered a bit. Tic toc� He rolled on his back, and stared up at the ceiling. Tic toc.
"Why is that clock being so troublesome-" he sat up, staring face to face with the giant grandfather clock. It towered over his bed, and stared back at him. He jumped back and shrieked. "What is . . . Who put . . . ?!" He got out of bed and circled the clock. "I�" he was speechless. Speechless, but scared.
Tic toc . . . He looked down behind the clock and noticed a trail leading to the entryway from which the clock was dragged. Only, it wasn�t dragged. The carpet that had been run over was not matted down from the legs of the clock. It was puffed up, as though something pushed it from under. Something . . . under the rug. He quickly dismissed the idea, and pushed the clock back. Yet, a quick survey of his apartment dismissed any possibility of intrusion. He laid back down in bed, but did not sleep.
In the morning, his head was twice as bad as it had been the previous night. His eyes were sore and red from the sleepless stares and jumps at mere bumps in the night. As he suspected, everything was back to normal. The raised carpet trail had subsided during the night. Had it been another wacky dream, he wondered, suddenly. He gathered his briefcase and headed off to work.
Fully expecting to see the house a wreck when he returned home, he was rather disappointed. No, that�s not right. Thomas was never one for excitement. It was relief. He was relieved. The whole day nothing unusual happened. Nothing the next day, either. In fact, that one night was becoming a blur. He hardly remembered any strange phenomena taking place at all. He liked his simple life, and the paranoia that had been following him since then was slowly beginning to dwindle away.
He came home from work two weeks later. Two weeks. Yes, that sounds about right. Two weeks passed, and it happened again.
Slowly he lifted one leg. Then the other. He stretched out his arms and then sunk into his chair. The days work was done. The small clock on the coffee table read . . . Twelve o�clock, midnight? Why, he had just gotten home, it couldn�t� have been passes five-thirty. Yet, in the entryway the old grandfather clock struck midnight.
"What�s going on here?!" he shouted to the walls.
Suddenly, he became aware of a scratching sound in the corner. He ran to the dinging room and forced his small arms to heave the chair to the source of the scratching. He walked slowly out to the living room. The scratching stopped.
"Where are you, you horrid pest?!" He hollered. I�m going to end this for good!" Nothing. Then, with out warning a bump cam up from the corner under the rug, and shot up towards him. He stumbled back, chair raised. The bump shot under the end table next to his couch, knocking over the lamp.
"DIE!" he screamed. He threw the chair down hard at the bump. The legs shattered in every direction, sending out splinters. One of them struck him above his lip. He stumbled and fell over. Silence.
Had he gotten it? He didn�t know. He never saw it again. The walls didn�t echo, the clock didn�t move. His life had gone back to normal again. He would go to work, come home, read, go to bed, wake up, and start all over again.
Sometimes he thought he heard scratching sounds in the corner. Perhaps he did. Or, perhaps he just wished he did. Books can only take you so far in life. Perhaps old Thomas finally realized that. Either way, it never returned.