Monsters In Dust - an excerpt
The match extinguished, he shook it, almost dropped it, then reconsidered. He'd already left fingerprints which may not be noticed, but there was no sense in leaving a trail for Ell to ferret out. Making sure it was cold, he slid the burnt match into the front pocket of his jeans. He could also smell the bitter stink of it, but hopefully that would go away, or that Ell had too much smoke and stink of her own to notice.
From overhead there came another crash - heavy body thump, furniture scrape and breaking glass - then yelling and laughter. The music got louder, the floor vibrating with it in bass thunder rumble. He hoped he would hear Ell in time if she suddenly appeared - her slinky cat step when she was on the sneak - she did that sometimes just to make him jump.
He scraped another match, it lit Pop and FSSSHHH, writ bright and hot in the dim and the dank. The way lead on, into the dark, the high shelves walling him in and stretching down into the depths. Small uncanny dancing shadows all along them, menace and akimbo, watching, reaching, leering, trying not to move and egging him on; all manner of junk reflected and twisted by the flickering light. This was where the floor turned to dirt, his maze just ahead now, be ever so careful.
Was it scarier in the pitch black, by what you imagined was there, or by his tiny flame? Maybe the earwig was making nightmares in his head and the fire burned through them, because he felt good. It was spooky down here, but there were no monsters. Not yet. He shuffled forward as the match slowly burnt down toward his small pale fingers.
Illuminated by the small circle of flame were the rusty tips of an old pitchfork, leaned just so. Keep out. He had never done any work on his maze at night, and the deadly menace of the evil rusty tines reaching claw from the dark, guarding the way, chilled him. It felt right.
The match snuffed itself out, he wouldn't light another. He knew just where he was now, and wouldn't expose the tight tunnel of junk to fire. Taking two strides to the right, he stepped over a box of old books, ducked into the lee of an old rotted out canoe, and he was in. The map was in his head, he didn't touch the sides. He slid past crates of engine parts and squeezed by stacks of magazines, left and right, zig and zag, twisting delicate through and deep.
By day he went just as slowly in digging out his maze. The camouflage was important, and so when Ell and Steve were outside, or gone, he shifted minutely, packed and repacked, placed objects just so. He had yet to find any hint of a door, but the feel of a door remained. It was a path of light leading off of the edge of the map, a hole in the world. Here there be serpents, maybe, just like the pirate's maps. Deep in now, hidden, he worked. He must be getting close to the wall, to The Secret Door. He was moving a heavy box full of dusty old books and other smelly stuff very quietly, on high alert for anything, when his foot thudded on wood instead of patting on dirt.
He placed the box gently behind him and as much to the side as was possible in the thin run, etching its' position onto the map in his head. He swung back around and probed the ground ahead with the toe of one small sneaker. Pat...pat..Thud. Rabbit got down on hands and knees and knocked on wood, producing a hollow whump. He felt around the edges, it was a perfect square. He slid his small hands along the surface, a tightly packed layer of dust and detritus on wood, and in the middle a folded down metal ring. The Secret Door... was in the floor.
The music came relentless; rolling thunder from above, heavy metal thump mingled with screaming laughter. It was a far away thing compared to the pounding of his heart. This was it, the 'X' on the map, the shining end. It was an unlikely exit; here was the deeper in, alright. Maybe it was a tunnel made for escape; Steve was a bad man and did bad things, he might need to run away someday. Maybe it came up in the broken down old barn on the edge of the land, or better yet miles and miles away.
He had to see.
Rabbit stretched both arms out in front of him and laid his palms flat against the surface of the Secret Door. Raising them slowly, he leaned forward as far as he could manage without toppling over. There was nothing directly ahead. He lifted them high over his head, then swung out to the sides. Still nothing. He slowly stood and repeated the exercise, feeling his way for resistance. He had room.
Dropping back down to the packed earth floor, Rabbit fished in his back pocket for the box of matches. With a shake and rattle, he slid it open, plucked one, and scraped it along the side. It lit flare and pop, dazzling his night eyes blind. Sparkles, stars, and fairies danced and drifted before him, the dim creeping in from all sides. What slowly faded back into view were towers of junk, rick-a-rack of all sorts; old pipes, crates, a chipped and needle splintery red rocking horse reared up on hind legs, moldy boxes and crusty curtains. Beer bottles in ripped cases and tattered books in tall tilted piles. He was in a pocket alcove of waste, the walls leaning in on him, the angles steeper as they rose. It could fall in on him, but he wouldn't burn the house down if he continued to be careful. The Secret Door lay before him; old dirty wood, a crusted metal ring, the perfect square. The out deeper in. He stared in fascination as the flame burnt low, then kissed his fingers. He barely noticed.
Rabbit shook the match and pocketed the dead stick, then grabbed the ring with both hands and pulled, his burnt fingers prickling the wood screeching. It didn't budge. He couldn't get his fingers around it, small as they were, couldn't lift it from it's base. He thought of the Tin Man from The Wizard Of OZ frozen with his axe raised and squeaking "Oil Can" through rusted lips. Rabbit liked the flying monkeys, Momma liked the witch. There was probably an oil can on a shelf somewhere back there, he would have to shuffle back and look, carefully poking around on packed shelves. It could take hours. He wanted to pound on the handle, which could bring the maze and Ella down on him. Instead, he slid the knife from his other back pocket and hit the button.
SNAK!
The chainsaw music roared above, and so Rabbit figured that the Tak Tak Tak of the knife digging around the edge of the ring would go unheard. He chipped away at the crud, the tightly packed dirt, and the rust. It could be a dungeon down there, a black pit, a hole to forever, a dead end full of bones. There could be a tangled mountain of squirming rats or an ocean of earwigs, and he would drown screaming in alien horror, then silent, mouth full of twitching.
He may go in and never come out again.
Maybe it was the possible earwig leading him on with hope and lies, but there was something here, shining in his head. It was a soft red glow, the same glow as the 'Exit' sign in a darkened movie theater.
Rabbit dug.
--
[Working on it, having some fun. ‘Monsters In Dust’ coming sooner than later, hopefully.]
From overhead there came another crash - heavy body thump, furniture scrape and breaking glass - then yelling and laughter. The music got louder, the floor vibrating with it in bass thunder rumble. He hoped he would hear Ell in time if she suddenly appeared - her slinky cat step when she was on the sneak - she did that sometimes just to make him jump.
He scraped another match, it lit Pop and FSSSHHH, writ bright and hot in the dim and the dank. The way lead on, into the dark, the high shelves walling him in and stretching down into the depths. Small uncanny dancing shadows all along them, menace and akimbo, watching, reaching, leering, trying not to move and egging him on; all manner of junk reflected and twisted by the flickering light. This was where the floor turned to dirt, his maze just ahead now, be ever so careful.
Was it scarier in the pitch black, by what you imagined was there, or by his tiny flame? Maybe the earwig was making nightmares in his head and the fire burned through them, because he felt good. It was spooky down here, but there were no monsters. Not yet. He shuffled forward as the match slowly burnt down toward his small pale fingers.
Illuminated by the small circle of flame were the rusty tips of an old pitchfork, leaned just so. Keep out. He had never done any work on his maze at night, and the deadly menace of the evil rusty tines reaching claw from the dark, guarding the way, chilled him. It felt right.
The match snuffed itself out, he wouldn't light another. He knew just where he was now, and wouldn't expose the tight tunnel of junk to fire. Taking two strides to the right, he stepped over a box of old books, ducked into the lee of an old rotted out canoe, and he was in. The map was in his head, he didn't touch the sides. He slid past crates of engine parts and squeezed by stacks of magazines, left and right, zig and zag, twisting delicate through and deep.
By day he went just as slowly in digging out his maze. The camouflage was important, and so when Ell and Steve were outside, or gone, he shifted minutely, packed and repacked, placed objects just so. He had yet to find any hint of a door, but the feel of a door remained. It was a path of light leading off of the edge of the map, a hole in the world. Here there be serpents, maybe, just like the pirate's maps. Deep in now, hidden, he worked. He must be getting close to the wall, to The Secret Door. He was moving a heavy box full of dusty old books and other smelly stuff very quietly, on high alert for anything, when his foot thudded on wood instead of patting on dirt.
He placed the box gently behind him and as much to the side as was possible in the thin run, etching its' position onto the map in his head. He swung back around and probed the ground ahead with the toe of one small sneaker. Pat...pat..Thud. Rabbit got down on hands and knees and knocked on wood, producing a hollow whump. He felt around the edges, it was a perfect square. He slid his small hands along the surface, a tightly packed layer of dust and detritus on wood, and in the middle a folded down metal ring. The Secret Door... was in the floor.
The music came relentless; rolling thunder from above, heavy metal thump mingled with screaming laughter. It was a far away thing compared to the pounding of his heart. This was it, the 'X' on the map, the shining end. It was an unlikely exit; here was the deeper in, alright. Maybe it was a tunnel made for escape; Steve was a bad man and did bad things, he might need to run away someday. Maybe it came up in the broken down old barn on the edge of the land, or better yet miles and miles away.
He had to see.
Rabbit stretched both arms out in front of him and laid his palms flat against the surface of the Secret Door. Raising them slowly, he leaned forward as far as he could manage without toppling over. There was nothing directly ahead. He lifted them high over his head, then swung out to the sides. Still nothing. He slowly stood and repeated the exercise, feeling his way for resistance. He had room.
Dropping back down to the packed earth floor, Rabbit fished in his back pocket for the box of matches. With a shake and rattle, he slid it open, plucked one, and scraped it along the side. It lit flare and pop, dazzling his night eyes blind. Sparkles, stars, and fairies danced and drifted before him, the dim creeping in from all sides. What slowly faded back into view were towers of junk, rick-a-rack of all sorts; old pipes, crates, a chipped and needle splintery red rocking horse reared up on hind legs, moldy boxes and crusty curtains. Beer bottles in ripped cases and tattered books in tall tilted piles. He was in a pocket alcove of waste, the walls leaning in on him, the angles steeper as they rose. It could fall in on him, but he wouldn't burn the house down if he continued to be careful. The Secret Door lay before him; old dirty wood, a crusted metal ring, the perfect square. The out deeper in. He stared in fascination as the flame burnt low, then kissed his fingers. He barely noticed.
Rabbit shook the match and pocketed the dead stick, then grabbed the ring with both hands and pulled, his burnt fingers prickling the wood screeching. It didn't budge. He couldn't get his fingers around it, small as they were, couldn't lift it from it's base. He thought of the Tin Man from The Wizard Of OZ frozen with his axe raised and squeaking "Oil Can" through rusted lips. Rabbit liked the flying monkeys, Momma liked the witch. There was probably an oil can on a shelf somewhere back there, he would have to shuffle back and look, carefully poking around on packed shelves. It could take hours. He wanted to pound on the handle, which could bring the maze and Ella down on him. Instead, he slid the knife from his other back pocket and hit the button.
SNAK!
The chainsaw music roared above, and so Rabbit figured that the Tak Tak Tak of the knife digging around the edge of the ring would go unheard. He chipped away at the crud, the tightly packed dirt, and the rust. It could be a dungeon down there, a black pit, a hole to forever, a dead end full of bones. There could be a tangled mountain of squirming rats or an ocean of earwigs, and he would drown screaming in alien horror, then silent, mouth full of twitching.
He may go in and never come out again.
Maybe it was the possible earwig leading him on with hope and lies, but there was something here, shining in his head. It was a soft red glow, the same glow as the 'Exit' sign in a darkened movie theater.
Rabbit dug.
--
[Working on it, having some fun. ‘Monsters In Dust’ coming sooner than later, hopefully.]
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