Thursday, October 8, 2009

My scary Story

Kiera Wolfe
October 5, 2009
Rough Draft of Scary Story

Westley was running for his life, again. The tails of his jacket flowed behind him, giving him the appearance of a giant bird, fleeing from the jaws of a snake. Westley’s snake however, was giant, and incredibly vicious. He wasn’t really sure what it was, the humongous fleshy body, pursuing him relentlessly and remarkably quickly for its incredible bulk. But whatever it was, it wanted to kill him, like everything else he had been evading in this desolate field. He looked back nervously, his auburn hair whipping into his face and stinging his pale gray eyes. The monster’s frightening smile, lopsided and hideous, revealed what could be his near future, a slow and painful death. He elongated his stride and quickened his pace, now once again looking toward the ghastly landscape ahead of him. A ruined city sprawled around him, windows broken, scenes of terrible accidents thrown everywhere like abandoned children’s toys. At the end of the street he was on, he saw the spiny, tangled trees of a barren forest loomed in the distance, if he could just reach the wood; his pursuer would not be able to fit through the narrow spaces in between the dead plants. He prayed that the foliage was strong enough that his attacker would not be able to just barrel through them like other obstacles it had come across. The bottoms of his sneakers were paper thin, the result of all this sprinting. His heels were starting to poke through the soles and his toes were emerging from the fronts. He took his mind off his aching feet and forced himself to re-check his surroundings. He knew he had to be aware of everything going on, for he had been ambushed many times when lurking this grim land. The usual turmoil surrounded him. Ruined buildings were swept around him, broken lampposts falling over from the dark black rust spreading over their bases. At the corner of is peripheral vision he saw a faint shadow lurking in a sickly tinged phone booth. He tried to look around the dark red splotches on the windows and on the inside of the door. But the shadow was his first hint, he was getting closer. His eyes pierced through the gloom, trying to locate a hidden key to his salvation. As he sprinted the last few feet to the wood, he saw what he was searching for, a creamy elixir placed on a nearby stump. The beast growled furiously, snapping at him through thick, spindly branches, teeth seeking his flesh. He grabbed the substance and drank greedily from the delicate flask.
As the last drop trickled down his throat, he was transported to a totally different setting, he sighed with relief as he slid into a rickety chair at his kitchen table, The jolly yellow counters and cheerful tune floating around the room started to slow his panting heart, He smiled as he saw the source of the music, his mother was whistling a giddy tune as she flipped the sizzling bacon that was cooking in a pan. He sighed with relief, and started to fill his lungs with the clean air of reality. His mother turned, hazel eyes staring at the deep shadows under his his own irises. Her lips curved into a frown. She wiped her hands on her sunny yellow apron and brushed out her brunette hair as she spoke.
“Westley I’m worried about how your condition is worsening. I mean, you can barely stay awake for breakfast!”
Westley sighed and accepted the plate of steaming breakfast that she handed to him. He had been having nightmares for as long as he could remember, and as far as his mother could remember from when she adopted him. But what started out as simple scares had matured and flowered into the most horrid things anybody could imagine, an example of which was what he had just lived through. His mother always referred to this as a dreadful “condition”. Westley believed it was because she was afraid that saying the word nightmare out loud might provoke Westley to fall into one right on the spot. Usually, his lapses from reality were random, and this made them dangerous to both his life and education. After a few years of bad grades and ear-piercing screams distracting other students, his mother was forced to remove him from public school and home school him. But these sparse lessons also had to be planned around Westley’s “fits”, because nobody could wake him up or touch him while he was having an out of body experience.
“So,” his mother continued, “I have planned another doctor’s visit.” Westley groaned. He had been to more doctors visits than he could imagine.
“What’s so different about this guy that all 187 others didn’t have?”
“Well, that is for him to know and for us to find out”. She smiled in her optimistic way, and tapped his nose playfully. His mother could always cheer him up from his otherwise permanent bad mood. “And I see you will need a brand new pair of sneakers.” She pulled the ragged pair of useless cloth off of his feet and threw them in the corner with pile of their kinsman. She then pulled out her giant First Aid kit and started to treat his many wounds. She stitched up a particularly deep gash on his leg where one of Big Smelly’s friends had bit him. She sewed with the ease of practice and grabbed a jacket off the coat rack.”We leave now! Let’s go.”
Westley strapped himself into their tiny Corolla and looked back at his sunflower yellow home. His mom loved the color yellow, because of its cheeriness. He sighed as the yellow started to swirl around his vision, his mother looked back just in time to see him immediately pass out, She sighed and covered him up with a warm blanket, fully aware it would serve no use. When Westley opened his eyes, he was laying spread eagle on the ground. Everything was tinged with gray, like an old fashioned movie. He looked behind him and saw a Corolla, with huge chunks that appeared to be bite marks ruining the front. He forced himself not to look inside, knowing he wouldn’t like what he would see. He knew the drill, wander and survive until you reach the elixir or die trying. A twisted sort of game plan that helped him get along. He thought of his mother as he took the first step down the street. Dark eyes stared at him from around corners, and shuffling footstetps echoed off of the glass that wasn’t broken on the skyscrapers. If he were the buff, zombie/ghost-killing machine that somehow always ended up in situations like this, he would have armed himself with a stick or something but he wasn’t. He was a runner. He had good reflexes and was fleet of foot, but sometimes he wished he could have a stunt double do all this for him. But he didn’t, so might as well not keep wishing for it. One thing he learned for sure in this world was that wishes don’t come true. No matter what a little cricket tells you.
The few people he passed were not normal people. For one thing, they didn’t have faces. As they skulked along their paths Westley tried to stay unnoticed. He pulled his hood up over his head and walked with the same grim demeanor as the actual inhabitants of this place. But it was a futile attempt. As he turned a corner, a giant, much more muscular faceless creature bumped into him. Its head turned in his direction, as if he could sense him. Westley had a very good dose of fight or flight instinct and this was definitely a flight situation. He ran as fast as he could, cursing himself for putting on flip flops instead of asking his mom for another pair of backup sneakers. As he flew by the normal citizens of the faceless town, his hood flew back, revealing his face and his brown hair. A sure standout in this bleak world. He now had a mob of creatures following him, and spear pointing the attack was a monster that would give Bigfoot the heebie jeebies. A shadow waved at him from the top of a nearby building and pointed to his right. He flew into the store in that direction shut and padlocked the door. He had enough of a head start to pile a bookcase in front of it too. That would hold off the normal sized ones but it would only stand a couple minutes against his gargantuan friend. He looked around frantically for a few seconds then hit the jackpot. On a dimly lit counter there was a heavy flask filled with his favorite creamy liquid. He chugged the whole thing as he heard the crash of the first monster breaking through the door.
Westley shook his head and brushed the dirt and grime off of his body. He was in the car, in the parking lot of a special hospital. His mother caressed his face and gave him some band aids for the bottoms of his feed. He thanked her quietly and got out of the car tenderly. He walked to the opposite end of the lot and pushed open the glass doors. He trudged into the waiting room of the special condition hospital .He sat in one of the comfy armchairs, feeling exhausted. Westley’s mother grabbed him by the arm as soon as he was starting to get comfortable. She pulled him into the maze of whitewashed walls and into the room where the doctor would meet them. She smoothed his forehead and kissed it, saying silently that she realized he was in pain but needed him to stay quiet and listen.
“Sweetie, Dr. Lawson will be here soon and it is imperative you stay awake.” Westley nodded sleepily, trying to force his eyelids open was a losing battle though. He started to apologize earnestly but stopped midway as he swayed over. The last sound he heard was the crackle of his head hitting the thin paper covering the leather bench.
He was tied to a chair, and a blindfold was covering his eyes. He smelled the sweet aroma of a feast, but with an olden tinge. The only other time he had smelled such a thing was at a Renaissance Fair. His blindfold was removed and he was sitting in a damp cell. There was a thin bed of straw on the ground and a hole in the corner. A haggard old man sat on a three legged stool just outside of his cell. Seeing that Westley was aware of his presence he spoke.
“Why hello there. Thy hast slept mighty a long time. That hole there shall serve thee as a chamber pot.” And with that he turned back to dozing. Westley gasped. Firstly, he could see right through the old man, and secondly he could have sworn he had said ‘chamber pot’. Maybe he was at a Renaissance Fair after all. Well he hadn’t eaten since the morning so slipping through the bars was no big problem. They seemed to have been made for a more rotund figure. He slipped up the spiral stone staircase that was in the corner of the room and grabbed a torch off of the wall. Once he reached the top he saw a most peculiar sight. It seemed to resemble pictures he had seen of the times of kings, knights, and princesses in peril. But that still wasn’t the weirdest thing about the scene. Just like the old man downstairs, he could see through all of the great lords and ladies feasting at the table of their king. They were obviously ghosts of some sort, but their food was quite real. Just the look of the feast had him drooling. But as he started to sneak around in the merry confusion, checking all of their goblets for milky mixtures, they seemed to notice him all at once. Their jolly expressions seemed to melt off of their faces and were replaced by ferocious glares that could shame the army. Slowly he backed away into the wall, but it was too late. All of these fine, yet ghostly lords and ladies hefted their utensils and started to chuck them like throwing knives in his general direction. Most of the knights drew their swords and ran after the thin boy, invading the castle. Westley glanced around helplessly, looking for an escape. Sitting in the high king’s seat was a darkly defined shadow, it nodded at him and toasted him with it’s flask. As Westley stared he saw a milky white drop spray over the edge and land on the king’s food. He now had a goal. And he was going to use all of his power to reach it. He launched himself from one of the quickly approaching knight’s empty chairs and somersaulted onto the table. He dodged forks and knives but a particularly thick carving knife stuck into his thigh. He braced himself against the pain and continued to run, sprinting toward the head of the table. He grabbed the kings flask easily, seeing as the shadow was no longer there and downed the whole thing in one gulp. The shriek of clanking armor and shrieking ghosts filled his ears as the world went black.
When Westley awoke, his head was pounding like a drum. A tall man in a crisp white coat was standing in the corner of the room, staring at him speculatively. He was wearing a smart blue shirt a couple shades darker than Westley’s own. He adjusted his glasses as he spoke.
“I am assuming that was a most natural exhibit of a usual ‘fit’?” His voice was high and squeaky. It was astonishingly different from what Westley had expected to come from such an imperial looking person. Westley nodded hesitantly, nobody had ever acted so casually before. He was rubbing his head and massaging his aching leg as he eyed the man suspiciously. The doctor strode toward him, slicking back his black hair. He tapped one of the bleeding wounds where a knife-sharp fork had bit into his arm. Westley screamed with the pain. “Hmm” Dr. Lawson took some more careful notes. Westley looked desperately at his mother who had a look of severe anger on her face but was biting her lip. Westley agreed with what she was probably thinking. If he could cure him, it would be worth it.
The doctor sighed with a bored expression on his face. He tapped his head with his pen and muttered to himself. “Well that is simple enough to fix.” Westley snapped his head in Dr. Lawson’s direction, focused on his no longer pacing figure.
The physician looked at him from over his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Do I look like I am joking, young man?” He looked down at his notes again, with a huff “kids these days, not taking anything seriously. I blame the media.” Westley’s mother jumped up with excitement. She ran to her son with glee.
“Did you hear that? You’re going to be cured! Oh, what a fabulous day!” She spun around and gave him a big hug, careful to avoid his cuts and bruises as she sang with happiness she slowly bound all of Westleys cuts. Westley cracked a smile but was feeling peculiar, His vision was black but he could still smell his mother’s lilac perfume. He heard a frantic cry. “What’s happening? He’s not sleeping, or napping, for god’s sake he isn’t even blinking!” He could feel a cold hand on his cheek but the coolness fled his skin as he plunged into a pool of the deepest darkness he had ever seen.
Westley looked around frantically, immediately noticing a change in his surroundings. The entire world was tinted a forest green, and not the regular world either, he was in a nightmare, but this one was different. He glanced around and noticed he was in a giant open field. The grass was all dead, the trees all living on the most miniscule scraps of wasted soil. In front of him, there was a abandoned city, with a familiar forest to the right of it. To the left there was a small town, the inhabitants heads were pointed in his direction, Westley wasn’t sure if somebody staring at him or the faceless people pointed at him was more scary. Around the horizons he could see was the scenes of his other nightmares. To his right, a huge stone castle, black as night. From the many elaborately horrifying windows, the ghostly heads of hundreds of twisted ladies and knights glared at him. The queen of the estate gazed across the plain angrily. Her posture was as erect and she sat with an empty chair next to her. Re-searching the vast land he searched for the shadow king that had helped him escape.
“Look no further, my young man.” Westley spun around, face to face with his shadow. “I do assume , of course that you were looking for me?” it’s voice was deep yet cheery. It contrasted greatly with the grim barren feel of his surroundings.
“I’m not sure anymore…” Westley replied cautiously. How could a person as cheery as this live in his personal torture? He had never even communicated with anybody but the rickety old man before. “But if you are, I have some questions.”
“Naturally!” said the shadow with a smile
“What is this place?”
“That is for me to know and for you to find out.” The shadow tapped his nose, leaving Westley with a sense of winter on his nose. He also felt a strange sense of déjà vu. But he couldn’t remember where the same thing had happened to him before.
“I want to go home, Mr. umm Shadow. I know you are the one giving me the wakey-wakey stuff. I need to go back to my mother.”
The shadow laughed hysterically. “’wakey-wakey stuff?’ More like sleepy-sleepy, And no, I will not give you anymore sleeping draught. The plant I used to create it is now an extinct species.”
“Sleeping draught?!” Westley cried. “What?!”
“Ahh your dreams were so pleasant, a nice distraction from being young in this horrible place we call home. But now that you’re thirteen there isn’t any need for that is there?”
“WE CALL HOME?” Westley screamed. “You’re lying! I have a family, and-and a home!”
“All a figment of your imagination, young one. You live here, and always will.”
Westley stuttered wildly. Shadow could see he was about to burst out and start yelling again. He casually injected a substance into Westley’s throut, making him faint and drop onto the ground. “You’ll thank me later” He said with a wicked grin as he stepped over Westley and started to walk toward the castle.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Wow! What an amazing story, Kiera. Love your writing. Two thumbs up!

:) A.D. (Aunt Deb)

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c'mon hit me again