Work Text:
Here we go again. The house looms dauntingly, casting shadows over my face, which already, starts to drop, the pretty pink paint fancied with white delicate details over the windows and porch. This time seems different, it looks like a school trip, there are dense groups of students buzzing around, drawn like bees to their queen, as the students hive to their group leaders.
Every time I expect the same thing yet, ‘why a Coraline house?’ Can’t seem to leave my mind. I end up following behind a group of students. A few of them I think I know, none of their faces I can make out exactly but I’m sure they’re my friends. Before we can get to the door my mind rattles, forced out of my body. I get one good birdseye view of this place before I’ll be shut in the dark, I make it count.
It’s a wide area, there’s nothing but the house in this tiny pocket of land, hills roll gently into forest, no birds are out, not even a crow, wind blows roughly through the trees yet knocks none of them off their dying branches. Oh wait, there, I lied, a lone swing set sat rusting in the corner near the edge of the woods. The chain on one of the swings, broken, the paint peeling off and rotting into the soft soil below. It reminded me of that okay structure I swung on as a kid, the structure attached to a tree in the backyard. We moved away and never saw it again.
A soft gloom settles into the clouds, inhaling I can smell the rain from miles away. The floor boards of the porch creak under the tromping of feet against its withered wood, one last look, I made it count. A quick knock on wood, on the hinges of the door catches on skin and tears at the surface. It leaves a red tear running down the edge of my knuckle, yet I feel nothing. The door rocks closed behind the group as they all jumble together to fit into the narrow hallway.
The walls are painted a deep cool gray. Why could I smell the rain but not the house? These things unsettle me in the oddest ways.
We were led into a cramped space, stairs lead down into a damp, gothic, spirit halloween of a shop. An old man, sporting glasses larger than what should ever appear on a person's face, turns to address the new crowd of students invading his… home? Store? Some sort of welcome drones out of his mouth, students lined in single file against the stairs, against the area near his workshop desk, only stare in dull silence.
A kid finds a whole wall of capsule toy vending machines and starts cranking the hell out of one. Some things you just know, just like how I knew that machine as a fortune giver, just how I knew that machine would tell him how he dies.
The kid prompts his friends to all crank one out, each getting a ball of fortune they did not want to see. No one opened them yet, but more and more kids crank the machine, some pulling multiple capsules, distributing them all out to people around them. Nearly the entire group now sported the balls, the frail man completely ignored them, knowing all too well of the fortunes his machines held.
Cracking them open, the colorful bottoms of the capsules mask their intent, each teen can only gape in disbelief as they read the contents of their fate. Most immediately throw the capsule away, as if it will change their fortune, others cannot comprehend what they have just read, simply stare down at those simple sentences describing the darkest moments of their lives.
In a frenzied rush, the students race each other to the exit of the home, as if breaking from the home might grant them some sort of immunity. The moment the rush makes it outside a student rushes by, flames consuming their every inch, they scream in a heated hysteria, the heat quenches any moisture in their breath, a boiling bawl all they can muster until the flames will dispel their misery.
One by one each student who grabbed their capsule, began to die in the exact words printed upon their fortune.
A girl ran screaming, reaching a new tone from the shuttering of her vocal chords I hadn’t known possible, a gaggle of cats leapt upon her, tearing into the cornea of her eyes, dragging their claws deep into her skin, pushing their whole weight into each attack, leaving her skin disgustingly marred as the fury continued on.
A person I do not think I have ever known ran up to me, for some reason, inclined to believe she must be my friend, I listened.
She gripped my shoulders in a clear panic, in her hand she held an opened green capsule, her fortune clutched tightly.
She let out a high wail, “My boyfriend! It says my boyfriend is going to kill me!” Alarm clear in her mannerisms as she shook me instantly. I did not say anything, only letting her shake her worry onto me, getting dizzy from her infectious communication, I grabbed onto her assaulting arms and pry them off of my shoulders, bringing them down to her sides, forcing her to take a deep breath and try to breathe amongst the onslaught of death, of fate.
Closing her eyes, her breathing started to loosen, a soft smile made its way to her face before the tension in her face returned. She opened her eyes and spotted someone behind me.
I turned, my hands still clutching her forearms, spotting the object of her returning anxiety, her boyfriend stalked his way through the crowd, eyes glued to her, flicked to me, back to her, drilling into her amongst the chaos of demise.
Barely enough time to come up with a plan, my “friend” drags my weight easily with her as she books it back into the self dubbed Pink Palace, slamming the door behind us to give the illusion of time.
Is this our hotel? We make it into our shared room, seriously how did I not know about this? Just beyond the bed in the middle of the room lays a glass wall in which our door connects to. How did we get in here? A bed against the wall, I think that one is mine? Whatever, I won't fit under my bed, so I dive under my “friends” bed, her pink sheets dangle over her bed, providing a view beyond the glass , a view of her boyfriend's boots shucking mud onto the floor.
She must’ve seen it too, in the next moment I hear a nearly silent shriek, a shuffle, finally a presence. She appears next to me under the bed, she holds her breath as he strolls closer. I panic, I push her, shove her hard, she only pushes back, shushing me.
“I was here first!” I whisper-yell at her, she ignores me, keeping her eyes only on the boots, the boots? Where did he put his boots? I glance at her, the panic palpitable, weighing heavy under the bed, her gaze slowly drifts towards me.
Then, nothing. Where did she go? Nothing but air occupies the area she lied in.
A scream, her boyfriend dragged her, the sick sound of a knife entering and existing bleeds into my ears, I’m sure he can see me, my feet stick out from under the bed, I can feel it. The cold empty air hits them.
Something grasps my ankles, I am yanked from under the bed. The air stutters, it pauses, it picks up a new pace, my vision blurs, I’m upright.
I smell the chlorine of this place before I can see much, like Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland. The air felt humid, the floors I laid on felt moist when it dug itself into my face, leaving my cheek damp.
Slowly, I drew myself up, blinking myself awake like a frog. What the hell was that?
The sound of cheers drew me upright, I stood unsurely on my own two legs, wobbling towards the door of this wooden palace. Shoving open the door, I see I appear on the upper of two stories, a courtyard houses the shouts of glee from a crowd down below. I hang over the railing of the balcony of a room I appeared in, staring at the mass.
To my right, across from me on another balcony, a large wooden crate balanced on the railings, a gust of people tipping it over, learing at the crowd in the courtyard, still cheering, still happy. I could not help but feel a rock settling in my gut. That crate could kill me. How? I couldn't make up a clue, but I knew it would.
One, two, three, then the crate came crashing down to the ground. The crowd roared when it smashed apart. Inside, a leg lamp, from a movie I think I saw in a movie once, and a bottle, a tiny black bottle, and it appears then that I knew, that, that thing that could kill me.
Down below a man grabbed at the bottle, while the crowd proved busy in the celebration of a smashed crate, (seriously what the hell?) that man would try to kill me, I just knew he would. I leapt from my place on the balcony and made a run for the door to the room that would lead me out. I knew him from somewhere, I must, maybe an old friend? Maybe my friend's killer boyfriend? Boyfriend… that felt right? But I never dated anyone before? That proves the main issue, then again, who cares? I just need to keep running, running and running all around, all over this place that stunk of a ride that I couldn't go on. I ran by a mirror, then another and another, each one stretching longer than the last, time seemed to slow down, only for a moment, but that moment felt like an eternity.
Running by a mirror I can only take a glance, it appears very telling in what will occur if I stopped. A dreary dark cemetery lies stagnant in the reflection. As if time slowed down to the pace of a tortoise I could make out each individual name on the stones, Kelly Marshall, Louie Harley, Carolina Kartv, and though I could not make the name out, the stone that stood unwavering in the foreground of my reflection. I knew it meant something for me. The name, covered in a foggy haze like magic and yet I knew. I really hated these things.
A foggy memory of myself approaches, glassy eyes drill into me, just as quickly they venture to their own grave, stilling themselves, the slight waver in their back, the only tell tale they’ll tell with their back towards the mirror. A bed for their death, the only thing they can comprehend, falling to their knees, their weight sinking into the damp ground, mud stains their pants, mud stains their hands as they fall, no tears, no bargaining, no doubt. They simply stare at their own grave in solace, yet in anger, the grave seems distasteful, the grave appears offensive, those mud stained hands shoot out and grasp at the weeds that sprout from the base of their grave.
Those hands tear out the tall grass littering their death, those hands tear themselves a dent of a bed. Their own death bed, made by hand is dirty, is wet, is stained, they lie in the bed of their own making, hands still grasp at vegetation, their roots in the mud litter their hands, my hands.
If I stop now I make my own bed, if I stop now I lie in that bed, so much of this time proves a rush, yet there appears these moments that slow down, taking away an eternity of this time.
My legs pump in a rush, past the mirror, past the painting of the crate that fell, past the dozens of doors, until one, one that remains open, one I can hide in.
I rush into the room.
In the room, the wooden walls creak wetly, the room folds in on itself stinking of mold. There lies a bed in the middle of the room, splitting it in half. I leap over onto the other side of the bed supplying myself with a buffer between me and my aggressor.
He comes barrelling into the room, nearly sliding from the grim on the wood floors, yet instead of the bottle, settled in his hand, two steak knives point dauntingly towards where I hid behind the bed. I look around the room, scanning for anything I could use to protect myself from the man.
All that lies in the room, two butterknifes imprinted onto the bed in front of me. I swipe them up into my hands, stuttering for a reason he would want to take these instead of his perfectly fine weapons.
He stands evenly on the creaky floor boards, ready to lunge across to catch me, as I swipe up the knives his eyes follow my hands, never once letting down his guard, never doubting anything.
“These, these are so much better than what you have you know?” I stutter through myself, knowing my plea too stupid to make sense to even myself. Yet I see it in his eyes, like a fog drifting over them, he only nods and hands out his two knives, placing their blades into the palm of my hands, I do the same with the butter knives, and once they weigh into my hands even a little we both yank the new weapon into each others bodies.
The fog, still settled densely over his eyes, he just idles in the room on his side of the bed.
I wearingly toss the steak knives onto the floor and steadily creep towards him, towards the door. He doesn't move an inch. The soles of my feet dig into the floors and push, my body pushes itself out of the room in a flash and I sprint towards the stairs to lead me down, and what I can only hope, appears a way out of this place.
I get out alright, running out of that room I spot the stairs to lead me down, I can feel it in the hairs on the back of my neck, feel how they stand up, how they tingle. He can move again, again he chases me.
Except when I turn to run down the stairs, the air stutters, it pauses, it picks up a new pace, my vision blurs, now I run down the stairs of my house, the carpet feels obvious beneath the soles, even through my shoes. He follows me, he stalks me in my house. I leap off the edge of the stairs, skipping what seems like hundreds of them with the impact that rocks the bones in my legs when I land.
Now that I am down the stairs I turn to my left, just past my fathers office lies the front door, the way to escape. In disbelief that it can lie so close I stalk closer and closer, knowing I should rush with that lunatic in my house still chasing me.
Two dogs appear from inside the house, they are mine, but only one actually resumes mine out of this place. She looks as confused as I do, how did she get dragged into this too? My dog from outside of this mess, Penny, sports a black coat on the top of her back, black coat, black dog, jeez exactly what I asked for. Why am I surprised?
The other is a dog I didn’t recognize, a german shepherd, again with a black coat, the way he moves makes it clear he existed, bred to work, the way he leans into himself, the way his nose twitches and picks up the scent of someone who is not supposed to occupy this home. His paws scratch against the smooth floors as he rockets up the stairs to where my assailant fumbles throughout the house's layout, he lets out a deep bark on his way up, his voice echoes against the walls of the stairs. My dog stutters for only a moment, casting one last look at me before following the shepherd's example, letting out a slew of her yells as she takes off
after him.
My father, my father attended somewhere in the home. I take off towards his office doors behind me, and there he is, sitting at his desk, he did not see what happened, he needs to know. I throw open his twin office doors, his head turns slowly, my dad? My dad never looked like that, his eyes never looked that kind, oh wait, I mentally facepalm remembering where I am. I get ready to tell my father about what is going on, but it seems he already knows. He gets up from his chair and grabs the keys to the red jeep, he tells me to wait in the office, making his way to the car without me.
But I can't sit still, a murderer in the house of course I can’t sit still. I rocket out the door after him, hearing the thumping of the man’s boots clomping down the stairs, I made the right choice. Sprinting out of the house, my father and my siblings (when did they get there?) sit in the car, but that isn't a jeep, is that a minivan? A red one too. I run after the van, the sliding door still open and leap inside, the man trying to kill me falls behind, I think I am safe, I think I won’t ever see him again.
Nope.
A plain white truck rockets out from who knows where, zooming out after us. Shit. In the chase of car’s, a dog, not the german shepherd, not my dog, but a new one, by the looks of it, some kind of belgian malinois, racing out with us, running along and keeping up with both of the cars.
All of a sudden we were in the desert, the dog still racing along with us, something happened, though I could never tell what, in things like this, random things always happened, random things never made sense, and the harder you tried the less sense it made. I guess the murderer hit a rock or something, cause in a moment, his car flipped upside down, upside down and over us, and when I looked up through the glass on the roof of the car I could see his own eyes staring back at me, staring me down.
His car lands jerkingly on the other side of us, except I’m not in the red minivan, I’m in his car now, sitting on the passenger side seat, thinking, “What the hell” when he continues on driving like normal. I turn to him aghast, then back to the windshield, just staring out in astonishment, jaw agape, eyes wide. I lean back into my seat, I really, really hate these things.
The truck stops somewhere near a beach. My father’s mini van, long gone, maybe they assumed I still sat in their passenger seat, the dog still ran alongside us, never stopping for a moment, making its way into a restaurant, perched gently on the seaside cliff.
That dog rushes like its paws are on fire through the restaurant, the open layout and white marble emphasize its path through and its future into the pool in the back of this restaurant. A temple for Poesidon, the grand marble, the chandeliers, the simple dining tables, the fishnets hanging from the ceiling, nailed to the wall with a trident cementing it permanently.
I watch from the chalky truck, a fire blazes through my mind. I want to get out, I need to get out of this truck.
Follow the dog, follow the soot he leaves from his heated path, follow the dog get out of the car, follow the dog and don’t look back, follow the dog ignore what he's doing. Follow the dog, do not look at the bomb in the back of the truck. Follow the dog not the threat of his words to set it off if you follow the dog.
I follow the dog, I ignore him and his threats, I scurry through the restaurant, the body of water becoming more pronounced as I barrel towards it. The pool flows from its middle out into the ocean behind it, the only thing separating them, a slab of marble hosting posts for the weaved canopy to shade the pool. Patrons dine near glass housed fires can only catch a glimpse of the dog as he throws himself into the pool, abandoning the ball he held dear in his mouth in favor of the safety in front of him.
He will set off the bomb, I cannot let that dog come back up until it goes off. I scamper to the edge of the pool tossing his ball into the pool, the ball sinks to the bottom, just as the dog comes back up the sight of his ball sinking to the floor prompts him diving back down to feel the comfort of the ball in his mouth again.
As soon as his head falls under the water I’m jumping into the water, as soon as I’m in the water, the boom of the bomb licks my back with heat, then I am under swimming down to grasp the scruff of the dog, keeping us down until I’m sure there won’t be another reckoning. My eyes kept closed, never adjusting to the chlorine, chlorine?
Rough gloved hands yank me away from the dog, I lose my grip on his scruff, I am being pulled to the surface.
On the edge of my pool I’m being helped out. I feel heavy, my clothes are like rings of weight as the firefighter pulls me out. I bet his clothes are heavy too. He’s soaked just like me.
A spray of water flies onto my face, I take a moment from grasping onto the uniform's rough fabric, and look up at the dog scrambling out of the pool with his ball squishing obscenely as he trots along the side away from what’s just happened. It’s then I’m aware that I am not at the restaurant and somehow back at my home, the water safety sign screwed onto the wall on the side of the house.
But I can’t see anything, it’s turning blue, and dark, it’s blurry, and it’s wet. The fabric falls through my fingers, disappearing from touch and sight as day turns into night. Water files into my lungs like a flood, my nose burns a tight sour feeling that crawls into my throat. My throat swells and my clothes feel heavy again. I’m back underwater but it’s nighttime now. I'm awake. There’s no bomb and I’m drowning. I just want to sink down below, but my lungs refuse to burn out. Before I can think, my legs reach the bottom of the pool and push up, rocketing my body to the surface.
I make it to the steps in the deep end of the pool as my head breaches the water. My lungs gained access to air, releasing the swell of my throat and forcing the water out from down under. The bubble of water and stomach acid rise quickly, exiting onto the cool cement to my right. My lungs repeat the force again, I almost black out from coughing up bursts of water without air.
My vision spots black on its edges as my chest heaves empty onto the cool cement and the rest of my body resumes sat down on the step, still heavy in the water. I want to go back to sleep, everything feels so heavy, and there’s no dog here.
In the middle of this silent night, the faint music of cheerful rhythm echoes from the alleys on the side of the house, children play in only the shadows of the alley where I can’t see them. Some kind of party that I’ll never be a part of, some kind of party that I cannot see, only dream of as my head remains cemented to the ground.
A slight ringing weaves into my ears, picking up, ringing higher from each passing moment rooting itself into the brain's neurons, yanking at the nerves in my head.
The ringing drones down if only for a moment before the heat, the deafening eruption of sound crackles through the home, a bomb inside the home tears apart the foundation. Despite the obnoxious weight in my movements I drag myself back down under the water, the fire licks at the top of my hair as I go down, as I am safe, as the burning clamp squeezes out against my lungs once again. The black dog dances above the water on the edge of my vision before everything, silenced.
Asking for dreams from a chthonic goddess, old as she appears, reckons this never an intelligent plan.