Inkslingin' Chris

The alley was dark.  He had been wandering around the city aimlessly, looking for something, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.  He had walked past rows of pawn shops, and their bright neon’s had seemed so inviting, the televisions in the windows playing strange cartoons, with ghoulish figures on them.  He had passed a bar, and an ethereal music was emanating from it.  He paused for a minute, briefly debating weather or not to go in and have a drink, but something told him that he couldn’t.  A newspaper blew across the street, and he caught a glimpse of the man in a photograph.  He seemed to be smiling, a crooked, I’ve seen your innermost thoughts kind of smile, and it made him uneasy.  The skateboarders were out tonight, but even they seemed lifeless.  Zombies on a useless wooden toy.  Then he saw the alley.  It had appeared out of nowhere, and he was sure that it hadn’t been there a minute ago, but it was drawing him to it.  He had floated to it, and knew that he was floating because he could no longer hear his feet on the pavement, their steady rhythm had disappeared and only the sounds of the streetlights buzzing filled his ears now.  Now he stood here, staring down the alley, knowing that what he was looking for had to be down there, still unsure why it was calling him.  He heard the whispers, but couldn’t make out what it was they were trying to tell him.  The air was chilly, and he thought that perhaps he should have worn a jacket.  Then suddenly he was wearing one.  What a strange place this is, he thought.  A rat scurried past him, and for a brief moment, it stopped, and turned to look at him.  Sean thought he saw a tear in its eye.  Madness, he thought, rats don’t cry.  He thought his eyes would adjust to the darkness, but they didn’t.  Suddenly he could feel his feet again, and for a second he thought they would carry him away from this place, but his mind wouldn’t let them.  He had to walk down the alley.  What he was looking for was there he just knew it.  He muttered something to himself and then thought that he must be cracking, normal people didn’t talk to themselves, especially not in a city devoid of any life.  There was no one around to hear him say it, and yet he couldn’t help feeling that people were listening.  He brushed the thought aside.  This was no time to start scaring himself, he was on a mission.

As he took a step into the alley, the walls closed in.  Suddenly he wasn’t in an alley anymore, but a hallway.  The ceiling was painted with all sorts of skeletal beings, and they seemed to be moving.  Strange, but then again, nothing had seemed to be right since he started walking around.  He walked past a door, then another, and almost tripped over a man sitting in the hallway.  He was sure that the man hadn’t been there a few seconds ago, but again, he was just standing in an alley, that somehow magically changed into a ghostly Fremont Street Experience.  He started to say that he was sorry, but realized that he had no voice.  As he looked at the stranger, the mysterious man’s eyes flashed a brilliant blue, and his mind was penetrated with the thoughts of the man.

All the pain you feel, the disillusionment, the fear

Is nothing compared to the loss you will feel if you

Do not confront that which makes you uneasy.

He couldn’t understand what it was that he was hearing, couldn’t even really believe that he was hearing it, but his body knew what it was.  It stiffened, and he turned to run, but again, something stopped him.  He knew that he must keep walking, something had brought him here, and he needed to find out what it was.  So he turned again to look at the stranger, but there was no one there.  In his place was a newspaper machine, and again, there was the man, smiling at him. The picture faded away, and then the words.  The paper was blank.  He walked passed more doors, each one ornately carved, much like the ceiling.  He could hear the whispers more clearly now, they were getting louder, but they still made no sense.  For a moment he thought that he might never reach the end of the hallway, when suddenly he was standing in a room, lit so brightly that he couldn’t focus on anything.  There was a loud screaming in the room, accompanied by a grinding, and he squint his eyes to try and make out what it was.  The room was swirling, and he knew at once that this is what a hallucinogenic drug must feel like.  Then he saw it.  It was him, his face was contorted into a horrific scowl, and the man was standing over him smiling, that ever so ghastly smile.  He tried to yell, but nothing came out.  Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, the air had become so thick, and he struggled just to move.  He began to struggle, as if he was shackled and bound, writhing about like a fish just hauled in by a deft fisherman.  This couldn’t be happening he thought.  Where was he?  How could this be happening?  Suddenly he heard another voice.  This one soothing, comforting, and he woke up, his bed sheets wrapped around him so tightly he couldn’t move.  His mother was standing over him, a concerned look on her face.

“I’ve been calling you to breakfast, could you not hear me?”

His mind came into a sharp focus, and at once he was glad to see his mother.  She could be cruel, oh so cruel, but he needed her.  He broke down, crying, his bed was drenched in sweat, his heart thumping in his chest.  She looked at him, puzzled, and turned to go towards the kitchen.  He hated her then, like he had never hated anything in his whole life.  He reached for his notebook, scrambled to find a pencil as the dream slowly faded from his mind.  He wrote furiously, soon the clues would start to make sense; he just hoped that he could piece them together in time.