The Chamber

Shadows moved and, in their density, he could see shapes and forms, ephemeral discordances that beckoned, reached, cursed and hurt. He moved through the doorway and found a small chamber beyond. Forged from the very stone, the chamber was cold and damp, lichen hanging from its ruined walls, rusted iron rings set at disconcerting intervals. The chamber was lit by a faint glow whose source was, as ever, indiscernible.

He staggered to the far corner and knelt down, the cold and wet seeping in at the knee, through the cotton of his dark trousers. Flick. His lighter chased the shadows away, their density lessening momentarily in the glow of the tiny flame.

Back beyond the doorway, back in the corridor beyond the cold, wet chamber, back where the shadows roiled beyond the feeble reach of his little Ronson-fueled flame, a set of eyes winked into existence, a sharp, blue luminescence that should never have been.

His breath caught, the taste of damp decay heavy in his throat. He tried the incantation again, but, as before, it failed—the vague, empty promises of the witch on 32nd Street chasing themselves around the rising panic of his thoughts.

He tried the incantation again.

The eyes simply moved closer. The lighter flame billowed, shimmied, went out.

~ by liberdementia on February 27, 2009.

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