In the dead of night

http://realityfractured.blogspot.co.uk/

It was the dead of night, the lights were out and I lay in my bed waiting for it to begin.

It began, as it always did, with the faintest of sounds; like a hand brushing over wallpaper. Except it was not brushing over the wallpaper, but under it.

These occasional sighs became more frequent and were soon punctuated by a scratching sound at the end of each stroke. It moved from wall to wall and across the ceiling. It traveled from room to room, growing fainter for a while before it returned. It was always drawn back to where I was.

Its movements became frantic, like clawed hands scratching behind the walls.

Then came the voice. It was barely louder than a whisper or maybe it sounded far away like from the bottom of a deep well. Despite the voice being barely audible it was intimately close. It spoke incoherently in an eerie tone. The meaning was perfectly clear.

It wanted out. It wanted through.

The scratches were replaced with the thudding of open palms, then the pounding of fists. The tempo increased until it resembled a continuous rolling thunder racing around the walls and ceiling of my room.

It searched for a weak spot, rattling hanging pictures, unsettling dust from swaying lampshades.

Then silence.

There was a build up of pressure in the room, a gathering of energy, followed by a creaking, warping sound nearby. I looked up and saw a hand-print swell from the wall above my head. I sensed the tremendous effort exerted as the wall stretched like latex and the hand slowly reached into the room, groping blindly, clawing at the air in an attempt to tear its way through.

I watched as cracks formed at the fingertips. I waited, holding on for as long as I could. I felt my fear of it breaking free mingle with the anticipation of what I was about to do. Just before it was too late I reached out to the ancient figurine on my bedside table and brushed my fingers over its grotesque shape. I caressed its otherworldly features and I recited forbidden words. The figurine warmed to the touch and became moist. It twitched and pulsated under my fingers.

Mystical glyphs appeared on the walls and ceiling, shining in an unnatural, violent light. I watched the arm spasm from one rictus pose to the next, like a flailing limb viewed under strobe lighting.

I felt its presence recede back to its dark, hollow prison, and a smile spread across my lips. I finished reciting and the words echo faintly around the room as though repeated by a thousand voices, voices that lulled me into a deep, restful sleep.

[This is an exert from my ongoing project Reality Fractured, a story in the form of a blog following someones journey through the weird events encountered in a town once perceived to be normal. If your interested in seeing more, check it out at http://realityfractured.blogspot.co.uk/]

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