kereminde (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} kereminde) wrote,@ 2009-01-26 22:01:00 |
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Writing Project #5: The Gate
I almost didn't put this up, if only because it connects to some older writings I was doing back in college for creative writing. They were judged by two different teachers, and they gave completely opposite criticisms. After finding the box of my work and the copies, I decided "what the hell" and stopped to make some connections and decide how to approach it.
I don't like it too much, because it lacks . . . something. I'm not sure which word would meet the sense. I know there's not enough background to this; ~1075 words isn't a lot to work with for the backstory which this hangs on. I'll say this though; pinning it on some threads of other works this month helps. Eventually I'll wind up with something to seriously consider as a short story rather than a writing exercise.
Every city has its ghost stories, if you take time to listen to the people who grew up there. There are haunted places all across the world, in every little town there are rumors and legends which get passed down from parent to child. There are places where young men and women believe so haunted, they wouldn’t set foot in there even to win a bet. The older and wiser generation pretend the place doesn’t exist, to put it out of their minds. There is an air of mystery around these places, as well as a notoriety which attracts certain people to look closer.
One of these people was standing now before a shell of a house, looking up into boarded windows from beyond a fence. Signs blatantly read “no trespassing” and “offenders will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law”. According to local rumor mills, the place had been a hot spot for the ‘paranormal’ activity, until someone tried to burn it down. The stone outer construction remained solid, and the place remained standing.
The man standing there lifted the section of chain-link fence and slipped through. Obviously people had been in there before, and he could see recent tracks in the dirt of the front yard. He followed them around back, and noticed some of the boards kicked in. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and shone it inside only to stand after a minute and look down into the window contemplatively.
“Hey. Hey, you.” An older gentleman called from the house next door. “What are you doing there, can’t you read the signs?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No trespassing.”
“Are you the owner, sir?” The younger man walked closer to the speaker, an intensity in his gaze forcing the other to straighten slightly reflexively and glance at his shirt. He shook his head, but said nothing. “I’ll admit, I didn’t advise them ahead of time. But I am empowered to enter the premises. I’d thank you not to interrupt me again.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
The younger man sighed. “Don’t do that. They hate wasting their time, more than I hate wasting their time.” He fished out his wallet and flipped it open briefly enough towards the house. “Just let me go about my business.” The window shut, and the younger man returned his attention to the house’s window. He slid himself through, and heard his shoes splash in a small pool of water. His light cast around the basement to see bare brick scorched by the fire.
His investigation took him to another chamber of the basement, where he stopped upon seeing white paint on the floor. It was drier here, away from the broken window, and so someone had painted a circle in the ground with some symbols inside. He snorted to himself and knelt on the edge; someone always thought to conjure spirits up using one of these magic circles, and talk to those beyond the grave.
He smiled thinly to himself. “They really have no idea what they’re doing.” He reached into his pocket, and consulted a notebook. He glanced at the symbols as if trying to determine something, then nodded once. Picking a chunk of charred wood to toss into the circle, he seemed satisfied before standing up again.
A shimmer in the air drew his attention, and a light formed in the middle of the circle. Hurriedly, he stuffed the notebook in a pocket before drawing out a stone which he palmed.
“Who comes before the Gate?” The voice rasped out, wind stirring outward from the light.
“Jerome Richter. I have come to close the door.”
The being in the circle took form slowly, a shadow backlit against some ethereal lamp. Its head shifted and turned, as though seeking his presence. “The Gate will not be shut.” The voice spoke slowly, as though speech was alien to it. “You lack authority here, blood of Adam.”
Jerome shook his head. “By the laws set down before the Imperial Light, those who are not bound by flesh of this world may not travel freely. The Gate will be shut.” He lifted his hand to show a polished dark green stone. “You must honor the laws.”
“Laws of the Imperial Light.” The figure laughed, taking further form as arms reached out to either side. Its voice grew stronger. “The throne has been vacant for too long, its authority broken. Blood of Adam, you hold no authority either.” Legs formed, and paw-like feet set on the ground inside the circle. “Your words are empty. You will depart, or I will feast on you.”
“Whom do you serve?”
“I need not answer your questions. You do not bind me, and the one who called the Gate open has passed.” The voice was shifting, amused as Jerome heard the wind kick up again. “We will welcome you, and thank you for your . . . generous donation.” It moved forwards, arms reaching outwards.
Jerome stepped back and threw the stone, as it passed through the figure. It hissed and drew backwards before he dropped something from his pocket in the doorway. He ran over the shattered bottle and leapt to climb out of the window. He barely gripped it and hauled himself through, looking back to see an empty room. No, whatever was dwelling in there would not come into broad daylight no matter what its boasts said. There were still rules. He was just glad he had the sense to bring the holy water.
“Hey buddy!” The man from next door was back, calling out. “I just got off the phone with the cops. You’d better clear out before they arrive!”
Jerome dusted off his jacket and pants as he stood up. “Fine. All right, all right. I’ll leave. What’s your name?”
That stopped the man cold, and his tone became weaker again, suspicious. “What? Why?”
“So I can tell them who called them, and why I’m down at the precinct.” Again, the man shut the window rather than talk more, and Jerome smiled. Just as well, the police would definitely not be amused by his reasons for being there. This just meant he’d a talk with the owner, or have to be a little less obvious on the next trip. Despite whatever he would be told by the owner, he had to come back here and deal with that Gate. Before it could be pried open further, and admit something truly dangerous.
I almost didn't put this up, if only because it connects to some older writings I was doing back in college for creative writing. They were judged by two different teachers, and they gave completely opposite criticisms. After finding the box of my work and the copies, I decided "what the hell" and stopped to make some connections and decide how to approach it.
I don't like it too much, because it lacks . . . something. I'm not sure which word would meet the sense. I know there's not enough background to this; ~1075 words isn't a lot to work with for the backstory which this hangs on. I'll say this though; pinning it on some threads of other works this month helps. Eventually I'll wind up with something to seriously consider as a short story rather than a writing exercise.
Every city has its ghost stories, if you take time to listen to the people who grew up there. There are haunted places all across the world, in every little town there are rumors and legends which get passed down from parent to child. There are places where young men and women believe so haunted, they wouldn’t set foot in there even to win a bet. The older and wiser generation pretend the place doesn’t exist, to put it out of their minds. There is an air of mystery around these places, as well as a notoriety which attracts certain people to look closer.
One of these people was standing now before a shell of a house, looking up into boarded windows from beyond a fence. Signs blatantly read “no trespassing” and “offenders will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law”. According to local rumor mills, the place had been a hot spot for the ‘paranormal’ activity, until someone tried to burn it down. The stone outer construction remained solid, and the place remained standing.
The man standing there lifted the section of chain-link fence and slipped through. Obviously people had been in there before, and he could see recent tracks in the dirt of the front yard. He followed them around back, and noticed some of the boards kicked in. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and shone it inside only to stand after a minute and look down into the window contemplatively.
“Hey. Hey, you.” An older gentleman called from the house next door. “What are you doing there, can’t you read the signs?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No trespassing.”
“Are you the owner, sir?” The younger man walked closer to the speaker, an intensity in his gaze forcing the other to straighten slightly reflexively and glance at his shirt. He shook his head, but said nothing. “I’ll admit, I didn’t advise them ahead of time. But I am empowered to enter the premises. I’d thank you not to interrupt me again.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
The younger man sighed. “Don’t do that. They hate wasting their time, more than I hate wasting their time.” He fished out his wallet and flipped it open briefly enough towards the house. “Just let me go about my business.” The window shut, and the younger man returned his attention to the house’s window. He slid himself through, and heard his shoes splash in a small pool of water. His light cast around the basement to see bare brick scorched by the fire.
His investigation took him to another chamber of the basement, where he stopped upon seeing white paint on the floor. It was drier here, away from the broken window, and so someone had painted a circle in the ground with some symbols inside. He snorted to himself and knelt on the edge; someone always thought to conjure spirits up using one of these magic circles, and talk to those beyond the grave.
He smiled thinly to himself. “They really have no idea what they’re doing.” He reached into his pocket, and consulted a notebook. He glanced at the symbols as if trying to determine something, then nodded once. Picking a chunk of charred wood to toss into the circle, he seemed satisfied before standing up again.
A shimmer in the air drew his attention, and a light formed in the middle of the circle. Hurriedly, he stuffed the notebook in a pocket before drawing out a stone which he palmed.
“Who comes before the Gate?” The voice rasped out, wind stirring outward from the light.
“Jerome Richter. I have come to close the door.”
The being in the circle took form slowly, a shadow backlit against some ethereal lamp. Its head shifted and turned, as though seeking his presence. “The Gate will not be shut.” The voice spoke slowly, as though speech was alien to it. “You lack authority here, blood of Adam.”
Jerome shook his head. “By the laws set down before the Imperial Light, those who are not bound by flesh of this world may not travel freely. The Gate will be shut.” He lifted his hand to show a polished dark green stone. “You must honor the laws.”
“Laws of the Imperial Light.” The figure laughed, taking further form as arms reached out to either side. Its voice grew stronger. “The throne has been vacant for too long, its authority broken. Blood of Adam, you hold no authority either.” Legs formed, and paw-like feet set on the ground inside the circle. “Your words are empty. You will depart, or I will feast on you.”
“Whom do you serve?”
“I need not answer your questions. You do not bind me, and the one who called the Gate open has passed.” The voice was shifting, amused as Jerome heard the wind kick up again. “We will welcome you, and thank you for your . . . generous donation.” It moved forwards, arms reaching outwards.
Jerome stepped back and threw the stone, as it passed through the figure. It hissed and drew backwards before he dropped something from his pocket in the doorway. He ran over the shattered bottle and leapt to climb out of the window. He barely gripped it and hauled himself through, looking back to see an empty room. No, whatever was dwelling in there would not come into broad daylight no matter what its boasts said. There were still rules. He was just glad he had the sense to bring the holy water.
“Hey buddy!” The man from next door was back, calling out. “I just got off the phone with the cops. You’d better clear out before they arrive!”
Jerome dusted off his jacket and pants as he stood up. “Fine. All right, all right. I’ll leave. What’s your name?”
That stopped the man cold, and his tone became weaker again, suspicious. “What? Why?”
“So I can tell them who called them, and why I’m down at the precinct.” Again, the man shut the window rather than talk more, and Jerome smiled. Just as well, the police would definitely not be amused by his reasons for being there. This just meant he’d a talk with the owner, or have to be a little less obvious on the next trip. Despite whatever he would be told by the owner, he had to come back here and deal with that Gate. Before it could be pried open further, and admit something truly dangerous.
