midnight bells

the clock was ticking-the sand was draining from the hourglass. the door was locked. the key had rusted away a hundred years before. she flew from the window of his room, sailing through the air with the speed of lightening. the clock was ticking. her time was almost up.
there was a knife in the chandelier, it was glinting in the half light. the door was creaking open, though the bolts were shot home and the key was flakes of rust on the ground.
the chandelier was knives, all to a one shimmering with dusty lethality. there was a glimmer of torchlight seen through the open door-but of course you know that the door was rusted, bolted, locked shut. the torchlight shimmered and shook, as if it were held in the hand of a verily infantile human...but who said this being-a malodorous presence, if you were wondering-was indeed a man? I certainly did not.
the thing is in the hallway now. it holds no torch-its eyes are aglow with fire.
the clock strikes midnight.
the thing, feted, unclean, lustily puffs in the chill, dusty air. the sand has almost run out.
she flies from her tree into the hall, through a slit in the icy stone. she alights on the table, lithe and night-cloaked. there is blood on the table now. there was none before.
there are feathers on the floor.
there is wind bushing the tips of her hair
the door that shouldn't be open hangs on its rusty hinges. the thing grins at her, its eyes filled with malice.
blood is dripping to the floor.
there should be no blood on the floor.
no one is there to bleed.
there are shadows on the wall.
there are screams hanging dead in the air. there is no-one here.
the door is shut. the knives glint in the light. their tips are crusted brown. feathers drift in motes to the floor-but do they? are you sure you have seen all of this? are you sure it is real?



(c) 2011