threadsofhorror

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Attic Noises - (Working Title, #10)

Now we're gettin' to it. Just came back from Jury Service, which wiped me out, but should hopefully be more on track this week. Hopefully.

t didn’t last. The steam from the tea gradually petered out and the sound of the clock grew louder with each tick.

Nerves got the better of him, and he scooped up the tea. His hand shook so bad as he walked up the stairs, that he spilled a good third of the cup on the carpet. ‘That better not stain’, came an automatic thought, which he didn’t dwell on. That was a concern for less crazy circumstances.

“Jake,” he called from the landing. His voice echoed off the walls, feeling smaller and sillier with each rebound. Like he was calling for his Dad to come get rid of a spider. He tried again, trying to inject a bit more confidence into his voice. “Your tea’s getting cold, mate. You alright up there?”

The echo of his ‘there’ was the only answer for a good long while. Then he heard something. So faint that it might have been his imagination reaching out for a reply. It was - or sounded like - a groan. Could be the pipes, or the house settling a bit, he reasoned. And yet, there was something distinctly human about it. The groan of a man in pain.

‘What if he had an accident?’ he thought. The attic was messy enough, he could’ve tripped over any damn thing. Even if he called an ambulance, they’d ask him to take a look up there anyway. It was either go check on him or leave him up there, while he might be in pain. Mark very much wanted to do the latter, but he knew he couldn’t. Decency remained the enemy of cowardice.

He ascended as slowly as he could, pausing each rung to listen. There was nothing but silence and the smell of dust. When he reached the top rung, he was greeted by the same sight. Stacks of boxes and paraphernalia surrounding him. It was as he was pulling himself up that he realised he couldn’t see the cold water tank at all. Had Jake ventured off to find it? If it was in the surveyor’s report, it couldn’t be far.

“Jake?” he called out again.

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Attic Noises - (Working Title, #9)

Getting towards the climax. Likely going to accelerate from here. I always find it harder to write stories as they get to the climax, so we'll see where this one goes.

Mark twiddled the tap to the maximum and water thundered through the hose and up the stairs. It took a few seconds for the full length of hose to become taut. He waited a few seconds and, then, “Okay, shut her off” came thundering down the stairs.

“Any joy?” Mark called back as he twiddled the tap back off. There wasn’t any reply for quite some time. Then he heard the sound of heavy boots thumping back down the stairs. Jake came back into the kitchen with his face all screwed up.

“Still nothing,” he said, “‘fraid it might be more complicated than I feared. Might need to take a look at the tank after all.” He took another swig of his tea as he spoke, screwing up his face again at the lukewarm tea before chugging it all down in one gulp. Mark just stared; conflicting emotions were keeping his mouth shut.

“You gonna show me the hatch or am I gonna have to find it myself?” Jake laughed. The thought of going back into that attic caused Mark to tremble. And yet, in the sunlight and in the face of Jake’s gaze, he found the memories of the attic melting away. Mark had never been good with enclosed spaces, after all, and the amount of dust up there would make anyone go a bit crazy. He’d not been hurt, nothing was inherently wrong. It had just been a strange moment. It’d be fine. It’d be fine.

“Yeah, sorry,” Mark said, trying his best to laugh, “it’s right up here.” He led the way upstairs and, with Jake’s help, unfolded the ladder and locked it into place.

“Want another cuppa?” Mark offered.

“You know it”, Jake replied. Mark suppressed his sigh of relief and hurried downstairs, the clanging of Jake’s boots on the rungs echoing in his ears.

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Been writing for my other thing. Probably won't resume this blog until next week now. Been a tiring week.

Review - Shift Legacy Collection

Another concerted effort to keep posting my reviews here.

Have a review of a lovely collection of old puzzle-platformers, with some extra levels to make it worth the expense.

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Attic Noises (Working Title, #8)

I like Jake. Shame, really. Only a couple of hundred words today. Gets harder to write as the days in the week go on. Plus I'm making chilli dogs, which is something more important, obviously.

“No water then, you said?” Jake asked the question, but was already checking the kitchen taps to make sure they ran fine. “Not a problem with the mains, then”, he said, giving Mark a thumbs up, “Won’t be quite as eye watering at the end of this.” Then he placed his tea order and Mark set to work, as Jake headed upstairs to the bathroom.

Mark could hear him whistling up there. A tune he didn’t recognise, but it sounded happy. It was nice to hear some positivity echoing off the walls. As the tea sat brewing on the worktop, Jake came back down.

“Yeah, that’s pretty dry alright,” he said as he dumped his box of tools on the kitchen floor. “Given that you’re still getting mains, I reckon it’s probably the old cold water tank in the attic. Explains why your shower went kaput too.”

“So,” Mark hesitated, “does that mean you’ll need to go up there and see it?”

Jake shook his head, and chuckled at the sigh of relief that Mark let out. “Proper mess up there is it?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, no worries, buddy. I’ve got a trick up my sleeve before it comes to that.”

The trick turned out to be a length of hose, with an adaptor to connect it to taps. “You’ve most likely got an airlock somewhere in the system,” Jake said, as he screwed the hose onto the kitchen taps. Air gets trapped in the pipes and affects the flow of water. Not uncommon with cold water tanks. “With the mains, it’s just too high pressure. So we need to create a bit of a blowback to teach that lock a thing or two.”

He stopped only to swig from his mug of tea - “proper job, that” - then he headed back upstairs with the hose slung over his shoulder. “When I give a shout, turn that tap on to full”, he shouted back down. Mark positioned himself next to the sink and crossed his fingers. This had to work. Seconds stretched themselves out, until it felt like he’d been in the kitchen for years. The ticking of the wall clock felt like a cacophony.

“Alright, let her rip”, Jake called down.

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Attic Noises (Working Title, #7)

Not much. Knackered today, work didn't let up. Still it introduces another character. Don't get too attached.

The taps had the same issue. Turning them on to max produced no water. Wrapped in a towel, he thought about what to do. The downstairs taps had the same issue. Nothing he tried had any effect, though he tried little beyond spinning the taps and swearing at them. It was time to call a plumber. Fortunately, he’d stuck a typed list of nearby services on the fridge for just such an occasion.

As luck would have it, the plumber was nearby. He sounded confident, as he shouted over the roar of the wind coming through an open window. Mark couldn’t sit still after phoning. There was a decent supply of bottled water on hand, so he could at least make a cup of tea. But once that was done, there was nothing to do but pace. At least that helped keep his mind from wandering back upstairs.

When the shriek of the doorbell cut through the house, he jumped hard enough to knock over the remaining dregs of tea.

“Morning,” said a bearded man as Mark opened the door. Then the man stopped, checked his watch and, with a grin, said, “Sorry, afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” said Mark, stepping back to let the man in. The man wore grubby grey shorts, and a red and yellow chequered shirt. Over that he wore a blue jacket, with his name stitched on a white badge on the front and the company logo on the back. Mark thought he had the image of a lumberjack moonlighting as a plumber.

“Jake,” he said, shaking hands. Mark introduced himself in kind.

“No water then, you said?” Jake asked the question, but was already fiddling with the taps to check it himself.

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Attic Noises (Working Title, #6)

I'm back. Getting back into the groove and trying to get this story moving, now I have a basic idea of how to end things. Few more sections to go, but I'm quite enjoying writing something pulpy. This story is going to get quite body horror focused, just to warn you.

It was a blessed relief. The water - just below scalding temperature - pushed all other thoughts to one side. The ball of chaotic emotion that had been forming in his chest loosened for a precious few minutes. He let it wash over him for a good ten minutes before he thought about washing himself. It was as he was cleaning his arms that he noticed a red patch on his inner forearm. A fibreglass rash.

He ran his hand along the redness, feeling the hot skin. His finger found a slight raised patch at the centre. Edging out of the water, he raised his arm up to the light to get a better look. Framed against the white light was a small raised bump, with what looked like a hair sticking out of it. Piece of fibreglass, he reasoned. Little bugger.

Getting hold of it was difficult with his wet fingers, but he managed it after a few attempts. He tugged, and felt a sharp pain in his forearm, but it didn’t budge. He tugged harder. The pain shot most of the way up his arm. The shock of it made him stumble and he had to prop himself up against the wall. He managed to grab it once again and, gritting his teeth, pulled. The pain spiked again but it didn’t budge. Then, as he let it go, it disappeared.

It didn’t fall though, it retracted. Burrowed itself down into his arm. He yelped and groped at his arm, but the sudden movement caused his feet to slip. Hot water sprayed into his face as he fell backward, landing hard on his backside. Just as soon as he had landed, the shower gave a loud sputtering sound and the water stopped.

He lay, naked and shivering, on the tiled floor, trying to process things. He ran a cautious hand back over his arm. The rash was there but there was no bump; no thin hair sticking out. Tightening and releasing his hand produced no pain. There was no sign at all that anything was wrong. Panic threatened at the fringes of his mind, so he decided to focus on a problem he could solve: the water.

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Not gonna be anything here for a little while as I'm on my honeymoon. Be back soon!

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Attic Noises (working title, #5)

Feel like I'm developing something of a character now. I like the idea of a guy who's made neatness the source of comfort being confronted by clutter and eventually being [whoops spoiler].

The hand holding the light shook, sending a scattering beam across the stacks.

When he finally emerged into another clearing, his attempt to halt his pace sent him crashing to the ground. His arm became buried wrist deep in fibreglass. It clung to him as he pulled away. All he cared about was the rectangle of light in the ground. His escape. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then swung himself onto the ladder. The back of the hatch scraped his back as he went down.

As soon as he hit the floor, he collapsed the ladder and pulled the hatch covering over. The blackness was gone. He clenched trembling fists and slowed his breathing. The fuzziness of the world around solidified and everything went back to its normal pace.

Then he went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. In the midday sunshine, it all felt rather silly. It’s easy to get turned around in dark, dusty places, he reasoned. Especially when they’re all cluttered up. He poured the tea and curled his fingers around the mug. If he was to survive the attic, he needed a plan.

He grabbed a notebook from a bookshelf and flipped through to the latest page. Then he began making a bullet point list. He would need a skip, for one, as there was too much for a tip run. However, there were lots of different types of items up there, so one skip wouldn’t cut it. He decided to focus on general waste first and make a separate pile for donations. That would take care of books and clothes.

Every bullet point felt like a weight lifted. Once it was complete, he tore the paper out - slowly so it wouldn’t rip - and pinned it to the fridge with two magnets. Then he adjusted it, so that it aligned with the fridge door. That done, it was time to take care of the second bit of business - the thick layer of dust that clung to him.

He stripped, placing his clothes into a black plastic bag so they could be washed separately. There wasn’t much point if everything was going in the machine, he supposed, but it was an old habit. Then it was time for the rest of him, which would need a good, hot shower. The power shower was ancient. It emitted a continual buzz and squeaked in protest, but hot water came out the end and that was all he cared about at the moment.

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Attic Noises (working title, #4.5)

Didn't write much today. Partly 'cause I was cooking dinner, but there were a couple of personal bits going on that meant I couldn't focus (nothing bad though).

That was enough. It was time to go back down. He shone his light around, looking for the two stacks that he’d pushed through. It took a moment to find them. Thankfully, one of the stacks was a big collection of books, with one of them being a bright green. Something was wrong, though. He was sure he had emerged with the books on his left, but the gap was now to the right of the books.

Blaming his memory helped to fight off the chills and he pushed his way into the gap. He was moving faster this time; his movements threatening to topple the stacks. He had to stop a few times, as things slipped down onto his head but he never stayed still for long. His heart had begun to pound.

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Attic Noises (working title, #4)

Starting to enjoy writing this one. Should be moving towards more dramatic bits in the coming days. Need to flesh out the protagonist more in subsequent edits. Focusing on the weird bits at the moment.

Before he could work up a plan, he needed to know the extent of the problem. He’d have to poke into all the corners. He picked a stack at random and started squeezing in the gap between it and the next one over. It was tight; he could feel the stack behind him brushing against his neck. So tight he had to move sideways, with his phone pointing out ahead of him.

The stacks seemed to go on for a long time. Chunks of wood giving way to stacks of books and another which looked like pots and pans. Each stack felt a little closer than the previous one and he soon found himself scraping against both. Edges were constantly snagging and tugging at his clothes and thin scratches had started to appear on his arms as he brushed against things in the dark.

Just when he was planning to start heading back, he burst out into the open. He made the most of it by stretching out his arms and legs as far as they would go. It was only as he reached up for the ceiling that he realised it hadn’t sloped at all. He could stretch up as high as he could in the middle of the attic. He shined his light around on the floor, wondering if he’d been turned around somehow, but there was no sign of the hatch.

Best not to think about, he decided. This was not the environment to start creeping himself out in. Instead, he shone the light around his new environment. While it was more spacious, it was no less cluttered. Rather than stacks, though, it seemed to be a dump for intact furniture. An antique wardrobe stood in the corner. Why it had been reassembled in the attic was a mystery, but next to it was an equally antique looking dressing table, on top of which lay a blonde wig, which was spilling over the side.

A pair of armchairs stood behind him, in between which was a tall metal lamp. Mark walked over to one of the armchairs. He needed a moment to stop and think and take everything in. As covered in dust as they were, they did at least look comfortable. As soon as he sat, though, he sank downwards. So much so that he had to put both hands on the arms to push himself out and, even then, the cushion was reluctant to let him go.

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Attic Noises (working title, #3)

Feel like this bit will be cut up and changed heavily on the subsequent edit to concrete some of these details once the main plot thread's there. But here's the first draft version.

Wrapping it around his hand, he tied it into a makeshift bandage.

Then he took a deep breath, letting the shock that came with sudden pain recede. Once he was comfortable, he took another few steps up, holding onto the side of the hatch with a lighter touch. He was now high enough to stick his head through.

The paltry light that shone through the open hatch didn’t show him much. The end of thick strips of wood, which sandwiched clumps of fibreglass insulation. Tall dark shapes clustered all around him, which he could just make out as boxes and towers of, what looked like, wooden planks. With difficulty, he struggled out his phone from his pocket and shone its torch around.

The surveyor had clearly been understating things. The attic looked like the den of a hoarder. Towers of clutter were in every direction, with his small torch not coming close to capturing them all. There were towers of what looked like dismantled furniture closest to him. They seemed more ‘torn apart’ than dismantled, Mark thought, as he looked closer at one.

The most immediately important discovery was a thick white cable leading up a wooden beam. He followed it up and found what he was hoping for: a light switch. Hoisting himself up through the hole, he found that a path to the light switch was created by thin wooden boards laid across the beams on the floor.

Flicking the switch showed him the full extent of what he was dealing with. The single, bare lightbulb couldn’t even get into the corners. Too many piles of forgotten objects, left to rot in the dark. Directly next to him was a pile of clothes. A golden summer dress, a grey suit jacket, a thick parka, countless pairs of underwear and God knows what else, all in one giant lump. Every item was coated in dust and stains and a thick, musty smell came from the pile.

Before he could work up a plan, he needed to know the extent of the problem.

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Writing paused here as I was doing writin' on my other blog.

Review - DarkStar One - Nintendo Switch Edition

Let's pretend I haven't forgotten to post all my reviews here and ignore the other post after this one that's like a week old. ANYWAY, Here's DarkStar One, an ole-timey sci-fi game from the far past of 2006.

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Attic Noises (working title, #2)

Didn't get much written. Too hot, and my mind kept going to my upcoming holiday.

Mark had thanked him, wishing he’d found someone with a stepladder.

The first job was removing the cover for the hatch. Standing on his toes, he could splay his fingers and lift the cover up just enough to allow him to slide it to the side. Doing so revealed a square, black hole. Cold air drifted down from it, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. He waited for a few moments, holding his breath. There were no noises. Nothing came rushing out of the dark to grab him. It was okay.

He released his breath, turning it into a little laugh and a cough. After a little bit of fiddling, he figured out how to make each rung of the ladder lock into the other and began extending it towards the hole. The end of the ladder had no way to hook onto the edge of the hatch, so he was forced to just lean it against the side. It wobbled a lot when he put his foot on it. Rickety was the right word. Wedging the base was a must.

He went up as slowly as patience would allow, stopping every now and then to make sure the base was solid. It was only a few rungs until he was high enough to grab the edge of the hatch. The edge consisted of a layer of white plastic, above a layer of fibreglass insulation which in turn sat on top of a thin layer of rough wood. As Mark gripped the hatch, his palm pressed against the wood.

A shard of this wood was jutting out from the rest and it dug deep into Mark’s palm as he pressed it close. Mark swore and the jolt of his flinching nearly sent the ladder crashing down. Steading things, he gritted his teeth and pulled the sliver of wood out of his palm. A thin trickle of blood followed it, which he stemmed with a handkerchief from his pocket.

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Attic Noises (working title, #1)

Putting some wild thoughts I'd had when moving into my current house into a story. Attics are weird places.

The bones of a house take time to settle. Mark learned this the hard way. The first couple of days after moving in, he’d lie awake at night, listening to the groaning and creaking of his new house. In the light of day, these noises were easily explainable. The protest of metal pipes as hot water flows through for the first time in ages. Wood and plaster shifting as the central heating does its job. Neighbourhood noises muffling and changing as they filter through the brickwork.

He’d been systematic at identifying each noise and reassuring himself, despite how silly it felt, that there were no ghosts or ghouls groaning in cupboards or under beds. He’d even made a paper list, checking off every room as he went. Putting these superstitions into words meant he could cross them off and slept sounder because of it. There was one room he couldn’t check off, though. The attic. He was still hearing creaks and groans coming from above him, never in the same spot twice.

He’d bought the house without checking the attic. The previous owner hadn’t left a stepladder and the estate agent wasn’t much help. The surveyor had described the attic as cluttered, but the cold water tank was fine. Screw it, he’d thought. An attic is an attic. He’d regretted it ever since. An unexplored black mark on an otherwise fine house.

The attic hatch was in his upstairs landing. A white square cut out of the ceiling, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. The ceiling was low enough that he could just reach it if he stood on his toes. On the fourth day, he decided he was going to check this attic off no matter what. He reached up and wrapped his knuckles against it. Wasn’t sure why. Maybe he just wanted to let the monsters know he was coming.

That afternoon, he borrowed a ladder from a mate of his. It was a collapsible one, which would collapse with enough force to guillotine your fingers if you weren’t careful.

“It’s a bit rickety,” he’d said, “so don’t go jumping around on it.”

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Scrap - Dream, 18/06

A dream I had a few days ago. In retrospect, not too scary but the realisation that I'd had the dream before really spooked me, so I figured I'd write it out.

I’m being led up a carpeted staircase. The carpet is a sickly kind of green. Faded a little, but not torn up. The colour reminds me of the elderly, though I’m not too sure why. A woman is leading me up the stairs. I think she’s an estate agent. Perhaps a tour guide. She’s dressed in a suit, I think. It’s hard to make out. She’s talking about the history of the house, but I’m not really listening at the beginning.

I’m not really much of anything at the beginning. Some dreams I see in first person, but most are in third person. I see a shape moving up the carpet behind her, completely unidentifiable, yet something clicks into place. That’s me. Undeniable. I hover close to myself, letting it all play out. It’s not a bad dream. It’s a little familiar, if anything.

We walk past a door frame. There’s no door to speak of. It’s like a perfectly rectangular section of the wall has been removed. Sliced away so we can see into a poorly furnished bedroom. A bare, metal-frame bed stands to the left; a drab desk to the right. Directly opposite the door frame is a large, ornate wardrobe. Immaculate woodwork, though the fine details swim a little in front of me.

“Her body must still be here, somewhere, but no one’s found it…”

An abrupt mood change as I zero on what she’s saying. A coldness creeps over everything, which is chased by a feeling of awful recognition. Two facts seem hit at once.

One - I am in a dream.

Two - I know how this dream ends.

There is no pause to allow me to process these facts. The next stage of the dream whirrs into life. The woman and me - the physical one at least - carry on up the stairs, but my vision doesn’t go with them. I’m locked into place, staring at this room. I feel like I’m staring intently into a mental television set, which now begins to zoom in. It’s slow - creeping over the threshold of the room.

I know it’s zooming into the blackness underneath the wardrobe. I know what’s under there. I try to look away; to force myself to switch to another dream. But every time I try to look away, something pulls my eyes back up to the room. Every time I try, the zoom skips a bit. Closer to the wardrobe with every blink.

I resign myself to enduring the show. It zooms inexorably in on the blackness, no matter what I do. The bed seems to grow larger, but its perspective is all wrong. The desk has slipped completely out of view, though I only barely register that. A faint rumbling seems to grow in my ears. I think about the estate agent for a second. She’s gone. I’m alone now.

The zoom carries on for a long time but then I see it. What I knew was coming. A flash of white in the blackness. Fingers of a skeleton, looming out of the darkness, gripping at the carpet underneath. The rumbling is louder. A sound I can’t place. A wall of noise that rises with my panic.

Still we zoom in, until two rings of white begin to form around dark circles. Hollow eyes, ringed in bone. The whiteness continues to grow until it forms a complete skull, lying on its side. 

Do I know her name? I think I knew it before. It escapes me now. Maybe I knew it in an earlier dream. Perhaps the agent had said it and I’d not listened? I have no idea. But as I think about it, a name begins to form in my mind. I don’t recall it. It could be a random name, but something about it fits into place.

As it does so, the skeletal fingers twitch, digging deeper into the carpet. The skull doesn’t move, but something feels different about it. Like the empty eye holes are looking straight back at me. Asking my name.

I wake with my heart pounding, thankful for the rays of dawn illuminating the room around me.