Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26475800-20150612050513

There is a world that pushes upon ours, held back by a thin vale. A vale that can be broken if the right words are said. When you look into the books they sell at your normal bookstores they have spells. All of which involve an array of different tools to make possible. You don’t need any of those things. Just speaking the words are strong enough to bring your nightmares running from your subconscious and into this world. It was a rather normal November day. My family was getting everything ready for Thanksgiving. We always had a lot of friends and family over for the feast and because of that my mom thought it would be a good idea to get a bunch of hokey decorations. It was always my job to get them down from the attic.

The attic wasn’t like the kind you see in horror movies. There were some cobwebs, and a section of it had plywood thrown down so we could store things up there, but besides that it was just a normal attic you would find in any house. A light was installed there so we could see what we were doing. My dad didn’t want anyone to walk off the plywood and fall through the ceiling. Causing a rain of drywall, fiberglass and a person. That would be a sure way to break any festive mood. So he put the light up there.

It was the first time I had been in the attic since the Fourth of July. We used to have a big party then as well. Boxes of different decorations stacked to the roof were around laid in an orderly fashion. Only someone with OCD would put such order into an attic. Every box was labeled, stacked with other boxes with matching labels and placed no less than five feet from the next stack. There was even an outline drawn on the plywood as to where the boxes should be.

So it was strange when I saw the book lying in the fiberglass. I don’t remember seeing it before that time. It looked like an old photo album. Leather backed, the pages didn’t sit flat on one another and it had a kind of bulky shape.

I decided to take it down and see if anyone knew what it was. It wasn’t until I had finished getting everything down from the attic and closed the hatch that I opened it. At first I thought it would have something my little brother was stashing up there, maybe dirty pictures he printed out. But there were hardly any pictures. And the few that it had were hand drawn. In fact the entire book was written with long flourishing strokes. Definitely not something my brother would have written.

My mom had just gotten home from her shopping. As she was putting the food away I brought the book to her.

“I’ve never seen this before.” She said. “It must have been left by the previous owners.”

That was all she had to say about it. However, it still didn’t seem possible that I wouldn’t have seen such a tome all the times I was in the attic. And for her to miss it when she was meticulously arranging everything up there seemed even less likely. Nevertheless, I took her word for it. I put the book in my room and started hanging the paper turkeys. The book was completely out of mind.

By the end of the day everything was just about finished. All the food had been prepped for tomorrow’s fest. The inside of the house was covered with turkeys and pilgrims. The cheesy centerpiece was on the table.

As I sat in the living room I remembered the book. Maybe remembered isn’t the best word, I heard the book. I know that sounds strange. A book cannot talk, but I swear I heard it calling to me. Begging to be opened. The sound was faint, like a distant cry carried on the wind. At first I wasn’t sure if I heard it or not, but a few minutes later it came again. This time it was louder. Loud enough to be heard over the TV. But no one else seemed to hear it but me.

With the sound a feeling came over me. A need. It was like I didn’t have control of my body anymore. I got up and walked into my room. The book was waiting for me. Radiating an ominous power in my room. A chill run up my spine and I shuttered to get rid of it. Like the book was a magnet and I was steel I went straight for it. The thing felt warm in my hands. The same warmth that is given off by a pet or person. Also there seemed to be a slight throbbing coming deep from within its pages. Once I opened it there was no turning back. Almost like I knew what I was looking for, I stopped on a page. The flaky brown letters called to me and I began to read. I will not say what was written in the book for two reasons: the first I don’t recall them fully. And secondly, I do not wish for anyone to repeat my mistake. Though I will say that it was written in English. Not even old English, English as we speak it today.

As I read a feeling of dread overcame me. A feeling that the world was going to end. That feeling when you lose someone close to you, or when your dog gets ran over was nil compared to the feeling I was having while reading.

As if someone had flicked a switch all the power in my house had died after the last sentence was uttered. My palms were starting to sweat as I ran from my room. My folks were talking about flipping the breakers when I looked outside. Not only was the power to my house dead but also the rest of the houses on the block. Even the street lights were out. Then the sound came. A flute or something like it started to drift into the house. We all looked at each other than headed outside. Our neighbors were already standing on their porches or in their yard when we had gotten outside. Each of them looking down the street at a figure that was standing in the middle of the street. The moon illuminated him slightly. He was a tall bald man. The top of his head reflected the light of the moon. His eyes did too, like the eyes of a wolf when the light hits them just right. But all he did was play his twisted music. Then he started to sing in a guttural voice.

“Come my children, I’ll take you home. Away from your lies, you won’t be alone.”

Everyone started to sway to the words he was saying.

I’ll admit, I had stopped listening to the song. Truthfully, this most likely saved me from meeting the same fate as the rest. I was too busy trying to pull my mom and dad back inside the house. It was my brother who stopped me. I didn’t see him standing near my dad and he back handed in the mouth.

The force he used was unreal. He was no more than twelve, but he hit me hard enough to knock out a tooth and split another. Blood started to trickle from my gums. It was so shocked the he was one, so strong and two, so willing to hurt me.

I was on the grass in a daze as everyone started walking towards the man. Once more I tried to stop my family from going to this man. Talking sense to my parents was a waste of time. I tried to show them this man wasn’t normal. The eyes, the height and lankiness of his body. Now I could also see his saliva on his teeth and chin reflecting in the moon light. My dad pushed me to the ground once more. I tried to get up but was unable to. It must have been due to that fractured music the man was playing. I had to watch as everyone from my street walked to the man. Each looking down at me as they passed with their expressionless faces.

Then as if the man was a deranged piper from Hamelin, he started to skip around the corner. Everyone fallowed him, not skipping just shambling like zombies. The music stayed just as loud as it had been as the last person turned the corner, than stopped abruptly.

I was able to move again and ran as quickly as I could to the end of the street. No one was there. The next street was empty. The lights to my street came back on, but I didn’t care. I did the only thing I could think of, I ran around the block. Only to find nothing at each corner. There was not a sign of anyone or anything that had just happened.

It was obvious that the search was going nowhere, so it seemed like the wisest idea to call the cops. My cell was still in my house so I had to go back. Everything seemed to be as it was when I had left. The phone was still on the charger in my room. I swiped it up and dialed 911.

There was no ringing. Just that same broken tune. Repeating itself over and over again. The book was the solution. It had somehow called him here so there must be a way to call him back. To reverse what he had done. I looked for it but it wasn’t in my room. I knew I had left it on my bed, but it wasn’t there. Nor was it in the kitchen, living-room, or even my brother’s room. This thing had found a way to keep me from bringing my loved ones back. Which now that I think about it doesn’t seem like it would be all too hard for him. Somehow he had gotten the book into my attic. Gave me a feeling of longing for the book that made me have to read it. Guided me to the page that would call him. Than vanished with an entire block.

It wasn’t until about an hour later, once I have exhausted about a dozen more ideas that I started to look for the book again. Only to find something on my bed. It was in the exact place that I knew I had left the book. A hand written note with the same large writing as in the book. The paper was thick and brittle. Yellowed with age.

It read:

Thank you for so willingly helping me. I do know that I will enjoy my Thanksgiving feast.

JN 