Short Story - First Draft

I tossed this together last weekend whilst coughing and sneezing my head off in bed. If anyone cares to read it and give me some feedback I'd appreciate it greatly.

Hopefully it's not too horrible, just remember, I was sick while writing it. (that's my 'out')


The Object


There is an undeniable truth to the concept that since we as humans are limited to experiences within the sphere of our daily lives, everything we know is suspect. Every probability, theory, and law is based upon realities which our race has experienced and documented. Why then is it always such a shock when those realities are challenged by the unknown?

But then, perhaps I am one set apart, undeserving of the label ?'human'. By no stretch of the imagination is it conceivable that my existence upon this world should be classified as normal. Oddities and unrealities have been my constant companions since I was 12. It was at that unsuspecting age that what would have otherwise been an average life was turned on its ear and reclassified as something else entirely.

It began with the death of my Grandfather, Robert Hamilton III. We had gone to the lawyer's office to go over his will and get his affairs in order. My Father and Mother took over care of my Grandfather's estates. I was left with something of a slightly larger import.

It was a simple little thing in all aspects that truly mattered. And it was small, fitting quite easily in the palm of my hand. I'm not entirely certain what type of metal it was cast in, if cast it were. However, I clearly recall that it was always warm to the touch, much like the feel of loose change carried in a pant pocket on a warm day.

The object was coin-shaped and fairly thick. One side was adorned with an X, expertly chiseled into the metal. The other was decorated with an elaborate engraving of an open eye. It wasn't elegant, or even overly aesthetic, but it was the one item my grandfather left for me in his Will. This made it priceless beyond reasoning to a 12 year old boy, and I accepted it gladly.

My mother admonished me to treat it with care, telling me to put it away and not carry it around with me all day. I always thought her afraid that I would lose it in one of the many adventures that young boys are wont to partake in. Looking back, I think perhaps she may have had a differing motive, one that I couldn't have guessed at before.

We left the attorney's office after all of my Grandfather's affairs had been properly administered to. I distinctly remember the smell of the 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser Wagon as I piled into the backseat, along with my sister. It was the smell of wet leather, and seemed to always be present during the summer months. My sister and I were arguing about something or the other as my parents buckled into the front seat. Father looked back and told us to keep it down, then fired up the Wagon and we pulled away from the office building.

I could feel the weight of the object in my jeans pocket, the warmth of it seeping into my leg. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, yet it wasn't entirely comfortable either. Much like the beginnings of an itch that you knew would only get worse if you scratched it. I reached into the pocket, removed the piece of metal and turned it in my hands. I noted that once the object was in my hands, the feeling disappeared altogether.

We pulled up to our small little brown-brick home where I hopped out of the backseat and opened the left garage door, allowing my father to pull the Wagon inside. Father always insisted on keeping the cars in the garage, stating that once exposed to the elements the paint would begin fading and the value of the car would drop. I never did point out to him that by merely driving the car you were exposing it to the elements.

I went into my room and closed the door. I placed the object onto the desk that was built into the cabinets on the south wall. I flicked on the radio, grabbed a stack of comic books and fell to, relieved at being out of the car and away from lawyers. I'm not certain how much time past, not much as I was only 4 - 5 pages into my first comic, yet I found myself glancing up at the object on my desk.

Thoughts of my Grandfather, of the times we spent together, entered my mind, thoughts of campfires out at Buffalo Gap Park, roasting marshmallows and chatting. Images of him come to mind in his flannel shirt casting logs onto the fire and looking furtively into the shadows of the nearby mesquite. That small object was always in his hands, flashing back and forth as he fingered with it over and over.

I was on my feet and walking towards my desk before I quite knew what I was doing. As before, the object was warm to the touch. Holding it loosely in my right hand, I glanced around the desk and spied the box of photos I had dug out yesterday for my mother.

The box contained photos of my Grandfather that I had collected over the years. Mother had requested a nice one of him in a tuxedo that Grandmother had given me a few months before she had passed. It was Grandfather at their wedding, looking rather smart in his grandiose outfit. He had a huge smile that reached his eyes, projecting the confidence of the young.

Looking through other pictures, I found several from his later years after the war and during his archeological career. One showed an older version of the smiling man from the wedding photograph. He was standing in what appeared to be a jungle of some sort, a short black man in dungarees next to him. Intrigued, I flipped the photograph over to see if any notes were written on the back.

I found nothing by way of explanation or narration of the photo, but rather a simple date in my grandmother's unique handwriting: March 21, 1954. Slightly disappointed, I put that photo down and picked up another. The image was obviously from a later date, and was one taken of my Grandfather in his home. I marveled at the differences between the two pictures.

The archeologist photo showed a man happy, energetic, and healthy. The second photo showed a man with large rings around his eyes, and an expression of weariness. I assumed the constant exposure to the sun while out on his digs was largely to blame. That and advanced age. Flipping over the photo I discovered another date, and that my assumptions were flawed. The date read February 15, 1955.

Further reflection was interrupted by my mother announcing that dinner was ready. I stuffed the object into my pocket and headed for the dinning room table. The meal was your average affair, a stew with some salad and a glass of iced tea. My mother was never what one would call a masterful chef, though she could do miraculous things with a can of Cream of Mushroom and a bottle of ketchup.

As I was eating, my Father and Mother spoke about Grandfather and about some of the things that still needed to be done to prepare for his memorial service tomorrow. I listened in with only faint interest, the balance of my thoughts having to do with the TV and the latest happenings of Spider Man.

Out of nowhere a rather loud thump echoed throughout the room, startling me effectively enough to cause the spoonful of soup that had previously been en route to my mouth to shoot across the table and hit my sister square on the nose. All conversation immediately halted and my mother glared at me and said "Anthony! What has gotten into you?"

I was rather shocked myself, as the thump had been close to deafening. I couldn't understand why my Mother was yelling at me for reacting to such a loud sound. I voiced as much, and was greeting by that look that Mother's get when you're simply too incorrigible for words.

"Son, if you can't behave then you'll be sitting in your room for the remainder of the evening." said my Father sternly.
"Did none of you hear that noise?" I asked, somewhat flustered by the unreality of it all.
"Oh stop it, there was no excuse for you to throw food at your sister." retorted my Mother as she mopped the last bit of tomato juice from my sister's face. "Really, you're old enough to know better!"

Everyone went back to eating dinner, leaving me with a profound sense of betrayal. Whether it was at my parents for not believing me, or at my senses for tricking me I wasn't quite sure. Regardless of the reason, I was no longer hungry and quickly excused myself from the table.

Heading back to my room I decided to forego any television watching that evening, choosing to finish reading through my comic books before bed. I stretched out upon the bed, turned on my reading lamp and began reading through my latest X-Men comic. My eyes were already getting fairly heavy, despite it being early, and soon I found I was having trouble keeping the book opened.

***

I jumped awake and quickly set up in the darkness unsure as to what had awoken me. I apparently had had the place of mind to turn off my reading light before sleep finally overtook me, for the room was fairly dark. A slim bit of light shown through the heavy curtains on the far wall, but all else was swallowed up in the pitch.

The room was rather warm, and I was soaked through in sweat. I reached up to remove my pajama top in an effort to cool off, and noticed that I had my Grandfather's object in my hand. I didn't really remember grabbing it, though this wasn't unusual as I didn't remember turning the light out either. I was in the process of setting the object on my nightstand when I heard it again. THUMP!

Now, I always had an overactive imagination growing up, which was one of the reasons I never did bother with seeing horror films or other such forms of entertainment. The noise this time was accompanied by a slight vibration in the floor, which I felt even through the bed. This was no imagination.

?'Bad pipes.' I thought to myself, in a heroic effort to keep my imagination at bay. I removed the shirt and threw it to the ground beside my bed then, with implicit forcefulness I threw my head back down into my pillow and shut my eyes. My heartbeat maintained it's steady pace for a bit, and then finally began calming down to a more restful state. Ever so slowly I felt the hands of sleep reach out for me again.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

I practically stood up in bed, glancing around for the cause of this devastating noise. The room, I noticed, was no longer warm. A chill wind was blowing through it though I knew I had left my overhead fan off. I sat down in the bed and reached towards the nightstand to turn on a lamp. As I stretched my hand brushed a half-empty glass of water that had been sitting on the stand, knocking it to the floor. Or at least I thought it had, for though I waited for what seemed like a minute I never heard it hit the ground.

I finally managed to reach the light and flipped it on. One look at the floor had me practically shrieking for my parents. The floor was gone. From my bed down there was absolutely nothing. I remember the feeling of a cold emptiness overwhelming me within the stale air that hung thickly in my room.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

The noise came from deep beneath my bed, causing me to shriek again for my parents. Why weren't they answering? Then the light went out and I was smothered in darkness. Well, almost smothered. Once my eyes had adjusted I noticed a dim light coming from under the sheets of my bed. Pulling back the covers I found the object laying there, a soft sickly-green glowing nimbus surrounding it. I reached down to pick up the object, and the moment my fingers brushed the warm metal I heard a faint whisper come from beneath me, then a loud WHOOSH of air, then nothing.

I screamed again for my parents, and was this time rewarded with the figure of my father crashing through the door and turning on the overhead light. "What's the matter? Are you OK?" my father asked, concern etched onto his face.

I numbly glanced about, seeing the floor firmly in place with no trace of what it had been mere seconds before visible. Glancing by my nightstand I saw the overturned glass, its contents slowly soaking into the carpet.

"Are you OK?" my father asked again, softly.

For lack of an answer, I merely nodded and lay back down, trying to still the trembling in my limbs. My father looked at me one last time, then said "Goodnight then." and turned off the overhead light and shut the door. Sleep was a long time in coming, but eventually it arrived and I gratefully slipped under its influence.

***

The next day was filled with ceremony, people I'd never met offering their condolences, and lots of food. The events of the night before were quickly pushed to the back of my mind as the day progressed. The funeral parlor was fairly crowded, though not all were there for my Grandfather. There were at least 2 separate viewings going on in the other wing of the home. The sounds of weeping and people talking softly floating through the hallways as I explored a bit, more to get away from the crush of strangers than from any real curiosity.

I found one viewing room that was empty, the coffin having already been transferred to the graveside ceremony. I went in and took a seat in one of the several metal folding chairs lining the walls. I began contemplating for the first time today the events of last night. Not being very old yet, I was nevertheless quite certain that such occurrences were fairly rare. I absently tossed the object from one hand to the other as I ran through the happenings in my head.

A soft rustle of fabric alerted me that someone else had entered the room. I became rather embarrassed, thinking perhaps that my presence there was breaking some sort of unspoken protocol of the funeral parlor. I quickly stood up and turned to leave when I spied the cause of the sound. Standing next to the doorway was a figure cloaked all in gray, his features covered by a large hood. There was nothing overly frightening about this figure, other than the fact that he was impossibly tall.

"Hello." I ventured meekly, hoping that this wasn't a groundskeeper or someone that might take offense to me being here. The figure didn't speak, but slowly extended it's hand and pointed to my side. I followed his finger toward my right hand, and slowly opened it to reveal the object sitting there. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The sound was nearly deafening, like a drum being beaten right next to my head. The figure never moved, merely stood and pointed at the object in my hand.

Despite my earlier estimation of this person, I was now extremely frightened. Clenching my hand I ran as fast as I could, shoving past the figure, through the doorway and down the hall I ran as fast as I was able, never looking back. I arrived back in the viewing room of my Grandfather and glanced down the hallway I had just raced through. There was no sign of the figure anywhere.

Around about 2 or so we all piled into the Wagon and followed the hearse towards the burial site. The caravan of vehicles was surprisingly short, given the number of people that knew my Grandfather.

We quickly arrived at the gravesite and took our places around the casket. Father Ash began speaking of Grandfather's life, adding scripture and bits of personal stories to the mix. I found myself glancing around the graveyard at the various tombstones that dotted the field. A breeze blew up from the east, and I grabbed my jacket and shoved my hands in the pockets to keep warm.

My right hand closed around the object Grandfather had given me, though I didn't recall putting it there. It was, as usual, warm to the touch. Without the preamble of the loud THUMP as occurred earlier, the whispers started again. At first I thought they might be whispers of the people standing around me, until I realized that I couldn't hear anything other than the whispers. Glancing at the Preacher confirmed my theory. He was in full speech mode, hands gesturing slightly, mouth opening and closing, yet I could hear nothing.

Nothing, that is, except the whispers. I began looking about the graveyard, and had to fight to keep my knees from collapsing. Standing behind every gravestone there was an image of the person from the funeral parlor. I say image because they held not enough substance to be considered solid, nor were they colored in any way. Yet they were unmistakably there, and from their mouths issued the whispers I had heard.

My hands clenched tightly in my pockets, one grasping nothing, the other squeezing the object tight enough to hurt. The object was growing warmer and warmer, almost hot enough to be painful. I pulled my right hand from its pocket and by force of will managed to pry it open. The object was glowing brightly now, not a green sickly light, but a bright almost blinding white light.

However, what was more concerning was that the etched eye had taken on the aspects of a more realistic model. So much so that it even had the temerity to blink a few times while staring directly at me!

The whispering grew in crescendo, though the figures never moved from their positions behind the tombstones. As the cacophony reached it's apex . . . . THUMP! . . . . I dropped the object with a start and covered my ears. Instantly the images disappeared like smoke in a heavy wind. I slowly lowered my hands and was greeted not with the whispers, but by the droning voice of Father Ash.

Glancing down I saw that the object had fallen with the eye facing upwards. It was once again merely an etching on a piece of metal. As before, no one around me appeared to have heard the loud noise, or seen any of the images that had so recently assailed my senses. Uncertain of what to do, I quickly picked up the object and deposited it back into my pocket, all the while praying earnestly that I wasn't completely losing my mind.

***

We arrived home at about 5:00 in the evening. Having eaten all day it was decided that we would just snack on some of the food that friends of the family had brought over. There was certainly enough of it. A few lingering relatives were floating about the living room, so I grabbed a small plate of something resembling turkey and dressing and made my way to the back porch. I sat in the old wicker chair that Mother had found at a flea market in Beaumont and began munching silently.

I wasn't sure what to make of recent events. I was fairly certain that I had my mental faculties in order and that I wasn't hallucinating or going mad. Yet there was no rational explanation for what was going on. I gingerly took the object from where it rested in my coat pocket and glanced at it. It was still warm to the touch, though it wasn't glowing or hurling pea soup at me. Thank God for small favors.

I was about to put the object back in my pocket when suddenly there was a loud noise behind me. I dropped the plate and leapt to my feet just in time to thoroughly scare the wits out of my Mother. She closed the backdoor and walked up to me. "Why are you so jumpy?" she asked. Then glancing at the patio floor she added "You'll need to get that up quickly or it will attract ants. This came for you in the mail. The lawyer said he forgot to give it to you yesterday."

She handed me a brown-wrapped package and then headed back into the house (closing the door much quieter this time). I scraped the remnants of my snack off of the floor and deposited them back onto the plate, which I set off to the side. I held the package in my lap and began fiddling with the twine that fastened it. After removing the twine and brown paper I was left with an old, thick cardboard shoebox.

Gently removing the worn lid I glanced inside the box and there, lying on top of a stack of photos and a bundle of notes was a letter addressed to me. I lifted the letter from the box and glanced at my name written in my Grandfather's precise script. I opened the letter and began reading:

Grandson,
I had hoped to gather the courage to talk with you about this in person. After much reflection I came to the conclusion that I'd not have the stomach to face you with this charge. So instead I must do so in writing. I pray that you'll find it in you to forgive me for what I am about to request of you.

First, let me tell you a story. I began my archeology career at around age 22; my first dig was in the thick jungles of Africa. Three days earlier a small group of relief workers stumbled across the remnants of a rather large statue. More accurately, they ran into a ten foot section of the statue's face, the rest lay beneath the earth. Our team was mobilized immediately upon receiving the call and we were on the scene within 24 hours.

We had a team of diggers excavating day and night for 4 weeks straight, and when we finally found an entrance we none of us expected to encounter what we discovered. Once fully uncovered, the doorway stood at well over 25 feet high, 15 wide. Carved figures lined the door frame, figures of what we took to be men in various postures of deference. Early one sunny morning with paper, compass and torch we made our way into the massive doorway.

We walked for the better part of the day, discovering that the passageways appeared to wind into a giant maze. We left charcoal markings on the walls so that we could find our way back out again, and felt that we had everything well in hand. Towards evening we decided it'd be best to set up camp inside the structure so that we could start again in the morning without losing ground. One of the guides had marked an ideal campsite about 400 yards behind us, and so we all turned around and began making our way back to the indicated spot.

It was then we discovered that all of the marks we had left were gone, and we were utterly lost. We decided to go ahead and camp where we were, and to try to discern what became of our markings in the morning. We set sentries to watch over us as we slept, and turned in. The day had been a trying one, and soon everyone laying down was sound asleep. I awoke some time in the night to find that all of the torches were out. After shaking off my disorientation I located one of the sentries, a balding tribal guide we called Walter, and found him to be fast asleep.

No amount of shaking or prodding could wake him, and I quickly became dismayed. Searching around I stumbled over the other sentry, also asleep, and tried to rouse him. Again I was confounded by my inability to wake them. After a few minutes of poking, prodding and kicking I discovered that the entire party was out cold. Needless to say, I was rather shaken by current events, and began trying to calm myself enough to consider my options.

That was about the time I heard the noise: a loud thumping sound, much like the man and his large kettle drums at the symphony. At first I was frozen in place, unable to move for the fright of it all. After a few moments of abject terror I began to see a faint green glow coming from a hallway that I swore wasn't there when we set camp. Seeing as I wasn't going to get anywhere with my entire team asleep and no way to find my way out, I decided to cowboy up and make for the light.

The thumping sound was a continuous and ongoing event now, its incessant rhythm hammering a spike between my eyes. I slowly made my way down a long hallway that had apparently been carved from the earth, though the walls were as smooth as brick. The further down the tunnel I strode, the brighter the light got, until at last it ended at a large chamber. By large I mean I was able to see neither the ceiling for the darkness above, nor even the far wall clearly.

I was, however, quite capable of seeing what lay in the center of the room, and what stood next to it. A large circular altar stood in the exact center of the room, the green light emanating from the top of it like nothing other than a small sun. So brilliant was the light and altar that it took me a few moments to realize that there were figures lying prostrate all around the circular chamber, from the altar to the walls. The room was packed with these ?'worshippers', all statue-still as the steady thump washed over them.

It was then that I noticed there was a pathway between the worshippers and the tunnel in which I stood leading straight to the altar. And standing about 20 yards away from me in the center of that path was a being unlike those on the floor. This thing was humanoid in shape, though measured a good 7 feet in height. It wore a gray cloak, had an almost snow-white complexion, and most astonishingly of all it had no mouth. It had piercing white-less eyes that were fixed directly at me. I understood that this creature standing before me was a being of power, though I got no impression of evil in him.

"Come." said a voice in my mind so suddenly that I nearly fell backwards from the start.
"Come," came the voice again, "We have need of you."

For lack of any better plan, I made my way down the isle of worshippers towards the tall figure. As I walked the voice continued: "For millennia we have been trapped here below, unable to escape this prison and unable to call for help." I kept walking forward as his story continued, enrapt by the depths of his eyes and the timbre of his soundless voice. "We are weak, our children and elderly have already passed through the last gate. Only we remain, and we seek freedom. Help us."

This last was almost a plea, in my mind I felt sadness so great that I nearly wept for it. Images of a great civilization flashed in my head then. Images of family, of love and of peace swept past my eyes in that instant. When my eyes refocused the cloaked figure was standing directly in front of me, a small object in his outstretched hand. "Help us. Free us. Take this talisman and guide us to release, we beg you."

I took the talisman from him, and without knowing why, I pressed it to my forehead so that they eye faced away from me. There was a bright flash before my eyes, and then I knew what was being asked of me. I lowered my hand and glanced around the large chamber, at the thousands upon thousands of figures bowing. . . to me. I knew well what was asked, and to my astonishment I found myself agreeing.

At the beginning of this letter I made mention of a request. Anthony, I make this request of you because given the time we've spent together I've taken measure of your worth, and found little wanting. You are the right person to continue the task set before me. In this letter I have shown you what to do. It's not an easy path; there will be many sleepless nights ahead should you choose to do this thing. Yet I believe it is right that you try. If you don't believe yourself up to the task, take the talisman left you in my will and bury it deep in the earth. In time, these people will be free.

Whatever road you choose, walk it well Grandson.
-Grandfather
I slowly folded up the paper and placed it into the box. I put the box to the side and stood up to stretch my legs. As I looked up I saw that a figure stood before me, dark eyes fixed upon me from under a deep hood. I couldn't move, but merely stared at him as the figure reached up and lowered his hood, exposing a snow-white face to the evening sun.
We sat there, staring at one another for many minutes, and then with a slow nod I reached to table and lifted the talisman to my forehead. . . .
. . . and knew what I was to do