|Audrey "Aud" Carpenter (shyviolet) wrote in repose,|
@ 2020-05-12 00:15:00
|Entry tags:||*narrative, audrey carpenter|
Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.
It wasn't Heart.
Audrey. Audrey. Audrey.
She sat up, tiny, in the queen sized bed. Covered in linens, covered in lace. Yet the dark stretched on and on and she could hear it.
Come home, Audrey. You forgot me.
Yes. She had forgot. How could she forget? She needed to be home. She needed... she looked down. A thread was wrapped around her left wrist, shining brightly in the dark. Crackling. How had she never noticed?
She tugged that little thread and it sparked leading to the door. So she followed to the door. She followed down the hall. Heart growled from outside her master's door. Heart whined. Heart whimpered. Heart ran as Audrey passed following that string, silhouettes stretched out, long fingers after her. Pushing. Pulling.
Go back to your room, Audrey. Go back. Hannah is crazy. Si is sick. They don't know. They don't know, they're just afraid.
I'm waiting there.
There was no time. There was no cold on her feet and she didn't feel the grass, or the cars passing a girl wandering through the hills and back ways through the night. Through the dark. Following the floss lead her right in front of the house. Their home. It dug into her skin, pulsing.
I'm here, Audrey. I'm upstairs. I can fix everything. I can.
She opened the door, the house was engulfed in black but she knew the way. She knew those stairs, she knew the hall, she knew the door to her room and she opened it up. On her bed, opened, the journal waited. The scribbles all in her hand. The pages flipped. More. Nonsense. More. She stood. Watching. The string slipped into the open pages.
The string tugged, and pulled, and yanked. Audrey.
She moved and stumbled and reached out.
From the ruffled pages a grisly hand of ink shot forward and grabbed her wrist digging its fingers in deep, covering her in red, in black, in blue. Audrey screamed, and screamed. She screamed so loud the windows trembled, or was it the snarling? Was it the heat? Was it the shadows caving in. Another hand shot out and grabbed her other arm.
The ink spread over her arms, thick and wet, over her chest, it spread over her neck, her face, her mouth and nose until she couldn't breathe and it was choking her. It spread until she was covered head to toe, dripping in it, the odor of borneol and camphor laced by sulfur filled the room. Singeing the walls, embedding itself into the covers. Everything rattled, fell, thud, thud one after another boom, and smack, and the screaming became a whimper, and the whimper became a gurgle, and then suddenly it stopped.
There was no ink. There was no book. There was no Audrey. There was just a trashed room and the scent of smolder still lingering in the air.
She was gone.
It wasn't the house at all.