Chapter 12

“Elizabeth walked down into the streets. She ahd to find her son, and she knew the only way she was going to be able to do that was to find the terrible men who didn’t look like men so she started to search the city for them. For a while she didn’t find them and she started to give up hope, but it was as she got sadder because she thought her scheme had gone wrong that she realized that the terrible men who weren’t men were coming towards her. So she hid for a while until they had gone past and then followed them back into their layer, which was hidden very close to where she had been working. It was underground in a creepy basement beneath a toy shop which was even creepier. Down there there were a group of men in hoods alongside the men who were not men and they were standing in a circle chanting for their evil lord to turn up. There were candles and blood marks on the walls and standing over it all was a man in a gaudy robe who was writing surrounded by several other men in robes who were all muttering while looking over his shoulder, and he knew she was their, and she knew that he knew she was there. She wanted to run but she couldn’t and anyway at that moment they brought Michael out . He was scared and looked very cold. Elizabeth needed to help him so she ran right into the circle and grabbed him and then ran away and she could hear the cult behind her and the men who were not men and then she grabbed a rock and bashed one of the men in the head and he died and then she got hit in the leg but she and her son got to the edge of the town and it faded back into life. She knew they had to run and would probably run forever so she got some supplies and took Michael in her hand and they walked off to run from the monster forever. The end.”

She wrote.

yeah

i changed the password and i'm looking through the drafts, but...

 this was a draft

every time i start writing again it changes to what i've written, a draft from weeks ago, due at midnight tonight. but it keeps changing. i'm not changing it. i've rewritten this so many times...

but at the end it ends with me running more.

i've been running. the men- no, they aren't men, they're monsters- they've been following me. they get closer, every day they get closer and i need to get out. but they're so fast.

one of these drafts. i keep reading it, but it can't be true, can it?

it's about michael. it describes his death from every perspective.

he's in pain.

he hurts.

i can't help him.

and then he's going to die. it says i'm going to watch him die. he's in a room, it says. the men take me to the room. he's going to be sacrificed for the slender man before my eyes, it says. it talks about how he is torn apart piece by piece and i can't move, i can't do anything. but i have to. i have to save my son. but i don't know how to do it.

he's hurting right now. i know it.

the room is described as small and big at the same time, and in and out, and dark but in a chiarascuro way (i don't know how to spell it...) and his blood is spilled. my son... i'm his mom. i have to do something...

someone, tell me what to do. please...

-

it's me, elizabeth. michael's name was  the password, broekchen, what else would it be? and there are notes and things in the drafts section... this guy knows everything about me, including every job i've ever had and every person i've ever dated, every hospital visit and all kinds of things. what am i going to do?

it's so violating. and why is his password so obvious? he knows i'm looking for michael. he knows that. so why...

there are drafts. i don't want to look at them, but

shit, there are people downstairs, i heard something break. i'll post this, and if i don't comment quickly, well... you can use your imaginations. or maybe you won't have to, i'm sure the author would be happy to fill you in. see you later. i hope.
You really thought you could get away with it, didn't you?

Chapter Eleven

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 11:

Elizabeth stared at the computer screen for what seemed like hours. Nobody was helping her, nobody was reaching out to her, nobody was answering her pleas. She didn't know what to do, and she was most likely going to die. There would be no way out for her, no place for her to hide, nothing left. She shuddered, trying not to cry again, and again she failed, her tears falling to the floor in a waterfall of pathetic sniveling and whimpering. She couldn't control it, some other force had taken over her life, had taken over everything. 

Even her perception of the world was breaking. Elizabeth felt ill again; it was like her very thoughts were under the control of some other person, some malevolent being was making her thoughts seem rushed and inconsolable. She couldn't focus half the time, and as she attempted to read the blogs, her thoughts stopped half way through. As though there was something else there.

It was the Author, whoever he was, manipulating her, destroying her. It was the Author who had brought the curse down around her, breaking her family and burning down her life. It was the Author who had such power to make her mind melt and meld to his will. She had to find him, and make him pay, of this she was certain. She stood, and glanced at the clock, and at that moment the whole world seemed to freeze around her. It was six o'clock. It had been hours since Dacre had left to collect Michael. He hadn't called or sent anyone round, nothing had gone wrong. But something had to have gone wrong, they shouldn't have been gone for so long. A long way gone...

She panicked, dressing herself into more workable clothes and grabbing Dacre's keys. They shouldn't have been gone for so long. She paused for a moment, thinking, trying to think. She had to be sensible and do the right thing for Michael and Dacre. She grabbed the phone and called 911. Nobody picked up. Once again the world seemed like it was melting around her. She sprinted down the stairs, barely noticing the unnatural quiet that was settled around the apartment building, around the block, around the city.

She had to walk to Michael's grandmother's house, which was when she noticed how very wrong everything was. There was no traffic in the streets, there were no animals in the trees, no people in any of the buildings or in the restaurants. The city was, empty, dead. Which made it worse when Elizabeth arrived at the house, and there was nobody there. An open gate, and abandoned meal, and no sign of the Grandmother, Dacre or Michael.

She would soon feel their pain.

End Chapter Eleven

The White King Exits.

Chapter Ten

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 10:

Elizabeth had been bedridden for several days. There were no burns on her arms; in fact, there was no evidence at all that the fire had existed even for a moment. The certainty that Elizabeth had felt faded quickly, and as she woke up on Thursday she knew that she had been stupid to think for a second that she had been on fire, that there had been anything but the blood. The blood was still overwhelming her senses, her every thought. All she could think about was Rebecca's eyes, hollowed out and empty, her life spreading out over the floor. Elizabeth was numb as the doctors spoke to her, explaining her situation, talking about "trauma" and "stress", about broken bones and splints. She felt too numb to really comprehend anything, too distant to even want to.

It was Dacre that came to her rescue. Dacre organized the health insurance, talked to the doctors, and made sure that Elizabeth was getting the treatment she needed. He talked to Michael's school and kept communications up about Michael's well being, making sure Michael had a place to stay. He negotiated with the press and with the insurance companies. And he made sure that the police left Elizabeth alone for as long as possible, and stayed by her side when they came to talk to her.

The police were gentle in their questions in any case. She was a victim, bloodied, battered and bruised after all. Bones broken. Heart broken. There was no reason for her to be suspected. None at all. She answered their questions mechanically, barely glancing at their faces, her eyes on the ceiling as she thoughtlessly picked at the plaster cast on her arm. She told them about Rebecca, everything they knew about her. She told them about her job, and the people at her job. She told them, briefly, about her ex husband, and her sister, and the troubles. They gave her information in return, they told her about Rebecca's family, about Michael's mental health, and about the state of her workplace and the crime that had been committed there. They had found no bodies, and that was worrying, even though the fire had been so all consuming. There were so many patrons and employees there, they should have found something, a bloody charred hand, or a cracked and bubbling skull, or a baked and well-cooked eye.  The police were theorizing that the fire had been aimed at her, it had started a little after she should have arrived and had consumed the entire building within minutes. Witnesses had spoken about a tall man at the scene of the crime, but they had been unreliable hobos, druggies, drunkards. The police told her as much as they were allowed to.

They went on to say that the police were organizing with a therapist to meet with Michael and Elizabeth, though it wouldn't be able to be for too many meetings, as the insurance wouldn't cover it. Dacre nodded politely, and then noticing Elizabeth's worried frown and her sick and tired eyes, shooed the police out. Dacre sat back at the end of the bed, tenderly looking at Elizabeth. She seemed so small, so tired, so weak and afraid. "Tall man?"

"What?" Elizabeth replied, the words catching in her throat.

"You blanched when they mentioned a tall man. Why?"

"N-no reason," Elizabeth lied.

Dacre took her into his apartment when the hospital released her on Monday. She sat on his worn couch, counting the cracks in the walls, willing the blood stay back. Elizabeth was scared and sick, and the only thing she felt control of was the safety of her son. He was staying at a relatives, he was safe. Or was he? Panic caught rose in her chest, was he safe? Really? Surely nowhere was safe, nothing was safe, not with the monster hovering at every corner, in every window. Surely there was nowhere safer than your mother's arms... Elizabeth felt guilty for sending Dacre off to collect Michael, but there was no other way for her son to be safe. Not even with Elizabeth's own mother.

Elizabeth herself didn't know what to do. She couldn't run, not with the plaster and bandages and broken leg. She could  hide, and hope that the people who knew how to deal with the monster would advise her. She didn't know what to do, only take instructions from the outside. She sat at Dacre's computer and tried not to sob again.

She couldn't feel it, but a countdown had begun. Eight... She couldn't see it, but the tendrils were all around her. Seven... She couldn't know it, but there was no way out. Six... She couldn't think it but it was hopeless. Five... She couldn't help it, but it was all intertwined. Four... She didn't know it, but she was going to die. Three... She couldn't stop it, but her son was dead in his eyes, as well. Two... She couldn't halt it, but the world was ending. One... She would find out for herself.

Soon all would be dead.

End Chapter Ten

The White King Exits. 

Chapter Nine

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 9:

Elizabeth was still screaming. Her knees gave out from beneath her once more, and she fell to the floor retching and sobbing. Rebecca's blood crept across the floor and soaked Elizabeth's knees as she desperately tried not to vomit. Her mouth tasted sour, her head pounded and she was shivering as though she were freezing though the room was as warm as a sauna. The blood was congealing quickly, painting the door and walls in a morbid decoration, a sticky, bloody mural. Michael was using the blood to draw on the walls. He painted what seemed to be his family, flowers, cars, superheroes but there was something else there... Beyond the  happy scene with a painful medium. 

"Michael... Michael... Mike..." She stumbled over her words, still sobbing, still screaming. She couldn't do anything but repeat herself.

Michael smiled happily, still painting with the blood, "Rebecca went out with the man and he said I had to draw. She said she would be back soon."

"But she's... she's... Michael-"

The panorama Michael was creating was coming together. A tall figure dominated the scene, its long limbs reaching around the other stick figures. Elizabeth wailed more, as she at last saw the creatures tentacles made up the rest of Michael's picture. The wavering limbs made up each figure, each house, each flower, each hero and villain; the message was clear. The monster was everywhere and everything. It built up the world, from the roots to the branches. Everything was his.

Elizabeth stared up at the roots. The blood was surrounding her. Was this what Rebecca had discovered? What Michael might have learned?

Dacre burst through the front door, and stopped at the sight of the blood. Trembling slightly, the young man moved towards Elizabeth, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "I- it's-" he tried to speak, but the words caught in his mouth and spluttered out like a broken engine exhaust.

He took a deep shuddering gasp and tried again; "Michael? What are you- what happened?" 

"Rebecca went away so I stay here to play," hummed Michael in a singsong voice.

Dacre shivered, looking seriously unwell, and pulled Elizabet up off the floor, moving her away from the growing pool of blood, "Stay here, okay? Don't move. Don't look. I'm going to go call the Police but I won't leave you alone, okay? I'll be right back. Okay, Elizabeth? Don't move. You're safe here. It's going to be alright."

He left her alone in the room with her son and her thoughts, both of which were difficult enough to deal with. She wanted to feel in control again. There had never been a time she had felt more uncertain, more unsafe, and she wanted to get out of it, she wanted to escape, she felt sick and scared and sorry. Her world was burning, and she was losing everything, and she couldn't handle it. She felt tight across her chest and her muscles were aching, her skin prickling, and the world was... her world was burning. A singed smell mingled with the blood. Her fingers were burning, smoke rising off her skin as the fire burned her flesh. She screeched again, the pain terrible and all consuming. She leaped up from her seat, as the flames consumed her arms, her legs, her head. She fled the room, blinded by the flames. She felt like her blood was boiling and bubbling under her skin, that was crisping beneath the fire that was consuming her body.

As she ran, she couldn't see her own feet, and she tripped. Elizabeth fell down the stairs, her bones crunching as she hit each step. As she crashed into the wall at the bottom of the stairs, her vision began to fade, but was clear enough to be able to see that there were no flames on her body. Her hysteria had been unwarranted; there had been no fire at all. Was she going mad? Perhaps. But in the end in either case it was her own mental weakness that drove her to fell such pain, see such hallucinations.

She would wake up in hospital three days later, on Thursday the Fifth of May.

End Chapter Nine

The White King Exits.

Chapter Eight

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 8:

Elizabeth stared. It was all she could do. Her body couldn't move, it wouldn't move, she wanted to sprint away but she felt too weak, she wanted to run into the building and save everyone but she was too weak, too scared. She was shaking, and felt sick once more. But in the midst of all the angst, the fear for Dana, lay nestled like a viper amongst the eggs memories of the awfulness that had been her life at the "Greasy Fork." She felt relief. She felt relief as the world burned around her, relief as the dank and dark and sick place was destroyed. It was terrible, but she felt happy; she had wanted that place to fall, she had wished those people dead, and she had her wish. She began to laugh hysterically, a choking, mad thing that bubbled out of her lips like thick black poison. She laughed until the tears, unbidden, returned to her eyes, tumbling out and mixing with her snotty nose. She laughed and sobbed as the police and the firemen and the ambulances came; she laughed as they put a blanket around her shoulders and she was prodded into the back of a police car; she laughed all the way to protective custody. 

The police were questioning her and she was answering each time entirely automatically, occasionally letting loose a new uncontrollable giggle. She hated herself for it, really. But she was free. She felt free from her work and free from the earth, spiraling out of control and burning herself, soon to be dead, soon to be dead. Elizabeth was discovered to be the woman who had complained of a stalker days earlier. Suddenly the stalker became the biggest priority for the police. Elizabeth was kept in the police station for her protection, and a few hours into the morning she finally stopped her hysterics. She was shakily let out of the police station.

She walked home in a daze as the sun rose above the buildings, illuminating the streets. She was tired and shaking as she walked home, and utterly unprepared for what she would find there. She opened the door to the apartment, to find blood smeared all over the walls, all over the ceiling and the floor, as her son merrily painted pictures in the blood and organs of Rebecca. Her head was on a plate, dripping down to the floor. Her organs were strung up like Christmas decorations, her heart placed neatly in the fruit bowl, her eyes in the toybox. There were words painted in the blood.

"We gave him a name."

And Michael continued to play happily in Rebecca's organs, as Elizabeth screamed.

End Chapter Eight

The White King Exits.

Chapter Seven

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 7:

Elizabeth stumbled back from work like a drunkard, much as she always did. She could barely make it up the stairs, feeling much more tired than usual. She had barely slept for days; dark bags were shadowed under her eyes, which themselves were bloodshot. Her feet stumbled and tripped as though they were comatose, and she pulled herself up the stairs as though she were ascending to a higher plane of existence by means of her own willpower. She saw the door to her apartment ahead and could feel the exhaustion lift slightly.

She stepped through the door into apartment, and stared. Rebecca was standing in the center of the room, her eyes looking at something just beyond the walls of the room. Michael was sitting on the floor, chattering happily to himself about something she couldn't comprehend in a language she didn't understand. Elizabeth could do nothing but watch for a few moments, in terror and horror, as her world fell out of her control once more. She gently moved towards them, trying not to startle them out of the bizarre trance-- she'd heard that doing so was bad, but she was getting her information about trances mixed up with her information about sleepwalking. 

"Why aren't we going to the church, mommy?" Michael asked abruptly.

"We... just can't, okay?" Elizabeth said, feeling ill. Her outburst seemed to shake Rebecca out of her reverie.  

"You're going to be late for work, E, get going."

"Rebecca... I just got back from work."

"What?"

Neither Rebecca nor Michael could remember if anything had happened that night, but both found themselves with crippling headaches and stomach cramps. Elizabeth gave Rebecca a glass of water, as the girl promised to come over and watch Michael again once she had slept off the headache. Then Elizabeth put Michael to bed, tenderly resting a damp cloth on his forehead. She created him a hot drink out of lemon and honey, and gently closed the door, hoping he would sleep. She crept across to the bathroom and took off her work clothes. They were sticky with sweat and alcohol, and smelt like smoke. She inhaled deeply, staring at her aging face in the mirror. Then, barely suppressing a yawn, she stepped into the shower. 

She had to stay under control. She wanted to stay under control. But she wasn't brave, or smart, or strong, and so her shoulders began to shake and she began to sob. She rested her head against the cool concrete as the water poured over her body and wailed, hoping the bathroom door would block the sound. Elizabeth didn't cry, not to other people, not if she could help it. But that night she cried at a world turned upside down. She took a deep breath, and halted her tears. Then, on automatic, she turned off the shower and stepped out, toweling herself off. Suddenly the exhaustion of the last few days hit her like a train. Yawning, she stumbled to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed next to her son.

She woke up and was already five minutes late for work. She sprang from her bed, cursing violently and waking Michael slightly from his slumber. "Muh?" he mumbled, cheeks puffy with illness. 

"Shh, shh, shh, sweetie, go back to sleep, it's all fine," Elizabeth cooed, pulling on her clothes in blind panic. She wondered where Rebecca was, remembering an article she had read about how black people were stereotypically late. She caught herself thinking about it and felt both sickened at her own latent racism and terrified at the public scrutiny that came through the blog "Once." She knew Rebecca would be hurt by the thoughts of her employer should the babysitter read it. In any case, it wasn't true, Rebecca was never late. Except at that moment, undercut another thought. Elizabeth tried not to throw up and bounced back and forth on her heels, waiting for Rebecca to arrive. Rebecca finally burst through the door, panting, but before the girl could even apologize Elizabeth was sprinting down the stairs to work. She needn't have bothered running so fast, by the time she arrived the place was already aflame.

She stared, not knowing that she was only on the cusp of a life that was about to get much, much worse.

End of Chapter Seven

The White King Exits.

Chapter Six

The White King Enters

Start Chapter 6:
Once or twice Rebecca had proved, at least to Elizabeth, that she was trustworthy enough to be given a key to the apartment. Therefore she was already sitting in the front room with her crappy cheap laptop settled neatly on a box, stealing wireless from a neighbour, when Elizabeth and Michael returned. Rebecca pulled off her ratty, second-hand converse and collapsed backwards onto a pile of boxes, lifting her hands away from the computer in exhaustion. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and busied herself making dinner for Michael, who was beginning to complain about being hungry. "This 'The Author' dude, he updated again while you were out. There's something creepy as f*ck about this White King thing. Something to do with chess. And these commenters... people, they seem to know something. I'm going to read through the blogs of the people following this guy, try and figure out what's going on from that. How was your day?"

Elizabeth sighed, pulling her hair back, "Fine..." She lied, like she always did when she didn't want to face the truth, "Michael can stay up and watch something tonight, or read. Or something."

Rebecca gave Elizabeth a pointed look from her spot on the floor, "I read about what you did today on the blog, you know. I know about Michael's... song-thing. Why'd that freak you out so much?"

"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" Elizabeth said, as calmly and icily as possible, all the while thinking about the implications of the song, of the fears she had about her son's education, about her fears of not being a good enough mother, the fears that her son would go the way of his father, her fears of the lost children, the murders, the deaths. She was terrified, but she didn't want to say it, didn't want to think it. So she pushed away the only woman who was willing to help her, all because she feared her own past. She didn't even understand how foolish it was to do so.

Rebecca began to click through blogs, reading slowly. The stupid babysitter was semi-illiterate, not intelligent to be able to read more than a few sentences a minute. She would never be able to understand Elizabeth, not properly, not like... other people could. No, Rebecca wasn't good enough for Elizabeth, not that either of them could tell. Michael began to bug Rebecca to use her Netflix account, and they were settling down to watch cartoons just as Elizabeth ran out the door, late for work.

As she jogged to work as quickly as her legs could take her, she thought about The mysterious Author. Who was he, or she, and what did he want with her? Why did he care about her? He seemed like some disgusting stalker, a creep jerking off in the bushes outside a naive but attractive young girl's window. But there was something more to it all, making it weird, bizarre, creepy. Though his descriptions of her were fetishistic, sometimes he seemed to, well, care about her. He was writing about her life, and exposing her to the world, but, and she hated herself for thinking it, she felt like she was freer the fewer secrets she had, the more she was exposed. But what did it mean? Was it simple narration? Was it a warning? Or was he directing her life, like puppets and strings? Was he watching her through her windows? How did he know what she was doing all the time, how did he know her thoughts? She didn't understand, but her thoughts buoyed her to her workplace.

"You're late," her manager said. He was a porkish, fat, southern man who sweated profusely and chewed tobacco. He left stains in every carpet and on every wall he touched, and his hands were greasy enough to mark cash with a thin layer of fat and salt. He glared at her through tiny, beady eyes, "The police came round today. Said you were being stalked. Said they had to talk to the staff. Said that there might be a problem."

Elizabeth cursed inwardly, but forced herself to smile. "There won't be any problems, sir, no trouble, I promise. I'll tell them not to bother you again."

"You see to that."

Elizabeth sighed heavily, wondering if her life could get any worse; ironic, considering what was to come.

Her shift that night was mostly regular, apart from the church preachers who came in at 10 o'clock. There were two men and two women, and they seemed almost inhumanly normal, proportioned and ratio-ed to be as average as possible. They stood at the center of the "Greasy Fork," whose patrons ignored them, and began to preach. They spoke for what seemed like hours, trying to convert people, or at least convince them to come to church. They talked about the end times, about their Lord and their Saviour, their sacrifices, their love and devotion; they talked about the fear, and the release from fear; they talked about the church's lofty morals, and it's use beyond even religious applications.

"Repent," they said, "And make your way to our church, for to serve his open, wavering arms. Repent, and grin, and become one with him, become one with the light, the White Lord, our King."

Elizabeth dropped a platter, and cursing, ran into the back room. She could still hear them.

"Repent, believe, and follow him. For the end is coming, oh so very soon; in fact, it's already hear. Follow him and simply die, for if you do not, you will suffer eternity unto yourself. Bleed and die, bleed and die, but he will save us all. Follow him, follow the light, follow the white, follow the bright. Follow the Aura, the Aula Permanere."

It was at that point that the bouncer stepped in, asking the churchfolk to leave as they were making people uncomfortable. He slowly pushed them out of the cafe, as all the while the group kept talking, kept preaching, kept wailing and repenting, praying for the souls of the drunks. Elizabeth didn't want to watch them leave. She felt sick, like her whole world was out of her control once more. She caught her manager glaring at her, and looked away, afraid. She was on thin ice at work, her home life was a mess, and her entire life had simply been one failure after another. She didn't know what to do other than sob, but she couldn't even do that.

There were people to serve.

End of Chapter Six

The White King Exits.