Missing
by Me(whatomic)
In my small town of Auburn there is an urban legend that circulates
around in the summer. Mothers tell it to their children, campers shiver in
their sleeping bags high in the mountains. Groups sit in ovals in the dark, one
telling this story I’ve come to know so well. Yet despite the popularity of the
tale, they all know for a surety that it’s fake. Made-up. I mean, how could any
of it be real? It is true that with urban legends you can’t tell what pieces
are made-up, or have a background with history. However, this one is so out of
the realm of real that it must have
come straight out of someone’s imagination, right? Well, I’m here to tell you
that the truth is often stranger than fiction. And I was there.
I remembered nothing. I had
woken up in the hospital, my arm in a cast and with a bloody headache. Amnesia,
they call it. The doctor walked in a few minutes after I had awaken, pulling
out a stethoscope as he did so. He glanced at me. “So I see you are awake, how
do you feel?” Being the first person I saw, I remembered him greatly in my mind
after that. Dr. Gregory Brun was a sort of short man in his early forties, with
sand-colored hair that reminded me of a camel.
He wore rectangle glasses that made his eyes look bigger, and wore a
typical white coat the type doctors always wear despite all the blood they must
encounter every day. “Horrid”, I replied without any hesitation. He laughed.
“Well, yes, you probably would after all the head trauma you’ve been through,
not to mention all the other scrapes and bruises.”
“I don’t
remember anything.”
“Hmm, yes,
but we’ll see to that later. You first have to clean your room up before you
find anything, right?” I stared at him
in silent but unreasonable indignation.
He moved over and placed the stethoscope on my chest. “Let’s see what
that heartbeat sounds like, shall we?” I
searched his face for any sign of what he thought during the process. After a
few seconds, I noticed the calm expression pasted on his face turn to a puzzled
confusion. He moved around the instrument on my chest, as if searching for
something he couldn’t find. The expression on his face turned from an amused
confusion to a paling green. “What?” I asked fearfully. “Huh? Oh, nothing.” He
took the stethoscope out of his ears and bundled it up in his hands. He looked
at the clock in the room, even though I noticed he had a wristwatch on. He was
sweating. “I’ve got to be in another patient’s room soon, you’ll find one of
the nurse’s will come in later. She’ll be good to you. See you later.” He stumbled
over his words without really looking at me, and then walked out of the room.
Something was up. I could feel it. And it didn’t feel good.
As I found out later from the
gossipy nurse, I was discovered unconscious at East Side near the brink of the
old ghost town. The person who had saw my sorry self was one of the Doctor’s
friends, Mr. Carter Wildenstein, who happened to be in charge of taking care of
me until other news was found. I met this Mister Carter not long afterwards. He
bounded into my hospital room like a deer into a field, and started asking me
some interesting questions. “When was the last time you saw an alien?” Would be
one of them, or “You were near the ghost town; are you a ghost?” would be
another. Unable to respond to this sudden current of strange questions, I just
sat there silently staring at him. He was by no means put out. The questions
continued. An hour later, when he finally had left, I was tired out. That
red-headed four-eyes had kept me occupied the entire time. But although there
was plenty to complain about him, I found I couldn’t dislike him. His character
was so unique and fresh that people were naturally drawn to it. Perhaps like
moths to a flame. Actually, I have a problem with that analogy. The flame
destroys the moths, and I definitely don’t want to be compared to an insect. I
would have to find another one. But I
would have to think about that later. I had other things to do.
A week later I got out of the
hospital and went to stay with Mr. Carter, as none of my information had been
found. The police had been too consumed by another case revolving missing
teenagers to bother searching for my biography. Since this kind-of thing
sounded like Mr. Carters forte, I asked him about it not long after I moved in.
He jumped at it like I expected he would. “Yes, well you see, a group of five
teenagers went out one night and haven’t been seen since. According to them,
there were two girls; Noreen Miller, and Millicent Spiller. The other three
were boys whose names were James Blighter, Dennison Crandall, and Howard
Houston. They were traced as far as the North woods, but not beyond. Anyways,
it’s bad because not long after they went missing, their parents disappeared as
well.” “What, why?” I asked. “I Dunno, the police guess that they might have
tried to find their children, but something might’ve happened. It is strange,
though. I mean, all of the parents went missing. None of them stayed home to
watch if they returned? There are too many questions and not enough answers to
go around.” He leaned back in his chair and rested his head on his arms behind
it. I remained quiet, running over the story in my mind. It definitely was
strange though, like an invisible palm moving pawns around on a chess board.
“But, the clock tells me it’s time for Young’uns to go to sleep, so let me show
you where your domain is.” He stood up. As we moved out of the room and down
the hallway, I thought about the ‘missing’ case, and why it bugged me so much.
The next morning, I found two
new interesting facts about this Mr. Carter. #1: He always ate his waffles with
cherry pie filling sprawled on top (among other things that towered into a mini
sky-scraper)….and, #2: His house was crammed to the ceiling with books and
other unrecognizable objects. Mostly I found myself tripping over either a lone
book that strayed too far from its shelf, or a collection of plastic knives and
hockey masks. From what I know, Mr. Carter has never even played hockey. But
that’s beside the point. Apparently the reason for this pack rat amount of
Horror stories and gizmos is for inspiration. Mr. Carter is a Horror writer.
Not a very well-known one to my understanding, but it’s obvious he enjoys his
job. He spent most of the day locked in his office; typing up in his little
computer whatever nonsensical things spewed into his head. This gave me a
considerable amount of freedom as you can imagine. Most of the time I was there
I just read or explored the house. Did I
mention the house was a scary-looking mansion with 106 rooms? You would just
wonder what the Mister would be doing there all alone, no maids, servants, or
anyone else to fill up all that empty space. And you had to wonder how he got
his hands on it. From what I saw he didn’t pull out very much money from his
much loved stories, or do any other part-time job. But I found out later when I
asked him, still coughing from the dust I had stirred up in un-used room on the
second floor. “Eh, what, you’re talking about where I got the money for the
mansion?” He shook his head disbelievingly. “You’re amazingly smart for your
age Amanda.” (Amanda was the name he decided to call me, since we didn’t have
my real one) Did he think all people under their twenties were brainless? I
could only imagine what sort of kid he had been like. But thanks to my
interrogating, I found out from his endless jabbering explanation that his
parents had been rich, successful scientists. They had died young, leaving
their irresponsible son to deal with all their left-over money. I could practically visualize them turning in
their graves… But the mansion was
impressive, you had to admit that. And it did offer plenty of perks for a bored
young girl with extra time on her hands. You could open every door in the house
and come back still feeling like you hadn’t seen everything. Well, that’s
obvious. The Mister made it up so that you almost expected a ghost or something
like a monster to appear around the corner. I even suspected that the large
population of cobwebs and mice that annoyed me so much were also part of the ‘decorations’
he had planned. Of course those could
also simply be according to his ‘prejudice to cleaning places uninhabited’
declaration. I couldn’t exactly rule out the option that he was uncommonly
lazy, either. But, man, this guy must have a squeeze on Halloween.
And so it went on like this for 6 weeks.
When Mr. Carter wasn’t writing his brain silly, he got us together and
we played around. If it was a nice day, we spent it outside running around
outside with bicycles, or played sports and such. If it was windy, we got the
kites out. And if it was rainy, we stayed nice and dry inside; battling each
other at board-games. It was a very pleasant time, now that I cast my mind back
to it. I believed it was the happiest time I had ever had in my life, because I
remembered nothing else from before then. I even began to wish that my memories
would not return, because that would mean I would be separated from this Mr.
Carter that had started to become a father-figure to me. If I were to be
reunited with my real parents, well, I wasn’t sure that I would get along
half-so-well with them as I did with the Mister. Of course, I never told the
Mister that. I didn’t believe in telling such sappy affections so utterly
bluntly like that. I was stubborn. I would regret that later.
And then the
dreams started.
I would be running in complete
darkness, an overpowering stench filling my nostrils. My foot-steps splashed
filthy black water onto myself and echoed throughout the concrete space I was
in. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to move. I had to run for
my life. A blood-curdling scream pierced the stale air from behind me. Oh wait,
I know that scream. But whose was it? I couldn’t remember. “I’m Sorry.” I breathed out. “I’m sorry, I’m
sorry, I’m sorry.” I could feel the hot liquid streaming down my cheeks. But I
couldn’t go back. I couldn’t go back to help them. If I went back I would die.
I don’t want to die.
I raced my feet forward, pushing
all my strength into them. Already long exhausted, with only fear pulling me
on, I couldn’t stop. If I stopped I would die. I don’t want to die. Rushing
footsteps echoed from behind me, pulling closer and closer despite my exertions.
No, don’t. Don’t come near me. I don’t want you to come near me. Death. No. I
don’t want to die. This man will kill me. Stay away. Don’t come near me. I
don’t want to die. A hand grabbed my hair and threw me down into the black
water. Some of it got in my mouth, and I coughed and spit. No. I don’t want to
die. The man pushed me against the wall and pulled something out of his back pocket.
From a small beam of weak light, I saw the glimmer of a knife.
It was always the same
nightmare. I would wake up in a cold sweat, Goosebumps all over my body. I felt
filth everywhere on me, even if I had just taken a shower that same night. It
was gross. I would never be able to sleep again after having that dream in one
night, so I grew to become sleep-deprived. One day, at breakfast, Mr. Carter
noticed the rings under my eyes. “Amanda, what’s happened to you, you look not
unlike the un-dead!? Did you have a rendezvous with a zombie or something last
night? If so, you must tell me all about it.” He clicked his pen as if to
clarify his last sentence. “No, I’m just super tired. You know nightmares.” I
cringed, waiting for him to demand the entire story and have me repeat it for
another hour over and over again. A pause. “Oh, well, yeah those suck. I know
how you feel. I had plenty of those nasty ones when I was your age. That’s part
of why I chose to be a Horror writer, you know? I thought that I could fight
back if I was the one that created the beasts.” I looked up. That surprised me.
“So you’re not going to wring the story of my nightmare out of me?” He looked
at me and laughed. “Heavens no, I have a hard-enough time with my night-time
visions. No way I need yours. Besides, I wouldn’t have you remember something
that’s so scary it keeps you from sleeping like that. Of course, sometimes it
helped me feel better when I told the dream to someone. If you want to tell me,
I’m all ears. There is a possibility it could help me with my current story.” I
considered the action, but then shook my head. “No, I don’t want to remember
it.” He nodded his head as if he
understood, then continued with his breakfast. We spent the rest of the day as usual.
It was three days later we found
out that Dr. Brun went missing.
According to one of the nurses, he just left one night to go home and never
showed up again. He was single, and lived in a two-story house all by himself. There
was no evidence of where he went. This change of events took a blow on Mr.
Carter and me. Why? I asked myself. I
didn’t particularly care personally about him, but he had been kind to me. The
effect was more dominant on Mr. Carter however. He had known him as a good,
long friend. He began locking himself in
his room even longer than usual, researching the case as he called it. The
times I actually saw him, his face was pale and pinched into a stringed mess
that reminded me of an old man. He was starting to look like the undead
himself. It worried me rather. What was he trying to do? The police had come to us inquiring if we had
any other information, but as we had none, they had left. We never played
together anymore, so I was left alone.
I now had too much time on my
hands. I spent every day reading the horror stories on the shelves and glancing
wistfully at the Misters door. I was bored, but even more than being bored, I
was worried. And I don’t know if you’ve figured this out yet, but when one is
constantly worried it’s impossible to be joyful. So I was sad to. I felt that
the Mister I had known had gone far away and had the potential to disappear
altogether. I didn’t know how to pull him back. I could see that his health was
rapidly fading whenever I saw him. It wasn’t just the lines on his white face
either. It was in his smile. If he came
back through his heavily closed oak door and happened to pass me, instead of
the warm, adventurous smile I had come to know, I would get an exhausted, fake,
and unsuccessful curve instead. This is probably what worried me the most. I
used to know a person I called the Mister who was carelessly happy and ate into
too many horror cherries. The tired person that rarely showed his head was a
person who I was unfamiliar with. I didn’t know them. I didn’t want them. They
were an imposter.
And one day before I realized
it, I was completely alone. The Mister was gone. So was the imposter. He never
came back. I happened to peek into his study after several hours of silence,
and he wasn’t there. It took me a few minutes to register what was going on.
Mr. Carter had often gone out on footwork to gain extra information, but this
was different. I knew for a surety that this was different.
He had gone
missing.
It hit me
like a ball of iron. What was going on? I
refused to believe it, and yet I knew. I knew. Maybe he had just stepped out for a longer while than
usual, a voice in my head numbly thought. And when he got back I would scold
him, and he would smile his real smile…… it would just end up being a silly
misunderstanding…..
I sat on the couch with my knees
pressed close to my chest. The clock on the wall ticked later and later. I was
waiting for him to return home so everything would be alright. I pressed the
doubtful voices to the back of my mind. They were ridiculous, I told myself.
The Mister was just a bit late, that’s all. He would return soon and I would
prove them wrong. Then I could laugh at them. The clock ticked on to midnight
and beyond.
I woke up to a ray of morning
light that fell on my face. Despite my stubbornness, I had eventually succumbed
to sleep. I remembered everything in a flash. I ran to the Misters study and
shoved open the door. The figure I had hoped to see in his swivel chair was
absent. My heart sank. I walked over to his desk and ruffled through his
scattered pages of research about the Doctor. A large article line caught my
attention. ‘Missing Juveniles’ it shouted. I skimmed through it, confirming
that I already knew what it was about. Yes. The five missing teenagers case the
Mister and I had talked about nearly a month before. There was a picture of the
kids to the right of the text. I looked at the happy faces in black and white.
There was something sickening about the whole thing. What was it? Something was
really bothering me about their grinning faces. One of the girls to the right
looked strangely familiar. She had a face with hazel eyes and hair. I had seen
that face before, but where? I put it out of my mind. Something else was
strange. Why was this article in the middle of the Misters research about the
Doctor? Was it possible that this case and the Doctors were related? That
seemed possible. I flipped through the other papers, skimming all their titles.
Most of them, if not all were cases of missing persons. None of them had ever
been found. If the Mister was one of these people, then like the others, the
police wouldn’t be able to find him. This meant I had to. There was a chance of
me finding him if I studied his research and found out where he went. I sighed, sat down, and began reading the
articles.
At six in the afternoon, I threw down the last paper full of tearful
parents/neighbors and looked around the work desk. I had learned nothing directing me towards
any location the Mister might have went. I felt horribly oblivious, like I was
missing something right under my nose. I had noticed a pattern though. All the
missing people had been able to be traced to the North Woods, but no farther.
It was a complete mystery. They had apparently all become absent at night, carrying
nothing with them except their wristwatches and clothes. There had been no
suicide notes found, or any bodies no matter how hard the police searched. Where did these people go? I asked myself. There was nothing more on the table, so I
tried the drawers. When I opened them, I was surprised. Every single one was
empty except the bottom one closest to the ground. And in it was only one
object; a book. I picked it up and looked at it closer. ‘Local legends’, it
said. Well that was random, what was this doing here? I opened it up and
flipped through the pages. I stopped at
a bookmark that had been slipped between two pages. The page was partly
highlighted in bright electric yellow. As I skimmed over the yellow sentences,
a feeling of dread washed over me. I didn’t know what it was, but I felt
scared; utterly scared. I flipped back to the beginning of the chapter and read
the title. ‘Legend #7: Horologium’ It
said. Horologium? I thought. What
was that supposed to mean? I turned
back to the bookmarked pages and started re-reading them.
“Horologium is a much debated killer, mostly pertaining to his actual
existence. Indeed, his extortions seem more fiction than not. Only a legend remains of his actions; a
legend that has only been told in a limited area near a town called Auburn.
According to the locals, the story takes place in the ghost town near Auburn.
The legend, as it goes, circulates around an unnamed man who falls in love with
the mayor’s daughter. This man happens to be a Horologist (a
person who works with or creates clocks) and is not thought refined enough for
her. The mayor’s daughter returns his feelings of affection, and after a failed
attempt to convince her father to allow them to marry, they elope together in
the North Woods as a meeting place. They
succeed in their escape, however their victory is short lived as the Mayor’s
daughter soon dies of her life-long illness. Unable to accept her fate, the
horologist attempts to resurrect her by using clockwork to replace her faulty
heart, but before he can complete it, her body rots away. He slowly turns
insane and begins taking people from the town to ‘practice’ his mechanisms on
them. The townspeople get angry and chase him down, intending to kill him as
retribution for the people he murdered. They are able to chase him into the
sewers, but unwilling to go any farther into the stink, simply bar off all
possible exits to the outside. They accept the fact that he would die
eventually from the toxins and lack of any nutrients. After a year the town
pronounced him dead. However, some asked the prominent question; “Is he really dead?” And hence the legend
was born.”
I set the book down and rubbed my sweaty forehead. What had this story to do with all the
missing cases recently? It would definitely explain a lot of things if it were
true, but it sounded just like a fictional tale someone made up so their kids
wouldn’t go near the woods or the sewer. The sewer…… I remembered my nightmares
in a flash. They had been getting more persistent lately. It was the same thing
over and over again; the smell of the black water, the scream from behind me,
the footsteps echoing through-out the concrete space, and the moonlight shining
on the man’s knife as he raised it high above him. I involuntarily gave a little shiver. I hated
remembering it. But as I tried to shake the image out of my head I suddenly
realized that everything fit with the legend. The people going missing in the
Northern Woods like the eloping couple, my dream of running in the stinking
darkness like Horologium from the townspeople, and didn’t they say I was found
near the ghost town? It couldn’t be possible could it? I laughed hysterically
at the idea. No way, right? Horologium couldn’t be alive. The legend was set
almost a hundred years ago! I stopped laughing. I had to prove them wrong,
these absurd suspicions of mine. I knew for a fact that I wouldn’t be able to
find the Mister until I did. He couldn’t have gone missing at some fictional
freak-of-nature man, what was my mind thinking? So I guess that was it wasn’t
it? The decision had been made for me. I
was going to the North Woods.
I stopped at the edge of the
trees. The forest loomed ahead of me, drowning out my sense with its black
shadows like a bad omen. It was dusk; considerably a bad time to try to search
out a missing person, but something in my brain told me that time was of the
importance. It had been at least a day since the Mister had gone missing; would
he last out much longer? I didn’t know.
My backpack sat on my shoulders, encouraging my expedition. Inside of it
were objects I could use; such as a flashlight, water bottle, a small sandwich
in case I was there longer than I expected to be, a compass, and of course, a
pocket knife, amongst a few other things.
I could use the pocket knife for multi-tasking chores, or as a way to
defend myself. It was an amateur weapon, no doubt it would lose against a
person who had taken on at least seventeen people and had them disappear into
thin air. Still, I found myself a tad-bit comforted by its presence. It was a reminder of the old world that I was
standing at the brink of a dark forest to represent. Of the old world of
comfort and reality. The world that contained the Mister who ate cherry pie
filling on his waffles and laughed about everything ridiculous. Yes, that
world. I wanted it back.
I stepped
inside.
The darkness enveloped me from head to toe. Shivers ran up and down my
neck. The change had been instant. I looked behind my shoulder. I could still
go back now into the warmth of the city lights if I wanted to. I could return
home and be completely safe in my blankets and away from the danger of the
immense trees that felt as though they were hiding dark secrets. It almost
tempted me. But… even if returned there nothing would be changed. The Mister
would still be gone. I straightened the shoulder strap of my backpack and
walked forward. I couldn’t go back now.
I walked aimlessly forward for about an hour, relying on my tendency to
get into trouble to guide me. The full
moon was high above me now, dimly lighting the dead leaves on the ground in
front of me. I had not taken the public path-way; I doubted that I would find
anything on it. I was completely relying on my compass and sense of direction
now. If I got lost it would be the end of me. Luckily there was only one
direction I had been taking: forwards. If I had to find my way back I could
just turn around and go the opposite direction.
Or so I thought. As soon as I had revised that in my head, something
touched the back of my neck. I spun around, ready to throw-up with fright. It
felt as though my nerves had all been frozen stiff and electrified. I shined
the flashlight on the thing that had touched me. It was a tree branch. I felt my shoulders droop and my eyes lower
with embarrassment and anger. I breathed out. “Okay,” I said to myself. “If I’m
going to find the Mister, I’ve got to stop being ridiculously startled at the
smallest things! Seriously Amanda, get a hold of yourself!” I stared at the
dead tree branch as though it held the answers to all my questions. It bugged
me. I grabbed it and ripped it off, holding it in my hand as a new kind of
companion on my shadowy journey. “Now stick, you will accompany me on my search
party. It’s my retribution, as you scared me silly” I raised my voice
haughtily. “I want no ifs, buts, or complaints, got that?” No reply. “Good. Now
that’s the end of my speech. Off we go.”
But I had no sooner spun to turn around, when I tripped on something
furry in the process and fell straight on my face. The furry something went
“Mew!” in protest of being tripped over. I turned my head to look at it,
cursing my luck. It was a cat. Of course it was! I laughed at myself a bit
crazily. What did I expect it to be, a dead body? I sat up and shined the
flashlight at it. It was a rather large cat, white with wide blue eyes and
currently licking itself down proudly as though it couldn’t believe it had the
dishonor of going unnoticed and being tripped over of all things! It looked at
me quizzically. I stared back at it. “Hey cat, what were you doing there of all
places?” The cat gave me a swift, reproachful glare, than started up in the
opposite direction. I dumbly watched as it stopped, stooped, and turned its
fish head to me with my beloved compass dangling from its mouth. “Hey, wait!
Bring that back, it’s mine!” I scampered off close behind it, waving my stick
in hand. The cat ran up ahead of me, seeming to think this was a kind of fun
game. I was furious. What was the dumb cat doing, stealing the one thing that I
really needed to get back home? I chased it into the trees, gasping for breath.
Even though it was white, I soon lost sight of it amidst the debris of dead
leaves. Angrily giving up, I straightened up and looked around me. Then I
realized with growing sense of self-idiocy that I had absolutely no idea where
I was. During my wild goose chase I had let myself become completely lost. I
held my head in my arms feeling incredibly stupid. It was then I heard a sound.
It was far off; a tiny little tinkling that I at first thought I had
imagined. My ears perked up at the sound of it, and I instinctively moved
towards it. It seemed to want to drag me closer to it. I moved over snapping
twigs and dusty dirt as though in a trance. All the time it was becoming
clearer, and I could make out broken-off bits of a melody. It was nostalgic
somehow. I couldn’t make it out. I came out of the trees and found myself in
small clearing. As I moved through the waving blades of wild grass, I could
feel a far-away memory touching on the edge of my mind. But as much as I struggled
to remember it, it did not move any closer. With my mind on something else
entirely, I suddenly tripped on a well-placed rock and went tumbling into a
deep cube-ish trench with my hands flailing in the air. I landed heavily on my
knees and skidded on my hands. “Ow!” I proclaimed. Nursing my abrasions, I
stood up and studied my surroundings. I was in a deep continuing line of cement
as though it might have had water moving through it once. The place where I
fell was the only one without a covering to the outside. It continued left and
right into dark tunnels that smelled faintly of old sewer and gave me the
creeps. For a moment, I remembered the melody and hastily listened for it,
afraid that it had disappeared. But it was there, and if anything, clearer than
ever. With dawning realization, I realized the sound was actually coming from the right tunnel. I would have to
go into that pitch black stink that reminded me of my ever persistent
nightmare. I almost gave up. Almost. That tunnel just gave me the heebie-jeebies
and made me want to turn for home at that moment to never return. But I knew
that I would end up going in the tunnel anyways. I might have started out
traveling for the Mister, but the fear for my own life had over rode even that.
The only thing that now rivaled my fear was curiosity. I just had to know what the source for that
twinkling melody was. In my mind it
somehow connected the feeling of happiness and warmth to it. I knew it was
somehow connected to my amnesia, and although I had never had any desire to
remember my old memories, I felt a burning want at that moment.
I turned to the tunnel and picked up my flash-light. Walking into there,
I felt like I was being eaten alive by the pitch black enveloping me. And I was
going willingly; how crazy was that? The only thing I could see was the limited
light of my flashlight as I stepped around in the stinking gloom. I turned
corners; listening for the melody while still trying to remember which ways I
had gone for future reference if I had to go back. The more I carefully
listened and slowly crept forward, the more I was certain the melody was coming
from a music box. It had that same metallic sort of sound. I still couldn’t
place where I had heard the song though.
As I moved forward, the sewer-like odor that I had smelled faintly at
the entrance became stronger. I gagged on the air and held my nose under the
collar of my t-shirt with my hand. I moved like this for almost twenty minutes.
When I sharply turned a corner, my foot suddenly splashed in a dark liquid that
was the source of the hideous odor. I quickly drew my soaked foot back, images
of various blood splatter scenes I had seen watching movies with the Mister
running through my mind. I shined the flashlight at the black water and
breathed a sigh of relief. No, it wasn’t blood. It certainly was disgusting to
the sense of smell, however. I felt like retching. The melody was up just ahead
though; I could hear it just in front of me. I stepped into the filthy liquid
and moved as swiftly as I could through it, trying to ignore the smell. From up
ahead of me, I could see a small ray of moonlight illuminating the faint
outline of a ladder, and below it, to my excitement, a small silvery object on
the ground. I waded through the ankle-high muck as fast as I could, wanting to
get out of the water, the tunnel, the smell, and the overwhelming darkness as
soon as I possibly could. It wasn’t just the pitch black that made me overly
eager either. The entire time I had been in the tunnel I had had this paranoid
feeling of being watched and even followed at some points. It raised the hair
on the back of my neck. Dragging my gross squishy shoes onto dry concrete, I
hurriedly ran over to the music box and picked it up without looking at it.
Holding my flashlight in my mouth, I hauled my dirty self up the skinny, rusty
ladder and into the blessed moonlight that seemed a billion times brighter now.
As soon as I had collapsed on the ground next to the circular opening I had
just crawled out of and had taken a big gulp of fresh air, the music box
abruptly stopped. My attention turned to it as I twisted it around in my hands
with my flashlight shining on it. It was a rather pretty thing; palm sized and
made with a stone base of pure white. On top sat a little lone figure of a girl
in a simple dress standing in a pose with her right arm gracefully outstretched
as the same with her opposite leg. I flipped it upside down and wound the turner
a couple of twists before I sat it down and watched the figure of the girl
twirl around and around to the familiar melody.
And then I remembered.
I had been curled up on the couch near the fireplace, engrossed in a
book. It was my birthday. My mother came in and sat down beside me, a
mischievous grin spreading over her face. I watched her out of the corner of my
eye suspiciously. “Hey, M---y,” my mother said. “What starts with B and ends
with Y?” I looked up at her and thought for a second. “Beauty?” I asked. “Nope!”
my mother replied with obvious enjoyment. “Birthday!” She smiled and pulled out
a wrapped box she had previously concealed behind her back. She set it on my
lap. “Now here’s another riddle: what consists of two words, starting with M,
and ending with X?” “Um…” I mumbled as I fumbled with the wrappings of my gift.
I opened the box and pulled out a music box with an adorable little girl on the
top in a ballet-like pose. “A music box!” I said with a feeling mixed of surprise
and disbelief. “It’s the music box I saw in that antique shop! You actually got
that for me?” My mother nodded her head, still smiling. “Try winding it up,
dear. It plays a wondrous melody.” I turned it over and twisted the winder in
circles until I felt it had had enough and laid it in the palm of my hand. The
girl statue twirled around and around as I listened to the twinkling box play a
nostalgic melody. The song was a lament. While I was listening to it, I
replayed the shop owners words I had heard when I first saw the box in my head.
“That right there has a small story attached to it.” The wispy, old
white-haired lady had said when she saw me staring at it. “Do you want to hear
it?” I nodded my head ferociously. The lady had smiled. “According to the words
of the woman who sold it to me, it was created by Horologium to hold a key.”
“What kind of key?” I had asked. “I don’t know. The lady didn’t tell me the
entire story. But it was a certain key.”
I remembered her face looking quite as mystified as my own feelings. “What are
you thinking of?” my mother cut into my memories. I didn’t reply. I was too busily enjoying the
music at that moment. My mother looked at my face and grinned. “Well, looks
like I chose right, now didn’t I?”
As the memory faded,
I stared at the full moon above me. The music had stopped a long time ago, but
the salt-water was still running down my cheeks. What had happened after that
happy time so long ago? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember.
I saw a white image in the corner of my eye. I looked down to see the
white cat looking expectantly at me with its blue eyes. It held its tail alert
above its head in a straight line. The compass had disappeared. I sighed. “Now
what, you dumb cat? Looking to steal something else?” The cat swished its tail down and turned
back, glancing its head at me after a few steps. I got the message easily
enough. “So you want me to follow you. Is that it?” I asked sarcastically. The
cat perked up at my words and started walking again. I grumbled but stood up
and followed after. It wasn’t as though I had anything better to do, and
besides, it seemed as though the thieving animal knew the area better than I
did. After a while of stepping through more dimly lit trees, I suddenly stepped
out of the woods. The trees simply ended. I took a quick look behind me to see
the ominous figures overwhelming me with shadows as before. Had I really
traveled through there? It felt so second hand. The cat stepped along, and I
turned back to follow it.
I was startled by the sight in front of me. It was the ghost town. Seeing it in the dark stirred my fear and
something even deeper underneath it. I shivered. The decrepit buildings shrank
under the burden of time and rotten boards hung from bent nails. The smell of
age crept into my nostrils. Walking after the cat, I shook my head side to side
as I looked at the black entrances where the doors had decomposed long ago. It
felt as though anything could come out of them. I constantly kept checking
behind me in case something was there. Paranoid though I was, I didn’t want
anything creeping up on my back. I cautiously went forward.
The moonlit spires of a ripped up old church greeted me. It was the
tallest building in the dying town, yet I had not noticed it until then. There
was a rusted old bell in its cage, half-hanging as though it would never ring
again. Persistent strips of white paint were clinging onto its wooden frame,
revealing its original coloring. The whole building creaked and moaned. The
white cat jumped onto the rotting steps and swished its tail back and forth
expectantly; waiting for me. Gulping down my instinct to run, I climbed up past
the cat and pushed open the double doors as wide as they would go. Waiting a
second for my eyes to adjust to the dingy murkiness in front of me, I walked
inside with the cat at my heels.
All the wooden benches had been swept aside, leaving the room more
spacious than it should have been. A fine layer of pale dust had been spread
over the broken floor that I stirred up into small clouds as I took a few steps
inside. All the windows were broken except a small stained glass up above the
high altar. The subtle light that came from it revealed a dark figure standing staring
at me. I froze. All I saw was the eyes. But those yellow eyes seemed to burrow
into my soul and find anything that I ever wanted to hide. Ever.
The figure laughed. “Hello, my dear, we’ve been expecting you.” His voice
was devoid of life. Cringing, I backed up. “Oh don’t be like that Emilyn.
There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He slowly moved towards me. As he did so I
heard the sound of gears screeching in chorus like a cat band. Eager to break
myself out of the trance I was in, I spoke. “Emilyn? Who is that? I’m not them.
Who are you?” Questions broke out of me like a rush of great water. The
stranger chuckled. “So many questions dearest, but don’t worry. You’ll remember
soon.” I held out the music box. “What is this? How did you get it? Why was it
there?” He looked at it from the shadows. “Oh, you found that, did you? I made
that for you as a wedding gift.” He stretched out his arm and stroked the small
gizmo lovingly. “But I lost it after you left. When I found it again, I had
been lying in darkness and was slowly dying when it fell next to me. And when
it played the melody you created, I remembered.” He reached out to take my hand. “Remembered
what?” I asked. He determined a masked
gaze on me. “That I need to save you.”
He took a step from the shadows. From the weak light coming from the open doors
I saw his face.
It was dead.
The withered, ripped skin was
stretched across a clockwork skull underneath that clicked and whirred dimly as
though it was running down. There was no nose. The sunken eyes were rotting
away. The gears beneath were covered in grime and black oil. A few white, filth-covered
hairs circled on the crown of its head. He must’ve been an old man when he lost
his soul. Underneath his tattered rags that he wore, you could see the white of
bone sticking out in some places. The smell of rot was overpowering.
I started backwards, tripping on
something in my haste, and falling hard on my behind. I scrambled up and turned
for the double doors, but as soon as I saw them, they slammed shut. A million giggles
arose from all around, every one slurred. I shrunk against a wall in fear like
a mouse in a den of cats, clutching my music box tightly against my chest. “Oh
my, you’re scaring her, my pets.” Horologium garbled. “It’s because she cannot
see your beauty. Light a candle please.” There was a dragging sound like
someone limping, and suddenly a single orange glow erupted on the high altar. I
shielded my eyes against it after being in complete darkness, but soon drew
back my hand. There were people all around me. Distorted people with limbs
twisted in unnatural positions, dried blood laden across rotting skin, dead eyes
that stared at me. I took a closer look into their eyes and I realized with
growing horror that the light had been extinguished in them also. These were
corpses. There were at least thirty of them; standing towards me with missing
feelings in their eyes.
I threw up. The decaying stench
of all these dead bodies and the sight of them were too much for my body to
handle. My unmoving audience silently watched me. When I finished spitting the
foul taste of vomit out of my mouth, I immediately moved to the doors that had
closed so suddenly before and attempted to reopen them. They wouldn’t budge. Of course! The bodies hadn’t even made
one step to stop me. I whirled around and studied the broken windows. Surrounded
by clockwork corpses, I doubted it would be a useful means of escape. If I
bolted for it now with them all staring at me, Horologium would doubtlessly
shout out an order and I would be caught in such a short amount of time you
couldn’t even blink. I didn’t understand why, but for some reason I could tell
I was important to him. This ‘Emelyn’ he had called me was probably the woman
he had loved and the same who died. Was he confusing me with her? But why?
“Our
beautiful children! My dear, didn’t you always say you wanted plenty of them?” Horologium’s
words formed from a rotting tongue. The
blank audience continued with faces as still as rock. Children?
I thought. Horologium raised his arms in a victory gesture. “There is only
one thing left to fulfill, and we can finally sleep.” He hung his bone arms and
focused his passed-away sight on me. “The vow that will end this all” Limping
towards me I heard it said; “Matrimony” in a whisper that came both from the
deceased man’s lips and a small voice behind my ear. A mist pooled around my
body and enveloped me from head to toe, like a sigh. Strangely, I could smell a
sweet scent as it did, like the passing of Earth, or rain, or the budding of
flowers. All of these things it was, and yet it was none of them. My mind was
refreshed by the sound of someone’s sorrow who was both there and not there.
Someone who was both me and not me. Who was Next to me, and yet so, so far
away. My skin was cooled by a clammy
hand in the fog, and I felt no emotion. Every feeling I might have felt was
washed away by the dampness of silver.
The fog
subsided, and I looked down. Lace imparted to a reveal a wedding dress. I was
still wearing my dirty trousers and ripped blouse, but this was put over it by
the mist. I could see wisps of the substance flowing out from the long sleeves,
and from the floor reaching skirt. The whole gown was silver.
I looked up
and saw Horologium there. Dead skin
flecked off his cheek as he silently took my hand and led me up to the single
lit candle resting on the altar. My emotions and thoughts had still not
returned. Everything took on the appearance of an illusion, a dream that would
end as soon as I would wake up.
There was a
small wooden box next to the candle. I held the music box in my hands, its
melody un-playing as I was reminded of it. The candle flickered waveringly, as
though attempting to warn me of something. As Horologium was about to open the
small chest, a large crash sounded from behind. I whirled around and the first
thing I saw was the white cat in an arch of spitting hissing. An over-fallen chair revealed what had caused
the noise. But as I looked closer at the cats object of hatred, I realized that
the unfeeling face with the eyes gouged out, replaced by clockwork wheels, used
to be familiar. It was Mr. Carter Wildenstein. The Mister.
My emotions
snapped back to their rightful place, as I realized this was no illusion. And
as I looked closer at the entire blank audience, I recognized Dr. Gregory Brun,
my mother, three boys with faces from the newspaper photograph, and the one
girl whom was standing next to me there; I remembered her now. She was my best
friend. Noreen. And I…………I was Millicent. Millicent Spiller.
In a flurry
of rage, I swiped the candle and wooden chest off the altar, losing grip on the
music box in my hands, as it too fell to the ground with a mighty crack. A
small metal clink sounded inaudibly. I stared at the broken head of the ballet
girl as I remembered. The time I had shown the same music box to my beloved
friends in the woods, accidentally slipping as it fell from my hands into the
black tunnel of the old sewer. We had gone down to look for it. It was my
fault. It was my fault they had died.
Orange
flames sprouted up as though lending the Devil a song of lament and anger. The
broken candle. “Calm down Emelyn!” Horologium shouted above my screaming. I had
not known I had been screaming. What a horrible, horrible noise. I buried my
wet face in my hands.
The gown of
mist unwrapped itself from around me and floated in an abstract figure in front
of me. “You must stop him” A voice that had once been myself said. “But how!” I
cried distraughtly. “He’s already dead!” The mist flickered slightly in the
growing flames. “They are dead and yet still alive because a part of their soul
is bonded to their still moving flesh. They cannot comprehend this. This is the
same as a nightmare to them.” I looked up at the figure as I realized what this
meant. “You must stop him,” the mist confirmed. “How?” I whispered. “The key,
remember the key” the mist spoke fading in the heat.
The figure
disappeared without a trace.
I sat there
for a second, trying to solve what she meant. At my hands was the broken music
box. A few feet farther away lay the broken candle with its flame spreading
away from me towards the undead audience. They made no moves, or any noise as
it licked at them with its burning tongue. And there was also the small, wooden
box, now lying on its side from the force of my back-sweep. It was open, and
next to it was a red lump. I could not decipher what it was, though I knew it
was something meant to be inside someone, not there. I glanced back at the
broken music box, and I absent-mindedly took it in my hands and wound it up.
Something fell from the empty hollow space that was the bottom half of the
ballet girl as the melody began to play, and I picked it up. It was a ring.
Engraved in small, precise words that I could only read in the raging flame,
was “You are the Key to my Heart”.
I was instantly reminded of the
antique shop owner’s words, “But it was a
certain key.” Knowing for certain was I was to do, I held the wedding ring
in my palm so tight it hurt, and turned to face Horologium. He had been
standing behind me the entire time, his face resembling the blank audience’s.
“Hey,” I said. “Don’t you want to leave?” He looked down at me with glazed-over
eyes that I recognized now as dreaming eyes. “With you I could go anywhere,
even Hell,” He answered in an empty voice that seemed to come from the smoke.
“Well I don’t want to go there. Go there with Emelyn when you’re free.” I
grabbed his tattered shirt and ripped a hole where his heart was. Clockwork
spikes of gold stuck out of his decaying skin, revolving around a single gear
with a small circular hole embedded in it. I shoved the wedding ring in there;
it fit perfectly. The glazed-over look in Horologium’s eyes faded to something
more mundane; death. He fell over, finally allowed to sleep.
I looked
around at the burning clockwork corpses, all of them lined up and in flames
like overbearing rows of candles. For the first time I became aware of the
smoke and extreme heat closing in on me like a giant beast. I swung my head
around, searching for the Mister, my mother, or my friends. I could not
recognize any one of them. Coughing and tearing up against the smoke, I began
to move towards where I had seen them last. Beams started to fall, casting up
sparks and ash like confetti. From the
very back of the door, I heard a small voice. I moved cautiously over to that
direction. Standing by the burning door was a blazing figure. I could not
recognize him but for the name that croaked out his throat.
“Amanda..,”
“I’m here!”
I screamed against the flames.
The figure
turned his head towards me. “I’m glad,”
The Mister whispered. And with burning
fingers, he pushed me out the fallen door. I lay stunned on the cool, dry dirt
for several moments before pulling myself back up to stare in the burning
building’s door. Several orange figures lined the inside of it, staring back
out at me. And then the structure fell. That was the last time I saw anyone I
had ever loved.
I watched
the building burn to the ground. The white cat in my arms, I witnessed the fire
simmering out into the night, its smoke creating dirty clouds. And I saw her.
Emelyn, there, on the lasting church steps, looking out towards me as the
broken music box inside played it’s melody over and over again until there was
no more. She nodded her thanks towards me, and I nodded back; a simple gesture.
Her misty form walked towards me and stooped towards the cat in my arms,
running a transparent hand through its fur, before she revolved her wispy head
to me. “Take care of her,” she said, and I nodded again. There are not many
things you can say to a ghost. She rose up as she smiled, and disappeared into
the starry night sky.
I am living
with my aunt now. A townsperson had seen the fire at the ghost town and had
called the police, who arrived with firefighters and a whole lot of cars. They
had been surprised to see me there, simply watching the thing go down in
flames. They had expected a whole team of rambunctious teenage boys with drugs
in their systems. They were even more surprised when they identified me as
Millicent Spiller, from the ‘Missing’ case. They took me back to the station
and interviewed me. I told them the truth, and as I expected, they put me down as
‘in psychological distress’, which might not have been all that untruthful, as
I was in a sort of shock. But after concluding that they would get nothing more
than stories from me, they contacted my still living relatives. My aunt from my
mother’s side was the best shot, even though she was a widow like my mother.
I learned plenty from my aunt.
She is a rather chubby woman with bright pink spectacles. She has curly, muddy
brown hair that is all over the place, so she usually wears it in a bun. She
would talk all day if you were there to listen to her. Her name is Agatha
Wildenstein. Her husband was Carter Wildenstein. It turns out he was my uncle.
When I asked her about it, she told me that the reason they had lived apart was
simply because she couldn’t take scary things. They would meet every week and
go for a quick date somewhere before returning to their solitary lives. They
both liked it that way, she said. We loved each other more the farther apart we
were.
She told me
about my mother, my father, my past life. None of it was familiar, as if it was
a past that belonged to someone else. My mother had married my father at
twenty, but after getting her pregnant with me; he died in a sudden car
accident. My mother raised me all by herself.
The Mister had never set eyes on me, because my mother and he never
really got along. She had wanted to name me Millicent. He wanted to name me
“Amanda”. He said so because the baby
girl was “Worthy of Love”. My mother, bitter towards love because of the death
of her husband, could not accept this. She wanted me to have “Brave Strength”
against the evils of the world. It is strange, but I still can’t remember my
mother’s touch in my life. My amnesia is still here, within my mind.
I am taking
care of the white cat now. I have named her Finley. She is a wanderer, but
enjoys my company. We both accept each other.
And some nights I will lie in my bed, and wonder if everything I saw and
felt that night was nothing but a dream. Finley will be a curled ball at the
foot of my bed, giving me some sort of proof against that thought, though as
time moves on it becomes harder and harder to remember the truth. And this is the real reason I have written it
down. I must not forget what little I have to remember, even if it is impossible
to other people. I still do not have all the answers solved, or why Horologium
mistook me for his dead wife, but it is enough to know who I am, and where I
came from, even if it is all just a product of my imagination. Sometimes in my
dreams, I will catch a glimpse of what came before; a dinner with my mother, or
a board-game with my friends. And I still have nightmares, reminding me of that
night. Nothing inside me will allow myself to forget, nothing at all. So I will
not. I must not. Some nights I still
wonder what that red bundle that came from the wooden box was. But the truth
is, I think deep down inside, I already know.
For when I awake from one of those dreams, and I lie very still, I can
hear a subtle ticking from deep within my chest. And I am left to wonder when
it will stop.
