Foreboding

  

Hey y'all.  So, I don't normally do this, and I figured.  Why not?  So, whenever I write something, I will put it in here so y'all can read it too.  
This one is called "A Sign of Foreboding".  It's for a writing server I'm in.  The premise is fog. Ok, enjoy:)

Thanks y'all!

Walking through the cloudy and foggy streets, I felt off.  It was like there was something going to happen.  Was I having a premonition?  Oh dear.  Not again. 

All of a sudden, I’m washed into a place where there is no light, save for a lone streetlamp.  Lit up with a candle.  What year was this?  Certainly not 1987. I feel cold and dreary.  A sense of foreboding falls on me. I walked, and walked, and walked.  Until finally I came to a house.  There were no lights in it.  It looked cold and barren.
The door was open, so I walked in, hoping to get out of the ever-deepening fog.  There was no fire going.  There was no electricity, even.  Based on this, I had stepped back into the time that predated electricity, but from the furniture I was able to tell it was sometime in mid-19th century England.
But where?  London?  No.  I hadn’t heard the bell toll.  But wait…the thought niggled in my mind.  When was Big Ben erected?  So, I sat and thought.
Deep in thought, I heard something.  It sounded like furniture moving.  My heart raced, as I realized I had nothing to defend myself.  And then I heard steps running out the door.  I caught a glimpse of the man running out.  I will never forget him.  He was the most hideous-looking man I have ever seen.  He didn’t see me because I was in the shadows.  I would never want to come across him again.
Now, I had to investigate.  So, I slowly walk up the stairs.  The first thing I smell is something I can only describe as unpleasant.  It smelled like metal and dragon fruit.  Hmm…could this be blood?
I slowly walk into the room and spy a man belly up, with a very sad, hurt frown on his face. He spied me and said
“Come here.”  I go to his side. I can’t speak.  Fear has stolen my voice.
He said “I don’t know who you are, but that man who came out stabbed me.  I know him as Jacob Stearing.  He needs to be caught.  I found out he murdered his friend, and many other people.”
  He rasped.  I felt his time was coming close. In one last furtive grasp, he grabs me by my collar and says
  “Catch him.  He won’t be dead in 100 years.  In order to kill him you need to….lure him….and poison him.  The only way you can kill him is a high dose of arsenic.  He can’t be killed otherwise.”  I nod and his last words were
  “I’m sorry, Geoffery.  I tried.”  And he was gone.
  I had to get out of there before the police came.  I still don’t know what year it is.  Isn’t it funny how in the most harrowing moments, your brain remembers the weirdest things?  The Big Ben wasn’t erected until 1859.  Which means I’m either before then, or not in London. 

I leave the house.  I walk.  I feel eyes on me, I don’t know what to do.  The fog is still dark and deep.  I hear footsteps, but I can’t tell how far behind me they are.  Are they even behind me?  I run into something.  What is this?  It’s a newsstand.  Wait.  Newsstands weren’t popular in London until 1850.  So I figured I must be between 1850 and 1859.  That narrowed it down to 9 years.  Who was a popular serial killer in that time? Not Jack the Ripper.  Oh I don’t know.  I can’t think.
  I look at the newspaper.  Its headline is “White Chapel Bell Foundry Heads Up Project for Big Bell”.  Ok.  So I’m getting closer.  The footsteps start again.  What can I do?  I still can’t run, I barely walked and hit the newsstand.
Oh if this fog wasn’t so thick, I could run.  I could distinguish where the steps were coming from.  And I was so cold.  Maybe the only way to get home is back at that lamp.  Where I started….Where was that?  There are a couple hundred lamps I’ve passed since then.  I look at my watch.  What?  It’s not moving.  And then I realize I haven’t heard any bells.  There should be one every street.  Time has stopped, I slowly come to realize.  How is that possible?  Why is there no one else?  The footsteps get closer and something hits me.  I see stars.  The blood is rushing in my ear.  He tries to grab me.  He sees my face, and I am now a threat to him.  I fight him.  Kick, scream, hit.  Nothing works.  He’s invincible. What am I to do?  I run.  He can’t catch up.  I wonder why?  And then I see just up ahead is my pole.  It is my favorite color.  Burnt Orange.  Does he see it?  I wonder.  And then I run into something.  I can’t see him.  The fog is so thick, but he just laughs.  “Do you really think I would let you off the hook that easy?”
As I shudder in fear, I get this strange sense of courage. “You know what?  Yes.  I’m not from this world, or time.  You need to let me go, so I can let you do your work.” I slowly inch towards my poll.  The light is almost out.
He laughs again.  “Sorry, that is not happening today.  You belong here.”
“No I don’t.  I didn’t do anything to have this happen. Please let me go.” I maintain as much calm as I can, while still backing up toward my poll.
“No.  You’re mine.”
He tries to grab me, but I grab the poll and suddenly I’m back where I was.  I’m still cold and sweating.  Is he still alive?  I find my car through the fog and go home, and I check my calendar.  It’s definitely 1987.  The time is just after 8 PM.
I feel sad.  And suddenly I realize why.  The fog never lifted.  He’s here.

 

 

 

I grab the closest weapon I can find.  My phone.  It weighs 6.5 pounds.  Enough to hurt if I threw it.  I unplugged it.  Went to my kitchen and found the rat bait.  If this truly is him, I’m going to need to find a way to make him eat it.  I stuff some in a brownie.  Careful not to touch anything else, I wash my hands and wait.
Suddenly, the house becomes foggy.  On the inside.  So dense I can’t see my hands in front of my face.  I feel cold and wet again.  Oh no. He’s here.
“Did you really think you could run?”
I decide to play it cool as I can.  “Hey.  Yep thought so.  Since I can’t, want a brownie and coffee first?  I make a mean brownie and I’ve heard the coffee is pretty good too.”  I’m actually a terrible cook, but how would he know?
“What’s a brownie?” He asked.  “Is this a food?”
“What?! You’ve never heard of a brownie?  Yes.  It’s the best flavor food ever.  Here try some.”  I stuff half the brownie in his mouth and I’m sure some of it got up his nose.  I throw the coffee in his face and rush outside.
The fog is out here too, and time has stopped again.  I smell blood again.  Except this time it smelled stronger of iron and sweat.  I look down and notice a knife sticking out of my stomach.  How did I not feel this?  Does time stopping mean I don’t feel pain?
The fog is thick.  I can’t even find my car.  Is this truly how it would end?  Bleeding out in the middle of the fog, created by someone that can travel through time?
Suddenly, the fog starts to lift.  A sense of foreboding leaves me. The fog is leaving.  I walk into my house, and on the kitchen table is just the remnants of ashes.  It worked.  I’m so relieved.
And then I feel the pain.  And the phone is unplugged.  I can’t call anyone.  Black spots dance in front of me.  I feel like jelly, and fall to the floor.  My legs can’t hold me up anymore.  As the darkness closes in, I try to take the towel off the stove and put pressure against me.  I can’t hold on anymore.  I succumb to the darkness.  

 

~Charity/Soaring Hummingbird

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