First Time's The Charm
The floor beneath a softly laid foot creeks in a way that causes a brief shiver to run down one's spine. Dust springs forth from the floorboards into the air, clawing upwards toward the mouth and nose, eager to choke one and scratch at their lungs. Three windows are in the room, one to the left, one to the right, and one in the center of the far wall facing the door, giving the impression that you're being watched from each side, and there is a prevailing sense that the entire time you're being followed by such a terrible essence that you dare not look back.
A second step forward, and another board creeks below. It wails upward, bellowing in quick succession to you the entirety of the suffering this room, this house, this place has endured for many, many years. The walls themselves are red; a deep crimson that is reminiscent of garnets, rubies, or blood. It's so clean, and so alluring, that you can't help but take a closer look at the walls all around you, ever unaware that the door behind you has begun to close. A glimmer of light is reflecting off the walls, but there is no light in this room; the light dangling from the ceiling shifts from side to side, but you haven't yet turned it on.
You approach, this time with greater haste than before. The sound of the floorboards sounds eerily more like men and women moaning in the distance behind the snapping of smaller strands of wood. You haven't taken note of it yet, but your subconscious has been caressed deeply by the almost motherly touch. It is only motherly in the sense that it is a warm, soft touch, but the very essence of the sound is tainted; a soft touch because of weakness, of malnourished, and warm because of the flow of fresh blood. Such is the effect of this place as your heart rate increases, and you finally reach the light wire. You tug, quickly, and hard.
No luck. The light doesn't work, and now you're in the dead center of the room itself. The door behind you clicks, alerting you to your sudden entrapment. You look back, expecting to see a figure standing there with you in the room, but are relieved for no one is there. Relief quickly turns to a more terrifying realization: if no one was there, who shut the door? Your attention turns to the windows. One has to lead outside.
You move toward the window on the left. You try to lift it, but can't. Outside, a quick motion catches your eye. You see a man, looking back and fourth, as if he expects someone. You tap the window, rapping upon it faster and faster. He looks up, and by the light of the moon you can barely see he's staring right at you. His eyes don't reflect the light back, and seem like dark holes bored into his head with no purpose. He takes a step forward, but a gust of wind forces him to ready his hands at his face. From behind, a figure appears. Standing over the man by at least a foot, the figure steps forward; it holds in its hands a scythe. The tool is huge and formidable, and serves to intimidate you into stepping back. The boards of the floor no longer creek, but a low and distant moaning is present everywhere around you when you step, as if each footfall is upon a mound of the dying and meek.
You hear none of the noise, but watch as the man steps forward again, moving towards the house. The figure, from what you can see, is cloaked and wearing a hood. It lifts the massive scythe, and swipes. The man, an older gentleman, falls to one knee, holding his chest. You see no blood, no glimmer of warm liquid in this pale moonlight, but he collapses. He reaches forward, crawling to the door of the home, but you know he won't reach it. No, he'd have to crawl up those old, rotten stairs, paint chips blowing off in the breeze. You rush the window, trying to pull it up, but to no avail. You throw a punch, but your hand bounces off -- nothing. Shaking it, you give up, and move to the window across the room.
This window is better illuminated, and in fact you realize that it seems like the late morning. A troop of Indians, or Native Americans, is visible outside. They're sitting around a fire, dressed in hide pants, fur boots. One has several feathers, the tips dipped in red dye, around his head. He must be their leader, or hold some authority, you think. The other two also have on hide pants. One has a pony tail, and the other has shorter hair. Both seem much younger and far more content than their older partner. You note that the older man seems vigilant, as if something is coming. The two below him, their cheeks unblemished, war paint dotting their body and face, exchange words and occasional laughs. Again, in the distance, you get a glimpse of the imposing figure from before, and the men below seem oblivious or ambivalent to his presence. You begin to yell, scream, and bang upon the windows. The older man looks up, squinting; his eyes are dark, and something about them gives the impression that they are as deep as wells. It causes a deep and primal instinct inside of you to well up, and rear its head; his eyes, they're there, but something about them makes it seem like they are empty sockets...His weathered face crinkles to get a better look at you...and that's when the figure appears again, swiftly and without warning, it is upon the men. With one quick swipe, each of the men is hit. Your breathing shallows, and you gasp. They're unharmed?! What is this?!
But the confusion quickly passes. You notice in the brush nearby, the autumn leaves leaping in the crisp fall breeze, darker shapes moving about. They appear to be in uniform, and the glint of a trigger sparkles in the one ray of sun shining through the overcast. In an instant, the men are upon the Indians, and the Indians put their hands in the air. One of the younger ones moves toward his ax, or "tomahawk", and is gunned down quickly and with ferocity. Your feet slide back, the scratches on the floor are not scratches but moans and groans, louder now than before, infiltrating your mind in its deepest recesses. The sound of the moaning is like being pushed beneath the waves of the ocean during winter, and you gasp for air several times. The men in uniform move forward, and drag the dead Indian away. One pulls out a knife, and digs it into his skull, cutting out the scalp. You look away, but morbid curiosity brings you back. You see the other two men forced to kneel, the older one taking his time. Then you notice it...he has a knife! As the men in uniform ready their rifles again, they make a fatal error and approach: the figure has returned, and swipes three of the men. The older Indian is quick; much faster than they'd anticipated.
A pair of stabs to the uniformed man closest to him, he moves forward, pushing the barrel of the second man's rifle to the side and drives the bloodied knife into his chin. A knee to the stomach sends him flailing to the ground, just behind his compatriot. The older Indian moves toward a third man, who readies his weapon and fires, hitting the younger Indian in the back. The older Indian drives the knife into his eye, and whoops loudly before being killed in a hail of bullets. The rest of the uniformed men, of which five remain, move forward, overturning everything in the camp, and one drops to his knee and begins what seems like a prayer. Another takes the knife from his fallen comrade, and drags the older Indian away, and you move to the middle window.
This window shows a more modern scene, and it's familiar to you. The view isn't to the outside world; it's to another room. The floors are stone, and the wall is stone. You see a line of people in front, all nude. They're skeletal in appearance, shifting from side to side. The moaning from the floorboards hasn't stopped since you moved to the middle window, even though you have. In fact, the floor feels alittle different now, with bumps and bulges about. Curious, you look down. Below you is a horrifying sight. Bodies, a huge mount, the depth of which you cannot fathom. Some are squirming, too weak and malnourished to move very much, but enough to alert you to their presence. You begin to claw at the window, and it opens. You jump out, and push forward, falling flat on your stomach and face.
The others in line look around at the body that just collapsed. You look back up at them, their faces eyes devoid of hope. They look like carbon copies, or dummies. Their heads are hairless, some have missing teeth, their skin wrapped loosely around nothing but bone. They're shuffling their feet, and you see a light at the end of the line. Yes, you think, yes, and slowly stand. It's cold, and you have no shoes. You look down and realize you too are nude. Shuffling now with the moaning crowd, you exit to see a muddy, freezing wasteland. Fences of barbed wire tower over you like the pillars of a church, wooden buildings are around you like pews, and people are jogging in place, some falling down malnourished. For the first time, you can see women here, but they're in a separate line and in the distance. Something is wrong, you feel it in your very being, and you see men in uniform approaching. They're wearing thick black coats, hats, their armbands signify to you their intent. As red as the room, surrounding a swastika, they order you to line up. There are three men, and a fourth approaching in the distance.
The men all appear to be in good health. The one on the left has never missed a meal, his pudgy face reddened by the biting cold. He has shorter hair than the others, and his eyes are a pale and grey blue. The man to the right is smirking, looking at the women in the distance. He removes a glove and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and smoking, totally apathetic to your presence. The man in the middle, he is scanning the crowd carefully. His face is slightly weathered, and his gaze quite serious. He licks his lips and looks down at his clip board. At their sides are strapped lugers, they wear thick black boots caked in the mud of this desolate place. You realize now why you're here. The man in the middle cracks his neck, and rubs his chin with gloved hands; the leather squeaking almost to prove to all watching that it is of fine quality and comfortable. He begins to call out names, and each name is marched to the gallows. The fourth man has arrived, but none take notice. He produces his scythe from his cloak, and each man is tapped gently on the back as they reach the hangman's noose. Each tap causes a slight jolt; whomever he touches leans forward ever so slightly in fatigued acknowledgement of his touch and presence.
After several names, you begin to feel dejected. Why won't they call you, and end this? But you do not wait very long; soon enough your name is called, and you approach the gallows. Truth be told, you're not afraid, you're revealed, and curiosity has gotten the better of you again. You wish to see the cloaked man's face. You reach the gallows, and the man, and put forth a hand. Slowly, you motion towards the scythe, and gently touch it, moving down its side. The blade is very cold, colder than fresh snowfall upon exposed feet, and stings, but at this point you don't mind the pain: it means you're very much alive. You reach slowly for the cloak, and can see clearly the breath of the man. Pulling it back reveals a skull, white as a cloud, and the deep blackness of the eye sockets pierces you deeply. It's as if a dagger has been driven slowly through your chest, and you realize that your time has come. Turning around, the men are watching you, and the list reader has motioned to the hangman to apply the noose.
You close your eyes and breath once more. Before the end, you open your eyes to look back at the man who has sent you to your last moments on this Earth. Your attention is drawn however to the fourth man, the cloaked figure, who now towers over these three men. He's looking directly at you, or as close to directly as you can tell for a man with no eyes, and takes one swipe through each of the soldiers, the man on the far left still looking at the nude women in the distance, the fat man still holding his nose in the air, and the list reader looking at you. In one final act of defiance, you smile at him, and perplexed he cocks his head at you, squinting, his eyes now devoid of their sapphire hue, and now appear to be empty and lacking life. With a jolt, black takes over, and you are gone.
The day is 21, March, 1945, and just as you had been marked for death, so too have your executioners.
Memento Mori .
:mechagodzilla: