Day 118 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Create panic in your story.
Shannon: “It’s a fake school skeleton he could have been a teacher or something else,” I pointed out since Mark made such big deal out of it.
“Or he made it look like a fake skeleton,” Mark was stretching it.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure he could make it look that clean,” I pointed to the flawless bones.
“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes before shutting the door. “It’s still creepy to keep something like this in the closet.”
“It freaked me out,” Ally shrugged.
I was about to scowl at her, but suddenly the lights turned off. “What’s going on,” Pete questioned, sounding as nervous as I felt.
“Did you lock the door,” Mark whispered to Jim.
“Yes,” he quickly replied. “Maybe they turned off his power,” he tried to come up with a less terrifying reason.
Within a second Mark’s phone light went off and it was pitch black. “Mark come on, turn it back on,” Ally demanded impatiently.
“Its dead or something. I can’t turn it back on. Does someone else have a phone?”
I pulled out mine to test it out along with everyone else. “Shit,” I heard Ally’s voice starting to crack. “It’s dead.”
“Mine too,” I added, freaking out since it was fully charged 15 minutes ago. I hoped Pete or Jim would save the day, but they both had the same problem. “It’s time to go,” I stated out loud, afraid to go off alone.
A blue glow appeared and it was almost worse than the dark. The light was located in a room we hadn’t explored yet, so we were only illuminated by a dull glow. I was afraid to look past the familiar faces, thinking a new one could have appeared in the darkness. A record player started playing a chilling song, and no one had to say anything this time. We all had the same idea as we ran for the door.
Erin: Snap out of it. I could do it, I knew a lot about starting a small business. I didn’t need to be a great public speaker to help people with that.
“It all started when I hurt my,” in the middle of my “how I knew I needed my own business” story there was a loud screeching.
What’s the uproar about?
“I died,” I kept repeating, in some kind of simple, indescribably horrible trance that forced that one, devastating thought through my system for what felt like forever. Sometimes, through the gusting wind, it came out, “I’m dead,” and sometimes it was just a silent sob into the crushing white abyss. The writer was completely silent as I stood there, the snow going right through my pale skin, watching as the sky lightened and darkened with the shivering movements of the northern lights.
After what could have been lifetimes of stillness in the blizzard, I breathed out a screaming sigh and began the trek back to the cabin; I made it barely twenty feet before the storm was so bad I couldn’t see my own hand swimming a few inches before my frozen eyes. A nagging voice had come into being as I stood there, chipping away at the resigned-to-death part of me and attempting to throw me completely off balance. Carefully gripping the calmness that came with already understanding what my fate was, I struggled to keep control of myself, keep my mind away from the writer’s dark influences.
But when I allowed myself a single, painful thought about how I’d died, I felt the wall I’d built so carefully to encase my heart crumble to dust. The writer’s voice shattered the remainder of the case and scattered the dust at the very corners of my mind, “You died out here. You’ve been dead most of this time; we’ve been dead. We’ve watched this infernal winter storm swirling around the frozen tundra like it was a concert we paid an inordinate amount of money to see,” she screamed into the whirling wind, “and we’ve been thrown out halfway through for being tired, while thousands of people got to see the rest through their intoxicated stupor!” Though the metaphor was a little outlandish, I could cut her some slack due to lack of oxygen in the brain, it made perfect sense to me; I’d been screwed out of life just because of one stupid decision.
A thought dawned bright and shining and completely my own; an obvious flaw in the, ‘completely accidental death,’ theory the writer was peddling. “Okay, but who, of us, was so furiously insistent on making this whole journey to the frosty edge of hell? Huh?” I spat at the figment, letting her feel the fiery heat of anger and panic, “You did! You wanted to come here to write a stupid story about murder and mayhem in the middle of nowhere without telling anyone where you were going! You didn’t even say when you’d need the cabin ‘til! It was just, ‘Oh, well, just keep taking payments out of my account until I tell you I’m leaving,’ and, and-” panic turned to rage again, “-and, ‘don’t disturb me, I’ll be disturbed enough already!.’” I mocked her laughter and fell silent.
Freezing cold had begun to trace its way from the pit of my stomache and into my heart and lungs, ripping through my veins like poison. I turned and pictured the cabin’s warm glow in the sheer white snow, taking the first tentative steps carefully, before embracing the vision. When I walked right into the cabin’s façade, I was taken aback; a new panic set in as I realized the distance I’d covered in three steps and the thought of death plagued my mind again. Breathing in a wispy, jagged manner, I stumbled around to the door and slipped inside, or through, I really couldn’t tell you.
Before I knew what had happened, I was back in the living room with the roaring fire crackling merrily behind me and a grizzly-bear-mug of hot, soothing peppermint tea. Behind me, gathering a damp ring on the chestnut side table, was a glass of whiskey that must have been for the writer. She continued to jabber away in the background, drifting in and out of focus like a camera lens. After a while, my fingers stopped trembling, rocking the tiny ocean of liquid in my cup, and became firmly ice-cold on the porcelain.
It was one of those almost-calming moments where I was in complete control and the writer was the crazy one.
August runs passed more guards, but little pay him mind. He darts into the room he was given, finding his backpack and other missing articles. He tears off the ‘Broken Ebon’ armor and switches the purple pants for his old tattered jeans. When he’s back to his old self, he runs out, turning on his wrist panel to add to his stealth. The corridors blink as he passes through them. As he gets closer to the entrance, the halls slowly fill with people from both sides.
He back tracks, trying to find an easier route out of this mess. He finds a less populated corridor, but as he passes the people, he’s struck when someone misses their target. He hits the wall, the shadow fading. He starts down the hall, only to be stopped by someone of the Charbrows. He blocks and strikes, taking the man down. His nose is still bleeding, but he presses on.
After deflecting a few more opponents and helping a few bystanders in the halls to safety, he makes it outside and wades through the battle in the streets. He gets hit again. He stumbles, then trips on a fallen soldier. He puts his hands out, controlling his fall and rolling to a stop, but he didn’t see the railing along the path, which hits him squarely in the forehead.
He falls over, his ears ringing. He looks around as his vision shows him stars. The people fighting are blurry. He shakes his head, which increases the pain. He stands up and makes his way along the edge of the fight. He turns on the shadow panel on his wrist again, disappearing from sight in the dusk.
He turns a corner and the sounds of battle fade. Everything starts to turn black, despite the rising sun. He shakes his head again, stumbling down the street. He randomly turns a few corners, then collapses when he realizes he walked himself into an alley. He finds a clump of old bags, paper, and cloth, then allows the darkness to consume him.