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Forums Index -> Best-cellars -> An attempt
Tremblewick
PostPosted: Fri Jul 28, 2006 6:25 am  Reply with quote



Joined: 21 Jun 2006
Posts: 2
Location: Tremblewick Manor

This is my first post here.
I was a sometimer on the THC boards and I am a habitual lurker, so I thought I'd throw a couple of paragraphs on here as an official hello to Dread Central.

"Fingerpainting"
By Tremblewick

When John was eight years old, he had a terrible dream, a dream he remembered for years afterwards. The dream concerned the empty house next to his. It was a small brick structure which stood just across the narrow drive, right outside his bedroom window. No one had ever lived in the house, at least no one John could remember. The only person he ever knew who went in the house was an old man who occasionally mowed the weeds in summer, but the old man didnít live in the house, he lived... elsewhere.

John had dreamed that while he was in bed, his room had suddenly grown brighter. Light was spilling in though his bedroom window, the window that faced the empty house. Curious as to what the mowing man might be up to, John had slid from his bed and stepped over to his window. Peeking though the shade, John dreamed that the house next door had a light on in a room opposite his. It was a pale yellow light, like the glow of a dusty lightbulb, and in the window from which the light shone stood a person looking back at him, a person standing right against the window glass.
It appeared to be the backlit shape of a short person with long hair, likely a little girl his age. Staring out the bedroom window in his dream, John watched as the shadowed little girl lifted her hand and began to trace pictures on the windowglass, her finger leaving behind dark marks that filtered the light red.
John had found himself in his motherís arms, shaking his head violently back and forth and muttering the word ďnoĒ over and over again, while his mother was shrieking his name in panic.

John was fifteen now, living on the same street next to the still-empty house. He concerned himself primarily with girls, cars and music, but some nights he still remembered the nightmare. Heíd never told anyone what he had dreamed, there wasnít much point, but he hated going anywhere near the house after dark. His little brother Jeremy teased him about this relentlessly, especially when darkness fell before John had a chance to walk the trash down the drive to the curb. Sometimes Jeremy needed a solid slap to the skull. Most nine year olds do. Still, Jeremy was silly, a maniacal version of John now available in economy size. The two were usually giggling at each other when not challenging territory.
So when John heard Jeremy had a crush, he laughed and joked with Jeremy, yet inside he was hurt by this sign that the little guy was growing up so damn fast. He was likely to start hanging out with kids his own age and talking trash to his big brother to impress the other munchkins on the street.

The Saturday after Jeremyís new interest in girls was revealed, the boy didnít show for dinner. He didnít come home after dinner. He wasnít on the street. He wasnít on the side streets. His friends hadnít seen him all day. The police were called, parents were notified and John shouted his little brotherís name across neighborhood for hours. Long after sunset he was yelling for Jeremy in a voice grown hoarse and ragged.

His voice was still wrecked later that night when he stared, wide awake, at the lit window in the empty brick house. As two small figures began fingerpainting in blood on the windowglass, John began to shake his head while he whispered the word ďnoĒ over and over again.


~Tremblewick
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