MicroHorror

Abigail pulled away fast from the shadows. She thought that something had moved, had stirred the rotten smelling air. The small room had been so quiet for the last few hours; the only sound she’d heard had been a faint scraping like a thin metal chair against polished wood. That had been over an hour ago though, and nothing since.

She sat back down by the small table lamp that stood in one corner. If she angled it right she could see everything, not that there was much to see, bare gray walls, no door and a pink leatherette car seat to sit on that smelt of boiled meat and aniseed.

Suddenly she heard a hissing noise, like soft white sounds, a low feral static, not loud but a constant drone in the background. She paused, focusing on total silence, absolute stillness; she felt her breathing, the deep swell of her lungs pushing her chest up and out, her pulse and heartbeat becoming louder in her ear. Slowly, the sound began to dissipate until it was gone but she could still hear faint echoes, whispers, impressions.

The lamp went out, first it flickered a little, the light wobbling along the walls, then it sputtered, on, off, on, off and finally gave one heroic burst before it went off again. Abigail was frightened, she breathed deeply, scanning the room for any chink of light, hoping that her eyes would adjust soon.

She stood and tried to make her way to the other side, her mind had made a mental note of the placement of the furniture but she still had to reach out to the walls for support. They felt damp on her bare palms. She wanted to grab them. She was scared she might fall if she didn’t.

She made it to the other side but there was still no light, no breeze, no sounds, just the dead air and the wet coolness of the flat stone she sat upon.

She began to cry, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, that she’d find a way out, that she’d be strong but now things seemed hopeless, stacked against her, she found it hard to think straight.

Again, the metal sound, thin and high pitched, she cocked her ears around the room trying to decide which direction the sound was coming from but she couldn’t focus. She began to shout and beat her fists against the slick wall. There was another burst of static and then loudly, voices, voices sprang to life, lots of voices, talking, shouting, different accents, the heavy rat a tat of machine gun fire, the wailing of fire engines and the screams of mothers; television, someone was watching the news. Then, just as abruptly, it went off.

She could still hear talking, very quiet but still talking. She removed her glasses and pushed her ear hard against the wall, focus, focus, she strained hard to catch anything; a single word, but nothing, too far away, too muffled and dampened by the wall between them. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

She began to cry again and laid down on the pink car seat.

Days passed, or so she assumed, sometimes when she woke there would be food placed nearby. At first she was dubious but soon hunger forced the issue. She used a corner of the room as a toilet and was amazed to see that when she awoke it had all been cleaned up. She tried to stay awake or to pretend just to see but she always fell asleep.

She began to make little games in her head, little stories, dances and adventures. Sometimes she’d be the heroine, sometimes she was free again but these stories made her cry.

She lay awake and listened to the television. Sometimes on the news, she could hear her mother crying and talking about how much she missed her beautiful Abigail.