The Hall

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Started writing and came up with this. Just a BAD dream.

Submitted: June 08, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 08, 2018



An array of sickly children surrounds me, smothering me with their little pale faces. None of them stand remotely tall compared to me but I am sickly afraid. I am pushing back at them, but they seem to spring back at me or they avoid my raised palms all together. At first, I am gentler because I wouldn’t want to hurt a child but then they keep on coming. I can’t keep them away and so I push harder and harder. Now they seem to be coming at me with more purpose, more deliberately and I am starting to get tired and my heart is starting to race. I am scared.

Out of sheer panic, I give up on pushing them back and in a last resort attempt I push through the small crowd of bodies, twisting my body as to escape the numerous little hands clinging to my trailing clothing. I don’t look back and I ignore their voices. Some start to cry at my removal of their grasps like a toy being taken from a child.

Before me stretches out a long and endless corridor, the length of it falling into a void of blackness. The walls are made of dirty yellow tiles and marble poles protrude from the walls at consistent intervals, giving the corridor a stronger sense of symmetry.

My steps echo as I jog in the awkward flats. I look back at me as the voices start to fade behind me and can see that the children are not following. They are standing where I had just stood, and they are looking back at me, their faces barely comprehensible at this distance and their bodies upright and dead still. Now I my pace resorted to a brisk walk, a fast walk as it was. I was panicking still but I was no longer worried about the children. Another brief look behind me ensured me that I was putting distance between us. The dark was already starting to swallow all else in the hall and soon I would be walking into nothing – far better than what lies behind me.

The darkness is all around me now and there is no indication as to where I am. The patterns of the walls are repeating as they have since I ran, and the darkness seems to remain one step ahead of me, refusing to reveal what lays before it. Even this surreal darkness is better than being handled by the cold hands of adolescent bodies.

As the darkness continues to roll ahead of me, things start to change. First, the sound of my clicking flats, so awkward and mis-sized for my feet, are making a different sound. The best way I may describe it is by the sound being put under water. I attempt to swallow and to pop my ears. Once that doesn’t work, I strain my ears in a pathetic final attempt. The sound continues to transform into a hollowing tone, becoming more sustained and tripping over the other clicking sounds of my step. It is like a giant echo chamber now.

Secondly, as the sound transforms, so does the darkness. I am now walking towards darkness that seems to be speeding ever so far away from me. There is no more consistent distance between us. Now the darkness is running. I glance behind me and notice that the darkness behind me has stopped. A definitive line seems to segregate the dark from light and I stop despite the fear. I watch the wall of black behind, listening for any changes in my environment.

Nothing at first, and then there is a voice. A young voice. That of a toddler. It is a boy and he is asking for his mother. After receiving no answer, the voice starts to become more fragile and meanwhile getting closer to the light.

Where is my mom? Where is my MOM? WHERE IS MY MOTHER?!

Then there is contact with the black, but the toddler doesn’t emerge. Instead, the outline of his hand protrudes through the blackness but not out of it, like a someone trying to claw their way out of an embryo.

Backing away, I start making my way to the black that is rolling out. As the hand stresses onto the black, threatening to puncture it with its prominent fingers, a creak moans behind my back. I turn to see that the evading black has revealed a wooden door, slightly ajar, and leaking bright lights in tumultuous fashion. I turn my back to the hand and make my way quickly to the door. Thankfully, the door does not evade as the black has done and I take notice of green shrubbery budding on the surrounding walls, no longer repetitive and endless. The outburst of shrubbery suggests life budding from the door.

I grab the yellow, brass handle and it is warm and vibrating so much so that my arm begins to ache. I pulled and reluctantly the door opens. The light starts to flood into the nearby wall. A scream turns my head and I can see there is a face looking through the black wall, an aperture torn to allow entry. A white eyed boy stares back at me and for a second, I forget about the door. My effort stalls. Now the boy is grinning, chin down and eyes angry. His face quickly fills the aperture and then his body is burst through, his naked body immature and dirty, yet his speed inhumane. Distance closes fast. I revive my efforts for the door and I begin to scream, realizing how little time I have.

At a jumps length, the boy leaps at me just as the door clears an unseen obstruction and falls open with my weight, flooding the entire room with sickening white light. Everything that is dark is evaporated, shattered like glass – the black shadows, the repeating halls, and the airborne child. His white eyes suspend in the white for just a moment, still staring down at me. Everything around me is white and soon I see nothing.

An alarm.

I wake to the digital display of my alarm clock – 7:03 am.

I breath out heavily, checking myself and the surround room. A dream.

With exasperation, I get out of bed, relieved and feeling great. I head to my bathroom to brush my teeth. A noise perks my attention from the bedroom window where a wind lifts my curtains up softly. I approach the window, my heart starting to race. I look down to a group of kids. They are playing basketball in the court. My heart is now slowing again – just kids. As I remove myself from the window, all sounds cease, and my heart starts to pound again. I stop dead in my tracks, back to the open window. I listen desperately for the sound of anything, the bouncing ball, a child yelling. Nothing.

Then a whistle.

I turn, the whistle seems to be calling someone. I approach the window again, curious and afraid. Outside are the boys – toddlers – standing there, looking up in a uniform steady gaze. My window is their attention and in the middle of this group; a young boy, his hood covering his hair, eyes white like marble. He is looking at me too, whistling for me to come.

Whistling me to come down.

© Copyright 2019 JerBear. All rights reserved.

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