Calling

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 14, 2018

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Submitted: August 14, 2018

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Calling

I heard your voice, deep in the night. Calling out to me to hurry, to get to you before it was too late. Even though the moon was bright, the sky was dark, I put on my cloak and swiftly stole away.

If no one sees me, no one will ask, for how can I get them to understand that you need me. Not later, but now. They’ll make me wait while escorts are gathered, all the while whispering behind their hands that I have been seized by some kind of madness.

They do not understand how close we are, that our minds are linked. That even though you are not here beside me I can hear you just as clearly as if you were.

No time to waste. There was an urgency there, and one that I will not ignore. I need you to keep talking to me, so that I can find my way. My hood is up, my cape is warm. It’s blackness only helps to conceal me in the shadows.

For a moment I fear that I am being followed. Moving further in to the treeline, I pause, hold my breath and listen. Nothing; I must have imagined those footfalls coming from behind.

Make haste!’ you say, and I am urged forward until I come to a path. I know this place but what kind of sorcery has been at work. The sky is beginning to lighten with the dawning of the sun as I push myself forward, past blackened trees and scorched grass. This is a long path, I know the house that it leads to but had it not been abandoned many years past.

You cry out in pain and I hurry forward but, in my path where before there was only smokey stubble, there are now vicious plants. I’ve never seen anything like them, blood red, reaching to block my path, to grab hold of me. They are sharp, like razors, cutting my skin wherever they touch, my blood only serving to make them stronger.

How lucky that I had thought to bring along my staff. I smash at these leaves, slash at them too. But they come from both sides at once, grab from behind. I do what I can, bruising and slaughtering as many of these bloodthirsty stems as I can.

My hood falls back as I slash my way forward. My cheek stings as something brushes against it, cutting straight and deep. I want to cry out. Do you hear me inside your own head? Can you hear that I am near?

Onward, onward and there is the house, a blackness in the now brightening sky. These plants seem to grow right up to the door, with blackened ivy encircling the doorway itself. I trip up the steps and I do not know if it is my imagination or if that ivy really is stretching out for me.

It grabs me, binds my wrists, my ankles. I barely manage to stop it from coiling around my neck. A firm hold now, it pulls me forward and the door opens up. I am propelled forward, flung by the plants but instead of landing on a concrete floor as I expect, I am falling. Tossing, turning, tumbling through a blackness until a land with a jolt.

Was it a dream? I am in my bed and you are fast asleep beside me. Yes, nothing more than a sleep-trip, a nightmare. And yet, if it was, why am I wearing my cloak and why is my pillow soaked in my own blood that is still seeping from the cut on my cheek.


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