The Face

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Stephen wants to finish his story. Will his imagination finish him?

Submitted: December 15, 2014

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Submitted: December 15, 2014

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Stephen liked to type at night.  Hard as he could to type during the day, it just never came.  Creativity belonged to the night.  So he sat there in his brown, leather, chair, a rip in the left armrest, and stared at the bright glow of his monitor, made all the brighter by a new blank word document.

The soft pitter patter of his fingers over the keys was hypnotic to Stephen, providing their own music.  Stephen had a fear though.  Irrational, of course, like most fears.  Stephen feared being at his desk and looking down to see a face staring back at him.  Glowing, dead eyes surfacing from the darkness, ready to drag him down, to be swallowed by the inky blackness the shadows of his desk cast.

This is what Stephen feared.  Foolish, obviously.  But that didn’t stop him from every once in a while taking a brave peak between his legs, under his desk, to make sure no hell spawn were going to grab his throat and drag them down to the depths.

Perhaps The Face, that ashen, decayed corpse of a face wasn’t just under his desk.  He looked to his left, where his closet was, half open, a brown leather weekend bag carelessly abandoned on the floor and half covered in the dark; perhaps that too held The Face.  

Stephen noticed he had stopped typing.  How long he had gone was hard to say.  He surreptitiously tore his gaze away from the closet and back to the glowing screen, hoping no one or no thing would get any ideas lest they thought his guard was down.  

Nothing came to him.  Creativity had flown from Stephen, swallowed whole by the The Face.  He leaned back in his brown, leather chair, head tilted back, face buried in his hands.  As quickly as he did that he opened them like saloon doors to see if any demonic advancements were upon him.  They were not.

Stephen sighed deeply and made up his mind.  Words would not flow any longer for him tonight.  Behind his brown, leather chair was his bed, adorned with red sheets, and a plus pillow with which to rest his head on (which he did).  Stephen laid supine under the cool covers and closed his eyes.  One minute, five minutes passed and consciousness would not follow suit.  By his bed stood a tall lamp that doubled as a small bookshelf.  Stephen picked up a book at random, one he had read several times before, flipped to a random page and began reading  He turned to his side, facing the desk.  Facing the void.  He turned page after page.  Still sleep did not creep upon him.  An unsettling thought crept its way into his mind: if I lower my book The Face will be staring at me.

Stephen hesitated to lower the book and free his obstructed view of the void in the desk.  Reluctantly he lowered the book an infinitesimal amount.  What will he see?  Does he want to see his impending doom?  What horrors await on the other side of his book?  His grasp tightened around the book not breathing not blinking heart racing pounding so hard and fast it may give out!

Nothing.  Just a screen with a few paragraphs on it and nothing more.  The blink, blink, blink of the cursor patiently awaiting words that may never come.  Stephen was too awake now for bed.  He sat up determinedly, ready to write whatever the stakes.  He got up with resolve, hands clenched, ready to slay this dragon.  He strode confidently the three steps to his desk and sat down in that brown, leather chair with a harumph, fingers poised over homerow.  

He thought he had some words, but before he could get them down he looked one last time down towards his feet under the desk.

And saw The Face staring back.

 


© Copyright 2017 Robin Goodfellow. All rights reserved.

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