A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 2 (Short Story)

Part 1


I stare at him. My mind has gone blank. Mother and Father are so strong. Who could hurt them? There’s urgency in his eyes. He keeps glancing around my house and then back outside. I can tell he’s in a hurry to get going. He’s an adult. I can trust adults, so he must be telling the truth, and my parents are in danger. I still haven’t grasped this impossible possibility.

“I’ll be a moment,” I say. “I need to grab something to help.” He gestures for me to be quick.

I run upstairs and rummage through my toy chest, scattering my things throughout my room. I find what I need and tug it out. It’s a wooden sword Father made last summer after he read The Three Musketeers to me.

As I’m walking down the sweeping staircase, I notice the man reaching toward the oil painting on the wall. I slow down for a moment, but I shake away any doubts. He’s an adult, and adults always do what’s right.

Father says I walk like a cat, my steps near-silent, but now I stomp down the rest of the stairs. The man is startled, but he quickly collects himself. He clears his throat and says, “Shall we go, Sam?” For a fleeting moment, I wonder how he knows my name. I tell myself it’s nothing.

 

His car is a couple houses down from mine. He could’ve parked it closer; it’s not as if we have guests over in the middle of the night. The man’s car is a rusty truck with two rows of seats. It looks like his clothing: old and well-used.

The man opens the back door and motions for me to get inside. I stare at him. He looks at me like I’m insane and asks, scowling slightly, “What?” He’s getting more hurried. I can tell by the way his brow is furrowed. He keeps glancing left and right.

“There’s no car seat,” I say.

“Car seats aren’t important,” he replies. I disagree, but I’m not supposed to talk back. I get into the car, but without a car seat, I can’t see out the window. It’s too high up.

We drive for twenty minutes and it seems like the man, who I’ve decided to call Blue for his clothing, is trying to hit every pothole in the road. Each bump and break is jarring and I slam against the seat belt. I shove my sword inside my jacket to protect it from the rough ride.

When we finally stop, Blue opens the car door and my eyes trace up the long gravel drive to a ghostly house in the midst of nothing. The vinyl is a putrid shade of gray, like a graveyard’s tears. I look at Blue, bewildered, and say, “This isn’t the restaurant.” My parents had taken me there with them before. It was nice with flickering candles and a sweet smell, although I never found out what the scent was.

Blue ignores me and grabs my forearm. He’s hurting me, but I fail to wriggle from his grasp. I have to half-run to keep up with Blue’s long strides as he leads me up the long gravel drive.

 

I stumble on the porch steps, but Blue yanks me forward. He pounds on the door, so hard I’m surprised his fist doesn’t go through the frail wood. When no one answers, he knocks on the door again, this time so loud that I would shield my ears if Blue weren’t holding my arm so tightly.

The door is opened by a glowering man who’s even shabbier than Blue. He’s narrow and he’s got long and scraggly hair that’s in dire need of a brush. When his grayish eyes find my face, the frown disappears and is replaced with a crooked grin. His teeth are extremely white and they clash with the rest of him. I decide to call him Shabby in my head.

Shabby is still looking at me and I shrink under his searing gaze. He asks Blue, “Is this the Warner kid?” Blue nods and Shabby gives him money.

Blue hands me to Shabby then heads down the long gravel drive and gets in his truck and drives away. I suddenly want him to come back. I want him to take me back to evil Emmica.

Part 3


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

A Dreamer in the Darkness: Part 1 (Short Story)

Hey guys! I recently wrote a short story, but it’s far too long to put in one post because humans have short attention spans, so I’m going to break it up into a couple parts. As you are reading it, the beginning may tickle your memory because I did post the first page or so when the story was still a fledgling, but now it has been completed and is somewhat different.


Ihug my blue teddy bear, Zachy, tightly as my parents prepare to leave. Mother says his name is actually Zachary, but my little two-year-old tongue couldn’t say so many syllables and he became Zachy from then on.I like “Zachary” much better. It sounds more refined, but Zachy will forever be “Zachy.” It’s too late to change it.

My parents are going on a date tonight. I asked them not to. It’s cold and cloudy tonight, and I can tell I’m going to have nightmares. Father said I’m a strong boy and as long as I have Zachy and Emmica I can do anything. I said I’d be brave for him.

Mother hands Emmica, my babysitter, some money. She smiles at them. Her smile is like poisoned candy. I don’t like her, but my parents think she is lovely. Mother says to trust Emmica, that she’ll always do what’s best for me.

Emmica is a pretty girl, like the kind you see on TV. She has straight, white teeth and green eyes and dark brown hair. One streak is pink and blue. I haven’t figured out how she makes her hair colorful. I’ve tried concentrating, but my hair has not turned orange yet. My floppy yellow hair always stays floppy and yellow no matter how much I try to change it.

My parents hug me and then leave. I flinch as the door slams, locking me inside with Emmica. As soon as the front door is shut, Emmica’s pleasant smile morphs into a scowl. I grimace. She doesn’t like to be here, but she also loves to collect money. She says, her voice sweet, “If you need anything, I’ll be at Izzy’s,” and heads out the door. I flinch again as it closes.

I gape at where she used to be. I don’t think Emmica is supposed to leave me alone, as I’m only five—nearly six—and children are always supposed to be with someone older. I’ll tell Mother about her when they get back. Maybe then I’ll get a new babysitter who has a pleasant smile.

Izzy lives close by and Emmica likes her much more than me. I don’t like Izzy. Sometimes, she plays loud music at night and makes it hard to sleep. I can feel it echo in my bones.

Emmica has never left before, and I’m alone for the first time. Usually, she never pays attention to me, but she stays with me. I’m scared, but I’m almost six. I can do things by myself and I’m strong.

I’m hungry. I may be almost-six and I may be able to do things by myself and I may be strong, but I cannot cook. It’s already an hour past my dinner time and the door doesn’t open. Mother gave Emmica a key a few weeks ago, so she shouldn’t need my help to come inside.

I’m at war with myself. I want to find Emmica because I want food, but I’m not supposed to leave by myself. My hunger wins. I grab my sweater and a set of keys from the closet and I head outside. My friend, the moon, is hidden by heavy clouds that hang low in the dark sky. A biting breeze blows litter and dead leaves across my feet. I shiver.

I walk down the porch steps and the driveway until I’m on the sidewalk. I run, unsettled by the night, next door to Izzy’s house and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The music is playing today and I can feel the porch shaking under my feet. I count 120 seconds then ring the bell again. There are neon lights in the windows behind the curtains.

This time Emmica answers. The door flies open and she leans against the frame. There’s a fading smirk on her electric-blue lips and her eyes are glittering. She’s wearing a short maroon dress and shoes that make her look like a giraffe. I have to tilt my head back to see her face. Music pounds behind her and I can hear people shouting.

“Well?” she asks. The happiness has drained from her face and has been replaced with her usual expression. It looks like she’s eaten a sour grape.

“I’m hungry.”

She smiles that ugly smile and says, “You’re a smart boy, Sammy, right? You can figure it out.” I wince. No one but Mother is allowed to call me Sammy.

She slams the door in my face.

Emmica told me I could figure this out. I look at my kitchen and think it’s improbable.I’m not allowed to touch the knives or the oven or the microwave and I don’t know how to cook.

I open the refrigerator and scan its contents. There’s milk, but I can’t make cereal since the milk jug is too heavy for me to lift. The freezer is too high for me to reach and I’m not supposed to stand on the chairs since I fell one time and broke my arm.

The clock says it’s past my bedtime. I sigh, giving the kitchen one last long look before heading upstairs to brush my teeth and head to bed.

I spit into the sink and when I look up, I see that I’m frowning, so I make a silly face and smile. Smiling is so much more pleasant than frowning unless you smile like Emmica.

I’ve just slid between the freezingcovers when the doorbell rings. It must be Emmica. She’d want to return before Mother and Father come back, but she has a key. She shouldn’t need to ring the bell, but maybe she left her key at home.

I slip out of bed and pad down the stairs, but I stop before reaching the door. Usually, Mother or Father answers the door and they always look through the peephole, but I can’t reach it without standing on a chair. But if it’s Emmica and she doesn’t have a key I need to open the door for her because she can’t spend the next three or four hours on the porch and I need her to make me food.

The door bows open and it isn’t Emmica standing on the other side of the threshold. The street lamp on the far side of the road flickers, turning the tall man in front of me into a shadow. He takes up too much space.I have to take a step back to breathe.

The street lamp flickers for a bit longer, caught between light and darkness. It chooses darkness, but the light from inside casts a warm glow on the man’s face.

“Hello,” I say. It comes out meeker than I intended, so I try again, stronger.

The man is strangely dressed in a baby blue suit. Father always wears black or white, or if he’s feeling spontaneous, a color like vanilla pudding. The suit is sharp and creased in all the right places, but it’s old. It’s worn so thoroughly in some places there’s only thread and I can almost see his white shirt beneath. The edges of the sleeves are frayed enough that it looks like he’s decided to tape his dog’s shed fur to the edges of his sleeves. The man doesn’t have a beard, but he doesn’t not have a beard either.

He says, “Quick, come with me, Sam. Your parents are in danger. Only you can save them.”

Part 2


© Arachnid Weaver 2018

Top Five Ways To Become a Better Writer

Since I am an experienced author, who knows exactly what I’m doing, I am going share some tips with you on how you can be a better author!

1. Examine

Everything starts with examining, from social gatherings to chess to writing! Examine books that you like or have a twist ending that you didn’t see coming. Read books 24/7, making sure not to get any useful work done on your story. Read until you drop, and mean literally drop from all the things you’ve seen in books that you are incorporating into your own that are automatically now known to you as clichés!  Another thing to consider is reading Wattpad stories and fanfiction instead of actual published stories. This will give you insight on what to put in your story to make others laugh out loud at various grammatical errors.

2. Complicated Romances 

Love Triangles are the best thing of all books and should not be a cliché. Triangles are wonderful, amazing plots of indecision, stupidity, featuring a main character who is as bland as crust-less bread. In fact, there is a whole subject dedicated to triangles of love called trigonometry. Make the main character so boring and so much of a blank slate that it is a SIN. Next, make that whiteboard fall in love with someone, COS he is good-looking but terrible to other human beings. And finally, make her fall in love with another person simply because his shade of blackness in his heart is way more TAN and he is even more gorgeous! Soon, move on to geometry, with love squares, octagon, decagons and even hexa-flexa-gons!

3. Voluminous Quarrels

The applicability of elephantine colloquy within the practice of scripting for the populace is veritably uncomplicated, and will not vamoose your nonexistent congregation of devotees discombobulated at all, especially if they are the mini versions of humankind. As a statement that is proven with various experiments and evidence, it is substantiated that a chronicle containing voluminous quarrels will not be insipid or vacuous.

Phew, I’m tired of all those big words! Let’s end this fact!

4. Details

I just love details! The reader can just picture something amazing in his/her/whatever your cup of tea/yeah/this slash contains all human beings/or if happen to be an animal mind. Wasn’t that group of slashes, that wonderful, slanted, narrow, typed in flawlessly, group of slashes just include everything! This is what I needlessly, helplessly, beautifully, begrudgingly, amazingly, and crystal clearly am telling you, you nonexistent, smelly, stanky, but awesome readers! For more clarification, I will provide an example:

She opens the door passionately on the wooden floor of the room, smelling with sweaty strangers, unknown body odor, and bursting with loud music from outside, that busts into my delicate, elfish ears. The girl brushes the hair out of her face, her face, pale, white and decorated with intricate spiderwebs, made from teensy weensy strings of spider silk. Her hair is a sugary grey, not a flat, dull, insipid grey, but a warm, steamy, graceful color, that just would seem to complement the rainbow if a part of it. Her eyes are crystal clear, blue like the sea, a boundless, endless, but calm and serene sea, with her eyelashes only admiring like corals do on the surface of the sandy sand. I slowly tell her, with great anger, sorrow, with my crimson, rose, blood coursing through my veins, like a surfer on a tremendous wave of heated anxiety…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5. END ON A CLIFFHANGER! (actual fifth tip will come at a later date and time)”