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Authors: William Todd Rose
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its confines. What the flesh and muscles and bones did was no longer of concern. She was content to allow her thoughts to float through the void.
Lydia watched her fingers unfurl and her hand reach toward the corpse with slow-motion clarity. There was neither apprehension nor revulsion, such things no longer being of consequence. It was simply something that was happening, something that didn’t affect her either way.
Or was it? Somewhere within the husk of her body, Lydia became aware of a voice. One that sounded strangely familiar. It was no more than a murmur with occasional words breaking through the lull.
Don’t…wake up…now!
Don’t wake up. It sounded as though the voice were telling her what she already knew: that it was best to sink into numb thoughtlessness, that she should simply allow her consciousness to continue drifting away from the body that had once housed it. After all, in this state there was no fear. No pain or sorrow.
The corpse reached toward Lydia’s hand as well, its wrinkled fingertips trembling as it strained for contact.
The lull of words became more distinct, revealing more of its message.
Don’t touch it!
Lydia’s hand was still outstretched, but had gone as far as it could. Mired with fatigue, she could stretch no farther. If the dead woman wanted someone to hold her hand, someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, she’d have to complete the circuit herself. Lydia just couldn’t muster any more strength.
Wake up, girl! You wake your ass up now!
Lydia now knew why the voice sounded familiar: It was her own. This revelation, however, didn’t trigger any type of emotional response. It was nothing more than an observation of fact. One that didn’t really seem to have any bearing on her situation whatsoever.
Don’t touch it!
Stifling a yawn, Lydia watched as the corpse inched closer. It lifted its own arm, trying once again to touch the woman squatting before it.
Wake up!
The voice clamoring for attention faded, as though it were rushing away from her. The insistent tone became a whisper, the whisper a murmur, and then was no more. But that was for the best. As soon as she touched the dead woman’s hand, as soon as she gave her physical proof that she wasn’t alone, Lydia would allow herself to slip into the sleep she so desperately desired. A sleep free of panicked voices. Free of uncertainty. She would be safe there. Safe forever.
With fingertips no more than a hair’s width apart, Lydia thought she heard laughter resounding through the darkened corridors beyond the bathroom; but there wasn’t time to ponder what this might mean.
Before the cackling had even begun to fade, cold flesh touched warm and Lydia’s screams shattered her dream-like complacency, revealing the darkness and soul-shredding agony that had secretly awaited below.
Chapter 6
The String of Theseus
Chuck stood in the curved stairwell of the medieval turret, looking through a window whose stone border was slick with algae. This was the same opening through which he’d viewed the silhouetted man, and that figure’s presence seemed to linger in the space, tainting the air with a chill that was deeper than what could be explained by ambient temperature. Rather than coming from outside his body, the coldness seeped through Chuck from within; it was as though liquid nitrogen flowed through veins his astral body didn’t actually have, crystalizing his essence from the inside out.
This is what evil feels like.
The thought burst unbidden from Chuck’s mind, making him frown. He hadn’t truly believed in evil since he was a teenager; the way he saw it, everyone had reasons for the things they did, even mass murderers and serial killers. The so-called logic behind those reasons may have been so skewed that they only made sense to the person thinking them, but they were reasons nonetheless. Rationalizations. Justifications. A myriad of excuses to justify the most-deviant behaviors. Even
Lydia watched her fingers unfurl and her hand reach toward the corpse with slow-motion clarity. There was neither apprehension nor revulsion, such things no longer being of consequence. It was simply something that was happening, something that didn’t affect her either way.
Or was it? Somewhere within the husk of her body, Lydia became aware of a voice. One that sounded strangely familiar. It was no more than a murmur with occasional words breaking through the lull.
Don’t…wake up…now!
Don’t wake up. It sounded as though the voice were telling her what she already knew: that it was best to sink into numb thoughtlessness, that she should simply allow her consciousness to continue drifting away from the body that had once housed it. After all, in this state there was no fear. No pain or sorrow.
The corpse reached toward Lydia’s hand as well, its wrinkled fingertips trembling as it strained for contact.
The lull of words became more distinct, revealing more of its message.
Don’t touch it!
Lydia’s hand was still outstretched, but had gone as far as it could. Mired with fatigue, she could stretch no farther. If the dead woman wanted someone to hold her hand, someone to tell her that everything was going to be okay, she’d have to complete the circuit herself. Lydia just couldn’t muster any more strength.
Wake up, girl! You wake your ass up now!
Lydia now knew why the voice sounded familiar: It was her own. This revelation, however, didn’t trigger any type of emotional response. It was nothing more than an observation of fact. One that didn’t really seem to have any bearing on her situation whatsoever.
Don’t touch it!
Stifling a yawn, Lydia watched as the corpse inched closer. It lifted its own arm, trying once again to touch the woman squatting before it.
Wake up!
The voice clamoring for attention faded, as though it were rushing away from her. The insistent tone became a whisper, the whisper a murmur, and then was no more. But that was for the best. As soon as she touched the dead woman’s hand, as soon as she gave her physical proof that she wasn’t alone, Lydia would allow herself to slip into the sleep she so desperately desired. A sleep free of panicked voices. Free of uncertainty. She would be safe there. Safe forever.
With fingertips no more than a hair’s width apart, Lydia thought she heard laughter resounding through the darkened corridors beyond the bathroom; but there wasn’t time to ponder what this might mean.
Before the cackling had even begun to fade, cold flesh touched warm and Lydia’s screams shattered her dream-like complacency, revealing the darkness and soul-shredding agony that had secretly awaited below.
Chapter 6
The String of Theseus
Chuck stood in the curved stairwell of the medieval turret, looking through a window whose stone border was slick with algae. This was the same opening through which he’d viewed the silhouetted man, and that figure’s presence seemed to linger in the space, tainting the air with a chill that was deeper than what could be explained by ambient temperature. Rather than coming from outside his body, the coldness seeped through Chuck from within; it was as though liquid nitrogen flowed through veins his astral body didn’t actually have, crystalizing his essence from the inside out.
This is what evil feels like.
The thought burst unbidden from Chuck’s mind, making him frown. He hadn’t truly believed in evil since he was a teenager; the way he saw it, everyone had reasons for the things they did, even mass murderers and serial killers. The so-called logic behind those reasons may have been so skewed that they only made sense to the person thinking them, but they were reasons nonetheless. Rationalizations. Justifications. A myriad of excuses to justify the most-deviant behaviors. Even
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