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Many places out on the Russian steppes are devoid of human life. The abandoned secret complex exists in such a locale. And save for the one trembling prisoner locked inside, no other mortal heart beats anywhere near the place. The closest town is eighty one miles away. There are no roads. Few even know it's here. The doors and windows are sealed shut... blocked by heavy metal shutters. Daylight never enters. Night goes on forever. A fox stalks voles along the periphery, but she doesn't know what's inside. Crows peck the eyes from cornered squirrels upon the roof, yet they're ignorant of much greater tortures within.
Down a dark, dark hallway, with his back pressed hard against the wall sat the trembling prisoner, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe. Days in blackness. No food. Tiny mouthfuls of rusty water from leaky faucets found stumbling through the blackness. And sometimes he'd hear things. Insane laughter. Moaning. Crying. Desperate screams. Someone sawed a foot off with a hack saw. He knew he heard. The words were familiar. If not Ukrainian, then Russian, or perhaps some dialect from Belarus. Once, after a rather long period of silence, he ventured out, inching his way along the old tiled floor. And he felt it. He touched it. At first he pulled back reflexively, but it seemed to slide toward him. So he picked it up... a severed human foot. Quite a small one. Perhaps a child's. After a time it dissolved in his hand and he cried. Then he dropped his pants and backed into an alcove to relieve himself.
Soon after his skin began to crawl. Tiny, insect-like pinpoints scurried 'round his body, stowaways from the 'night' before, stowaways from those things under the paint. And he scratched... he scratched... he scratched... he scratched til his nails were wet. He scratched til he bled all over. Then he lay on his side, all curled up, as other little things with soft warm tongues crept out to lick the blood.
Terror takes its toll. A soul can only take so much and after a while numbness sets in. You've heard stories. You've seen things. Even martyrs on the stake stop screaming and the flames are just the flames. The prisoner was like that. Just the dark can do it. Just the stench. Just the ghosts.
Were his eyes open? Were they closed? Did it matter? He just lays there. But then he saw the light... just a sliver... just a little... just a bit. A shutter was loose. A cover was off and he crawled toward it. He peered out. So narrow it was. Just yellow. Just light. It burned. It hurt. After days in darkness he couldn't take it and looked away. But the knife edge of radiance followed him inside and he saw where it feel, upon the wet and shiny surface of another eye... someone else's eye.
The prisoner shudders. He whispers - Who's there?! But the eye is gone. He waits until the sun goes down and darkness comes again...
And then the thing comes back.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Down a dark, dark hallway, with his back pressed hard against the wall sat the trembling prisoner, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe. Days in blackness. No food. Tiny mouthfuls of rusty water from leaky faucets found stumbling through the blackness. And sometimes he'd hear things. Insane laughter. Moaning. Crying. Desperate screams. Someone sawed a foot off with a hack saw. He knew he heard. The words were familiar. If not Ukrainian, then Russian, or perhaps some dialect from Belarus. Once, after a rather long period of silence, he ventured out, inching his way along the old tiled floor. And he felt it. He touched it. At first he pulled back reflexively, but it seemed to slide toward him. So he picked it up... a severed human foot. Quite a small one. Perhaps a child's. After a time it dissolved in his hand and he cried. Then he dropped his pants and backed into an alcove to relieve himself.
Soon after his skin began to crawl. Tiny, insect-like pinpoints scurried 'round his body, stowaways from the 'night' before, stowaways from those things under the paint. And he scratched... he scratched... he scratched... he scratched til his nails were wet. He scratched til he bled all over. Then he lay on his side, all curled up, as other little things with soft warm tongues crept out to lick the blood.
Terror takes its toll. A soul can only take so much and after a while numbness sets in. You've heard stories. You've seen things. Even martyrs on the stake stop screaming and the flames are just the flames. The prisoner was like that. Just the dark can do it. Just the stench. Just the ghosts.
Were his eyes open? Were they closed? Did it matter? He just lays there. But then he saw the light... just a sliver... just a little... just a bit. A shutter was loose. A cover was off and he crawled toward it. He peered out. So narrow it was. Just yellow. Just light. It burned. It hurt. After days in darkness he couldn't take it and looked away. But the knife edge of radiance followed him inside and he saw where it feel, upon the wet and shiny surface of another eye... someone else's eye.
The prisoner shudders. He whispers - Who's there?! But the eye is gone. He waits until the sun goes down and darkness comes again...
And then the thing comes back.....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link~>WANDER THROUGH ALL THE POSTS
link~> JOIN US ON TWITTER
please leave a COMMENT down below. thank you.
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