07-09-2014, 10:22 PM
![[Image: hh5vVkA.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/hh5vVkA.jpg) |
“Are ya not payin’ attention?” the sweet southern drawl rang out in his head as he slowly rose into consciousness. His eyes hadn’t even come back into focus when the voice decided to correct itself.
“Ah, he’s just wakin’ up.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
This was a second voice, much deeper in tone, and carrying a sort of accent. What was it? Something English, but definitely not like the proper posh accent Robert Sanders had ever heard in movies. Then again, his wife Gale wasn’t much into most English actors. Rather, she would drag him to the movies of her “hunk of the week” – usually an American – and, almost assuredly, they’d bore him to tears. He had nothing to fall back upon when it came to accents.
“If my little protégé mixed it well,” the deeper voice continued, “as I should expect, given my tutelage, Mr. Sanders should be awakening in approximately two minutes. He’ll be in a state of semi-consciousness starting now, however. I do believe he can hear us…”
There was a pause, and the muddled, clanging sounds of footsteps approaching. They seemed light and swift, but with a certain clop sound breaking the stride which would otherwise be near silent. Then came the ruffling of clothes, and Sanders felt the common fear, the common instinctual fear, of someone’s face being near to his own. He could smell his captor’s breath. It reeked of onions and wine.
“And you can, can’t you, Rob – Mr. governor-to-be? May I call you Rob? Alright, Rob… Listen. There are some things that need doing, but goodness, it is out of even my hands! The hands that could tear time apart! Isn’t that something just terrible? But, see, I figured you might help me—”
Sanders was beginning to ebb into full consciousness now. With heavy lids, he opened his eyes and winced as everything around him suddenly and fully came into focus. Still groggy, he let his head fall onto his right shoulder, and, to his terror, decided to look down. His wrists were bound to the rusted armrests of a strange, modified dentist’s chair. In sheer horror, Sanders lashed out with his legs, only to find that they too had been strapped down to the bottom of this nightmare contraption, which had locked him in an upright seated position. Seeing the back-and-forth thrashing of Sanders in his desperate bid for escape, his male captor chuckled and kicked out the handle for the seat reclining mechanism, causing Sanders to violently fall back into a face-up position, while still tied to the chair.
Sanders felt a bright light overwhelm his eyes as his male captor smacked the top of the ancient-looking lamp hanging above Sanders. Unable to shield his eyes with his arms, Sanders turned his head away.
“No, no,” the man said, aiming the light directly into Sanders’s eyes, “please, I want you to face me. Or, rather, I want you to face one of your voters, hm? One of the lovely, proud citizens of your constituency; a young girl with absolute Southern pride in her heart. Eh? How about you meet her?”
The man drew the light away from Sanders’s face and threw the chair back into an upright position. By the time his eyes had once again found the ability to focus, there was only one thing in his sight.
She was a strange thing. Certainly beautiful; could’ve won some “Miss Southern Town” award around these parts in her teenage years. But there was something off about this ginger-haired little belle. She had something in her eyes and in her moderately freckled skin, where the memories and experiences all bubbled and crawled. With heavy lids, she turned her dim green eyes to him, and he felt his body freeze, suddenly locked in position. Her gaze spoke volumes across the empty space of the interior of the metal shipping crate between them. But she herself did not speak. Not yet.
“This hopeful young lass,” the man explained, “is Miss Jessica Vanderbilt. You’re familiar with the family name, I’m sure?”
Sanders heard himself unconsciously take in a huge breath. Yes, he was much too familiar with the name. The Vanderbilts were descended from some of the original founders of the town of Threepwood. In places like this, it meant something to have connections to the Vanderbilts, no matter what kind of people they were. If you knew a Vanderbilt as a politician, you had a guaranteed victory in these parts.
“Yes,” Sanders managed to wheeze out. The sweat had begun to roll from his forehead and down into his eyes. Every dark hair upon his exposed forearms stood on end.
“But you’re not familiar with me personally,” Jessica piped in, her voice seeming like little more than pollen carried on a summer breeze. “That would require you to be…”
She trailed off, and her face contorted as her mind searched for the proper word.
“Personable,” the man finished on her behalf. He patted Sanders reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Mmm,” Jessica confirmed with a slight nod. “See, Mr. Sanders, you want to represent me, but you just lack that…personable…skill. You don’t know me. You certainly don’t know my family. You don’t know anything about whom you’re representin’. Well, I, like every other man and woman in this county, have more to me than just a vote. But that’s all you see in me, isn’t it?”
She stepped forward, and Sanders instinctively pulled back into the ripped cushion of the dentist’s chair, perhaps in some vain effort to escape. The man stepped aside, allowing Jessica to take his place next to the chair. The man stepped backward with purpose into the shadows of the shipping crate, allowing the dark to consume his lean figure. But he was watching. Always watching.
Jessica grasped Sanders by the chin and forced him to look into her piercing green eyes once more.
“Do you know what I am? I am more than your pretty little southern gal. That’s how you see me, yeah? Some manic pixie college drop-out, barely worth the vote I’m given by my rights as a citizen. Well, Mr. Sanders, would you like to know what hides beneath my skin? Would you like to know the black beetles that scamper to and fro beneath this tanned hide?”
With her hand firmly grasping his chin, Sanders could not shake his head to say, “no.” Accordingly, Jessica smiled. It was something terrible; Sanders could swear he had seen that smile before, with its frighteningly straight teeth and pursed, pulled-in lips hiding behind the gums. Perhaps somewhere in a crowd of supporters at some rally, or, he feared, maybe from somewhere far more dire and close to home. Had he seen this harbinger of all human evil somewhere in his own head? Had he smiled like this before?
“I’m a basket case, Mr. Sanders,” Jessica continued, still teeming with an unbridled, yet sickeningly joyful malice. “Diagnosed pyromaniac. There’s a reason you don’t see me out there in the world, cavortin’ around with the other carriers of the Vanderbilt name. I’m the redhead stepchild. They don’t really want me. I’m the reminder of all the horrible things that are carried in our blood. You’re heard the rumours, haven’t you, Mr. Sanders? I assure you, at least some of them are true. Remember Bernard? My dear ol’ lovin’ great-uncle? See, he went and shacked up with great aunt Judith – from the other side of the family – and wouldn’t you know it? They had themselves a bit of a monster child. Not monster like you’re thinkin’, sir. Not some incestuous
. Nah. Think somethin’ more outta nightmares. We’re talkin’ tentacles, sir.”
“Huh,” the man chuckled from the shadows in the corner. “I’m under the impression one of my brothers or sisters might have had some draw on that one.”
“But that’s the thing,” Jessica continued, still grasping Sanders by the chin. “I got me some cursed blood, Mr. Sanders. That not-so-distant cousin o’ mine, well…they kept ‘im locked up in the attic of the ol’ Vanderbilt farmstead. You know that one, right? Right off Orchard Avenue. Kept bringin’ that child lamb’s blood. But when he was growin’ bigger, they just straight up brought ‘im lambs, and then full-on cows when he got even bigger. Built a proper lift and everythin’ to get the big bastards up to the attic. See, us Vanderbilts, we’re clever sum’bitches, and we take care of our own. But uh…sometimes things kinda…crawl out of our hands...”
“Ah, he’s just wakin’ up.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
This was a second voice, much deeper in tone, and carrying a sort of accent. What was it? Something English, but definitely not like the proper posh accent Robert Sanders had ever heard in movies. Then again, his wife Gale wasn’t much into most English actors. Rather, she would drag him to the movies of her “hunk of the week” – usually an American – and, almost assuredly, they’d bore him to tears. He had nothing to fall back upon when it came to accents.
“If my little protégé mixed it well,” the deeper voice continued, “as I should expect, given my tutelage, Mr. Sanders should be awakening in approximately two minutes. He’ll be in a state of semi-consciousness starting now, however. I do believe he can hear us…”
There was a pause, and the muddled, clanging sounds of footsteps approaching. They seemed light and swift, but with a certain clop sound breaking the stride which would otherwise be near silent. Then came the ruffling of clothes, and Sanders felt the common fear, the common instinctual fear, of someone’s face being near to his own. He could smell his captor’s breath. It reeked of onions and wine.
“And you can, can’t you, Rob – Mr. governor-to-be? May I call you Rob? Alright, Rob… Listen. There are some things that need doing, but goodness, it is out of even my hands! The hands that could tear time apart! Isn’t that something just terrible? But, see, I figured you might help me—”
Sanders was beginning to ebb into full consciousness now. With heavy lids, he opened his eyes and winced as everything around him suddenly and fully came into focus. Still groggy, he let his head fall onto his right shoulder, and, to his terror, decided to look down. His wrists were bound to the rusted armrests of a strange, modified dentist’s chair. In sheer horror, Sanders lashed out with his legs, only to find that they too had been strapped down to the bottom of this nightmare contraption, which had locked him in an upright seated position. Seeing the back-and-forth thrashing of Sanders in his desperate bid for escape, his male captor chuckled and kicked out the handle for the seat reclining mechanism, causing Sanders to violently fall back into a face-up position, while still tied to the chair.
Sanders felt a bright light overwhelm his eyes as his male captor smacked the top of the ancient-looking lamp hanging above Sanders. Unable to shield his eyes with his arms, Sanders turned his head away.
“No, no,” the man said, aiming the light directly into Sanders’s eyes, “please, I want you to face me. Or, rather, I want you to face one of your voters, hm? One of the lovely, proud citizens of your constituency; a young girl with absolute Southern pride in her heart. Eh? How about you meet her?”
The man drew the light away from Sanders’s face and threw the chair back into an upright position. By the time his eyes had once again found the ability to focus, there was only one thing in his sight.
She was a strange thing. Certainly beautiful; could’ve won some “Miss Southern Town” award around these parts in her teenage years. But there was something off about this ginger-haired little belle. She had something in her eyes and in her moderately freckled skin, where the memories and experiences all bubbled and crawled. With heavy lids, she turned her dim green eyes to him, and he felt his body freeze, suddenly locked in position. Her gaze spoke volumes across the empty space of the interior of the metal shipping crate between them. But she herself did not speak. Not yet.
“This hopeful young lass,” the man explained, “is Miss Jessica Vanderbilt. You’re familiar with the family name, I’m sure?”
Sanders heard himself unconsciously take in a huge breath. Yes, he was much too familiar with the name. The Vanderbilts were descended from some of the original founders of the town of Threepwood. In places like this, it meant something to have connections to the Vanderbilts, no matter what kind of people they were. If you knew a Vanderbilt as a politician, you had a guaranteed victory in these parts.
“Yes,” Sanders managed to wheeze out. The sweat had begun to roll from his forehead and down into his eyes. Every dark hair upon his exposed forearms stood on end.
“But you’re not familiar with me personally,” Jessica piped in, her voice seeming like little more than pollen carried on a summer breeze. “That would require you to be…”
She trailed off, and her face contorted as her mind searched for the proper word.
“Personable,” the man finished on her behalf. He patted Sanders reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Mmm,” Jessica confirmed with a slight nod. “See, Mr. Sanders, you want to represent me, but you just lack that…personable…skill. You don’t know me. You certainly don’t know my family. You don’t know anything about whom you’re representin’. Well, I, like every other man and woman in this county, have more to me than just a vote. But that’s all you see in me, isn’t it?”
She stepped forward, and Sanders instinctively pulled back into the ripped cushion of the dentist’s chair, perhaps in some vain effort to escape. The man stepped aside, allowing Jessica to take his place next to the chair. The man stepped backward with purpose into the shadows of the shipping crate, allowing the dark to consume his lean figure. But he was watching. Always watching.
Jessica grasped Sanders by the chin and forced him to look into her piercing green eyes once more.
“Do you know what I am? I am more than your pretty little southern gal. That’s how you see me, yeah? Some manic pixie college drop-out, barely worth the vote I’m given by my rights as a citizen. Well, Mr. Sanders, would you like to know what hides beneath my skin? Would you like to know the black beetles that scamper to and fro beneath this tanned hide?”
With her hand firmly grasping his chin, Sanders could not shake his head to say, “no.” Accordingly, Jessica smiled. It was something terrible; Sanders could swear he had seen that smile before, with its frighteningly straight teeth and pursed, pulled-in lips hiding behind the gums. Perhaps somewhere in a crowd of supporters at some rally, or, he feared, maybe from somewhere far more dire and close to home. Had he seen this harbinger of all human evil somewhere in his own head? Had he smiled like this before?
“I’m a basket case, Mr. Sanders,” Jessica continued, still teeming with an unbridled, yet sickeningly joyful malice. “Diagnosed pyromaniac. There’s a reason you don’t see me out there in the world, cavortin’ around with the other carriers of the Vanderbilt name. I’m the redhead stepchild. They don’t really want me. I’m the reminder of all the horrible things that are carried in our blood. You’re heard the rumours, haven’t you, Mr. Sanders? I assure you, at least some of them are true. Remember Bernard? My dear ol’ lovin’ great-uncle? See, he went and shacked up with great aunt Judith – from the other side of the family – and wouldn’t you know it? They had themselves a bit of a monster child. Not monster like you’re thinkin’, sir. Not some incestuous
. Nah. Think somethin’ more outta nightmares. We’re talkin’ tentacles, sir.”“Huh,” the man chuckled from the shadows in the corner. “I’m under the impression one of my brothers or sisters might have had some draw on that one.”
“But that’s the thing,” Jessica continued, still grasping Sanders by the chin. “I got me some cursed blood, Mr. Sanders. That not-so-distant cousin o’ mine, well…they kept ‘im locked up in the attic of the ol’ Vanderbilt farmstead. You know that one, right? Right off Orchard Avenue. Kept bringin’ that child lamb’s blood. But when he was growin’ bigger, they just straight up brought ‘im lambs, and then full-on cows when he got even bigger. Built a proper lift and everythin’ to get the big bastards up to the attic. See, us Vanderbilts, we’re clever sum’bitches, and we take care of our own. But uh…sometimes things kinda…crawl out of our hands...”