Sinking (13/13)
Title: Sinking, Part 13
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Sorry for leaving this until now; I wasn't as sure how I was going to end this as I thought. Feel free to ask any questions, though to be honest I can't say there will be definitive answers.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
It was not as cold as the snow made it seem, but the walk was long enough to put Stephen a little out of breath. The new studio wasn't as close to Jon's as the old one.
He tromped through snow to avoid an icy length of sidewalk. The crunching sound was more satisfying anyway. It helped drown out his thoughts, the niggling voice demanding to know why he was doing this, urging him to turn back.
But he had to go. He had made his choice, but what good was it if he couldn't confront it?
The awning was gone, leaving a bare metal frame behind. Some fan graffiti took up its purpose. It was scrawled along the alley wall where the audience used to line up, rain or shine, in frenetic red, white, and blue, declaring: Behold the Birthplace of Truthiness! Stephen managed the barest smile, and even that faded when he looked up at the empty building, its dark windows like closed eyes, as if sleeping. But Stephen knew better.
He hadn't been here in two months, and it was like visiting a grave.
Another piece of graffiti across the doors that led into the audience waiting room was unfinished. A tagger had abandoned a rendering of Stephen's own face, leaving a nose and an eye an a sweep of hair. Stephen reached out and traced the arch of his eyebrow.
His fingers froze. He could feel something on the other side, tapping at the door. He took a step back, and he could hear it now, a desperate scrabbling. The door shook-- it wasn't closed all the way he realized, and before he could turn and run it creaked open, exposing a strip of darkness.
In a flash, a black cat slipped out the crack and darted away, slipping through a hole in the fence around the lot next door. Stephen slumped, clutching his hand to his chest. He tried to work up a relieved laugh, but he as interrupted by the vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his phone; the caller ID said it was Jon. “Hello?” Stephen answered.
“Where are you?” Jon asked. “You said you left half an hour ago.”
“I decided to walk.”
“What? Why?”
“Needed some air.”
“Stephen...” Jon hesitated. “I only have so much time,” he said tentatively. “I still have my own show.”
“Sorry, I'll be there in ten minutes.”
“I'm not saying I'm not willing to make time for you or anything,” Jon added quickly, “it's just that--”
“Thanks for the assurance, honey,” Stephen cut in with a laugh.
Jon laughed too, and continued on (“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just...”) but Stephen didn't hear him. He suddenly felt cold, very cold, as if he'd fallen into the snow. He peered into the exposed darkness, trying to see the shape of the waiting room, the abandoned chairs, but it was almost like looking down into a chasm.
“Stephen?” Jon was saying. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” That same sickening feeling came over him; he was on the edge, his balance wavering. He wanted to run, to abandon this place, because he knew it was lost. He wanted to stay, to throw himself into it, because it was his.
The thing lurking inside wanted him to stay too. He could feel it coiling.
Jon's voice continued in his ear, carefully asking, “How... how have your sessions been?”
Jon was so far away now. This time Stephen was alone, and the door waited. He moved forward, feet crossing the threshold of the room, hand reaching out.
He pulled the door shut by the handle, tugging it firmly to make sure it was flush in its frame.
He laughed into the phone as he set off through the snow. “Jon, we can talk about it when I get there, but don't worry. I'm okay.”
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Author's Note: Sorry for leaving this until now; I wasn't as sure how I was going to end this as I thought. Feel free to ask any questions, though to be honest I can't say there will be definitive answers.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
It was not as cold as the snow made it seem, but the walk was long enough to put Stephen a little out of breath. The new studio wasn't as close to Jon's as the old one.
He tromped through snow to avoid an icy length of sidewalk. The crunching sound was more satisfying anyway. It helped drown out his thoughts, the niggling voice demanding to know why he was doing this, urging him to turn back.
But he had to go. He had made his choice, but what good was it if he couldn't confront it?
The awning was gone, leaving a bare metal frame behind. Some fan graffiti took up its purpose. It was scrawled along the alley wall where the audience used to line up, rain or shine, in frenetic red, white, and blue, declaring: Behold the Birthplace of Truthiness! Stephen managed the barest smile, and even that faded when he looked up at the empty building, its dark windows like closed eyes, as if sleeping. But Stephen knew better.
He hadn't been here in two months, and it was like visiting a grave.
Another piece of graffiti across the doors that led into the audience waiting room was unfinished. A tagger had abandoned a rendering of Stephen's own face, leaving a nose and an eye an a sweep of hair. Stephen reached out and traced the arch of his eyebrow.
His fingers froze. He could feel something on the other side, tapping at the door. He took a step back, and he could hear it now, a desperate scrabbling. The door shook-- it wasn't closed all the way he realized, and before he could turn and run it creaked open, exposing a strip of darkness.
In a flash, a black cat slipped out the crack and darted away, slipping through a hole in the fence around the lot next door. Stephen slumped, clutching his hand to his chest. He tried to work up a relieved laugh, but he as interrupted by the vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his phone; the caller ID said it was Jon. “Hello?” Stephen answered.
“Where are you?” Jon asked. “You said you left half an hour ago.”
“I decided to walk.”
“What? Why?”
“Needed some air.”
“Stephen...” Jon hesitated. “I only have so much time,” he said tentatively. “I still have my own show.”
“Sorry, I'll be there in ten minutes.”
“I'm not saying I'm not willing to make time for you or anything,” Jon added quickly, “it's just that--”
“Thanks for the assurance, honey,” Stephen cut in with a laugh.
Jon laughed too, and continued on (“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just...”) but Stephen didn't hear him. He suddenly felt cold, very cold, as if he'd fallen into the snow. He peered into the exposed darkness, trying to see the shape of the waiting room, the abandoned chairs, but it was almost like looking down into a chasm.
“Stephen?” Jon was saying. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.” That same sickening feeling came over him; he was on the edge, his balance wavering. He wanted to run, to abandon this place, because he knew it was lost. He wanted to stay, to throw himself into it, because it was his.
The thing lurking inside wanted him to stay too. He could feel it coiling.
Jon's voice continued in his ear, carefully asking, “How... how have your sessions been?”
Jon was so far away now. This time Stephen was alone, and the door waited. He moved forward, feet crossing the threshold of the room, hand reaching out.
He pulled the door shut by the handle, tugging it firmly to make sure it was flush in its frame.
He laughed into the phone as he set off through the snow. “Jon, we can talk about it when I get there, but don't worry. I'm okay.”