Angels Don't Always Have Wings--Part One.A
anonymous
March 2 2010, 16:57:21 UTC
Alfred soon forgot about the jar. He painted and repaired the doors, the railings, everything that creaked. He found the work fun, a good distraction in the tough economy, something that would keep his mind off of the fact that he was “between jobs.”
He cooked. He cleaned. He put in wood flooring, tiled the bathroom. He ordered wood so that he could repair the attic floor, and was waiting for it to arrive so that he could finally bring down the bureaus and explore the rest of the attic. He had taken a flashlight up and found some more boxes tucked in around the chimney, but he had been rather disappointed when all he had found were old pots (and none of them had looked as nice as the silver jar, either).
It was another week before Alfred bothered to look at the jar, and it was more out of boredom than anything else. It was pouring outside, and there was no way he was going to get any more lumber or flooring in without them getting soaked during the drive.
So he was left to laze around the house, watching television and reading the newspaper, then going through and cleaning the various trinkets he had found in the attic and the numerous closets. He found great delight in cleaning the silver jar, raising it up to the light after he shined it. A large “A” was engraved on the front, and he smirked.
“Alfred,” he said, immediately deciding that the “A” stood for his name. He turned it over in his hands, then returned it to the mantle. He looked at it one last time before returning to the other jars and items to clean, watching a plethora of movies (and a few he was beginning to regret).
The day seemed to pass quickly, the sky darker than night because of the rain. He finally turned off the television, shook the blankets off of himself, and retreated to his room.
For the first time, Alfred was truly regretting his decision in buying the house. It was old. It was kinda creepy. The stairs creaked whenever he gingerly set a foot down on one. It was just like the Williams’s house. He shivered, and when a clap of thunder decided to shake the house, he jumped up the last few stairs and bolted to his bedroom. He slammed the door shut, shoved a chair under the handle, and retreated to his bed.
He was completely silent (well, relatively, at least). His breathing was the only sound, and he shivered when his pulled the sheets over himself slowly. What if there was someone under there? He shook his head and swallowed. Hair. Not the fuckinghair!
It was a long time before Alfred fell into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned through the night, jolting whenever there was another crash of thunder, or the sound of the various electronics in his house starting up again, the vcr/dvd player whirring when it turned back on, or the freezer in the basement beginning its loud, obnoxious beeping. His body moved unconsciously, rarely actually waking him, but the sounds were reflected in his dreams, his nightmares, and he found himself running from death throughout the night.
And it had finally caught him. It was grabbing his leg, and there was a cliff, and he was falling into the darkness and then thunder-
Alfred’s body gave a jolt and his eyes opened. He felt for his chest, had to know that it was still intact, no large wounds. He fell still, remembering the sheets, and the terror, and the Williams, and then he relaxed slightly. Nothing there. Nobody in the sheets. No death rattle. No nothing.
He turned to the side, prepared to attempt sleep once more, when something caught his attention.
He wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It was dark in the room, completely black. Something green (a very dark green, he was surprised he had noticed it) seemed to hover a few feet off the floor.
Alfred didn’t dare move. He did know what the things were (he could now make out two of them), but he was sure that if he was silent, it would go away.
Then there was a flash of lighting, a ghostly face, and he screamed
He cooked. He cleaned. He put in wood flooring, tiled the bathroom. He ordered wood so that he could repair the attic floor, and was waiting for it to arrive so that he could finally bring down the bureaus and explore the rest of the attic. He had taken a flashlight up and found some more boxes tucked in around the chimney, but he had been rather disappointed when all he had found were old pots (and none of them had looked as nice as the silver jar, either).
It was another week before Alfred bothered to look at the jar, and it was more out of boredom than anything else. It was pouring outside, and there was no way he was going to get any more lumber or flooring in without them getting soaked during the drive.
So he was left to laze around the house, watching television and reading the newspaper, then going through and cleaning the various trinkets he had found in the attic and the numerous closets. He found great delight in cleaning the silver jar, raising it up to the light after he shined it. A large “A” was engraved on the front, and he smirked.
“Alfred,” he said, immediately deciding that the “A” stood for his name. He turned it over in his hands, then returned it to the mantle. He looked at it one last time before returning to the other jars and items to clean, watching a plethora of movies (and a few he was beginning to regret).
The day seemed to pass quickly, the sky darker than night because of the rain. He finally turned off the television, shook the blankets off of himself, and retreated to his room.
For the first time, Alfred was truly regretting his decision in buying the house. It was old. It was kinda creepy. The stairs creaked whenever he gingerly set a foot down on one. It was just like the Williams’s house. He shivered, and when a clap of thunder decided to shake the house, he jumped up the last few stairs and bolted to his bedroom. He slammed the door shut, shoved a chair under the handle, and retreated to his bed.
He was completely silent (well, relatively, at least). His breathing was the only sound, and he shivered when his pulled the sheets over himself slowly. What if there was someone under there? He shook his head and swallowed. Hair. Not the fuckinghair!
It was a long time before Alfred fell into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned through the night, jolting whenever there was another crash of thunder, or the sound of the various electronics in his house starting up again, the vcr/dvd player whirring when it turned back on, or the freezer in the basement beginning its loud, obnoxious beeping. His body moved unconsciously, rarely actually waking him, but the sounds were reflected in his dreams, his nightmares, and he found himself running from death throughout the night.
And it had finally caught him. It was grabbing his leg, and there was a cliff, and he was falling into the darkness and then thunder-
Alfred’s body gave a jolt and his eyes opened. He felt for his chest, had to know that it was still intact, no large wounds. He fell still, remembering the sheets, and the terror, and the Williams, and then he relaxed slightly. Nothing there. Nobody in the sheets. No death rattle. No nothing.
He turned to the side, prepared to attempt sleep once more, when something caught his attention.
He wasn’t sure exactly what it was. It was dark in the room, completely black. Something green (a very dark green, he was surprised he had noticed it) seemed to hover a few feet off the floor.
Alfred didn’t dare move. He did know what the things were (he could now make out two of them), but he was sure that if he was silent, it would go away.
Then there was a flash of lighting, a ghostly face, and he screamed
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