Entry 08, Do the Words I Say Ever Make It Through?, 8
Title: Do the Words I Say Ever Make It Through?, part 8
Entry Number: 08
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (emotional torture, threats of impending death, general creepiness)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family, Friendship, Supernatural, Sci-Fi
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,529
Cross-posted to 31_days, and written with their theme for today, None are left who know me.
So we start getting more sci-fi, it seems. And I may have a better idea of who the masterminding creep is. Or at least, who he may be based on.
By Lucky_Ladybug
Lieutenant Tragg paced up and down in his living room, highly agitated and restless. In his hand were the pieces of paper, the notes, supposedly written in Andy’s handwriting.
Mignon Germaine and Erna Norden had just left, agreeing to give him some time to process what they had told him but pleading with him to really think hard on it before judging it preposterous and impossible.
He did not know what to make of the fantastic tale they had just dropped on him. It sounded like foolish nonsense, the imaginings of people who played too much with the occult and ignited the interest of evil spirits.
Andy, alive but unseen? Unheard? Only occasionally felt? How could such a spell be real?
He had picked up on the women’s unease the moment he had invited them in and they had said they had important information for him. They had been hesitant to talk with him, and with good reason.
Mrs. Norden had held out the notes. “Lieutenant, I received these today. I was speaking with a presence in the room who wrote them down. And Lieutenant . . . it was Andy.”
Tragg’s stomach had plunged. And looking over the notes-Andy’s side of the conversation between him and Mrs. Norden-only muddled him further.
“What is this?” he had demanded, the grief and anguish gushing into his voice. “What kind of cruel and heartless joke . . .”
“It isn’t a joke, Lieutenant,” Mignon had interrupted. “Whether or not it’s true is another matter, but I believe Lieutenant Anderson believes in its truth.”
“He says he is alive, Lieutenant!” Mrs. Norden had exclaimed. “We must find a way to help him. We must find who could be responsible for something so evil.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Tragg had retorted, his voice climbing in volume. “That sick minds can cast spells that render living people as good as dead? That we’re all wandering around in a fog believing Andy is dead when he supposedly isn’t? That we’re all stuck in this Hell, including Andy, and there has to be some way out of it?”
“Lieutenant.” Mignon’s rebuttal had been very quiet but very stabbing. “I know you can’t have forgotten Vivalene and Florence and the Forbidden Box. Their spells altered reality in the most chilling and heart-wrenching of ways.”
Tragg had been silenced into just staring at the notes again. Looking at it that way, the spell Andy was describing probably wasn’t any less unlikely than these others. But it still seemed more unreal, more horrifying.
“. . . I don’t want to believe if it isn’t real,” he had said at last, his voice anguished and cracking. “I don’t want to think there’s any way to get Andy back if it’s all just a fantasy.”
“But if it isn’t . . .” Mrs. Norden had stepped closer, looking up into Tragg’s downcast eyes with desperation and pleading. “If there is even a particle of a chance that it could be real, we must try to find the solution. We must try to help Andy!”
And of course he had known she was right. At last he had nodded in tired, worried resignation and had requested the time to think it over.
He sank into a chair, running his hand over his forehead. The notes were still clutched in his other hand. And whether or not he could make himself let go and have faith, there was one thing he knew for sure-one chilling fact that stood to support the tale of horror.
The handwriting was Andy’s.
At last he looked up, still unsure what to think or do. His heart was turning cartwheels. “Andy?” he whispered. “Is there any chance . . . ? Are you really . . . can you really be here? Are you alive? Is there anything you can say or do to let me know? Anything besides this?” He shook the notes in the air. “Can you . . . can you write me a note too?”
Everything was eerily silent. Tragg heaved a sad sigh, slumping back in the chair.
He had no idea that Andy was indeed there, that Andy had been trying to talk to him, to reach out to him, without any success at all.
And what struck Andy with panic and horror was the fact that he had not had success with anyone else, either. As he had followed Mignon and Mrs. Norden to Tragg’s house, the sensation that he was there had faded. Mignon had finally been unable to feel his presence at all. And considering the confused and searching look Mrs. Norden had cast about Tragg’s living room as they had left, she also had not been able to. The words she had then whispered had confirmed it.
“Andy?” she had called, softly. “Andy, where are you? Are you here? Did you go? I don’t know anymore. I can’t sense you!”
He had been right next to her, but she had not felt it.
“I’m here,” Andy cried in agony, as he had cried then. “At least if people could sense me, that was something. But now they can’t even do that. Lieutenant, you don’t even have any idea that I’m right here, kneeling next to your arm.”
He tried and failed to clutch at the overstuffed chair arm. “What’s wrong with me?” he wailed. “Why am I fading in and out of everyone’s knowledge worse than ever? What kind of spell could do this? If I’m not a ghost, what am I?!”
“You’re just lost, Lieutenant Anderson.”
There it was again, the voice he had come to regard with such repulsion and disgust. He recoiled, looking to the ceiling. It was there, it was next to him, it was in every direction in the air.
“If I’m so lost, without any way left to contact anyone, can’t you at least tell me who you are?” he demanded, bitterly. “I’ve been facing an enemy I don’t know at all, or don’t remember even if I did.”
“My name would mean nothing to you. We have never met.”
“You must have some reason for doing this,” Andy frowned. “Some secret grudge against me or someone I love . . . something!”
“Why?”
The one-word question left Andy with a deep chill. “Because . . .” He swallowed hard.
“Because you can’t comprehend that it’s possible for someone to just do this for the fun of it?”
“Fun?!” Andy’s retort was strangled. “Oh yes, I can comprehend it’s possible. But I don’t understand what kind of a kick you could possibly be getting out of this! What kind of treacherous sadist are you?!”
“Someone from the distant past, Lieutenant Anderson. Someone who discovered how to reach out through time and space and warp it to my own desires and whims. There is nothing that can save you, to be perfectly frank. Nothing except someone who can match wits with me on my plane. And even in your highly advanced day and age, there is no one who meets that criterion.”
Andy got to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You said that if I could convince any of my family and friends that I’m alive . . . !”
“Ah yes. But it hasn’t made a difference, has it? If anything, you’re only getting worse. You’re fading, Lieutenant. You’re fading into the nothingness, the static, of being trapped between two planes. The human body can’t survive such a thing for very long.”
“You said I had until Halloween!” Andy burst out. This was a nightmare, a horrible, crushing nightmare that was closing in on him ever more with each passing moment. And now, if this sick being was telling him the truth, it sounded like what was being used was some sort of freak science rather than magic. Not that the knowledge made things any better. There was little, if anything, he could do about it.
“I did, didn’t I. Well, maybe you do and maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ll be quite out of your head by then.”
“What will happen to me?” Andy snapped. “You said I’d be trapped in limbo for the rest of my life. If you like torturing people, wouldn’t it be more effective to trap me for years rather than having my life end on Halloween?”
“You have no guarantee that if you die, your spirit will be released from limbo. How much more horrible would that be, Lieutenant Anderson? No hope of salvation or rescue, even to travel to Heaven. Just a never-ending torment, a realization that even when your loved ones die, they won’t meet you. They wouldn’t be with you ever again.”
The mad cackles echoed through the house and pounded into Andy’s head. He covered his ears as he trembled, horrified and stricken by the dire predictions upon him.
“Oh God, no,” he whispered. “Oh please, no. Help me. Help me, please! Get me out of this Hell!”
But he could scarcely hear himself above the raucous, unfeeling laughter.
And though he was only feet away, Lieutenant Tragg could hear nothing at all.
Entry Number: 08
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (emotional torture, threats of impending death, general creepiness)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family, Friendship, Supernatural, Sci-Fi
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,529
Cross-posted to 31_days, and written with their theme for today, None are left who know me.
So we start getting more sci-fi, it seems. And I may have a better idea of who the masterminding creep is. Or at least, who he may be based on.
By Lucky_Ladybug
Lieutenant Tragg paced up and down in his living room, highly agitated and restless. In his hand were the pieces of paper, the notes, supposedly written in Andy’s handwriting.
Mignon Germaine and Erna Norden had just left, agreeing to give him some time to process what they had told him but pleading with him to really think hard on it before judging it preposterous and impossible.
He did not know what to make of the fantastic tale they had just dropped on him. It sounded like foolish nonsense, the imaginings of people who played too much with the occult and ignited the interest of evil spirits.
Andy, alive but unseen? Unheard? Only occasionally felt? How could such a spell be real?
He had picked up on the women’s unease the moment he had invited them in and they had said they had important information for him. They had been hesitant to talk with him, and with good reason.
Mrs. Norden had held out the notes. “Lieutenant, I received these today. I was speaking with a presence in the room who wrote them down. And Lieutenant . . . it was Andy.”
Tragg’s stomach had plunged. And looking over the notes-Andy’s side of the conversation between him and Mrs. Norden-only muddled him further.
“What is this?” he had demanded, the grief and anguish gushing into his voice. “What kind of cruel and heartless joke . . .”
“It isn’t a joke, Lieutenant,” Mignon had interrupted. “Whether or not it’s true is another matter, but I believe Lieutenant Anderson believes in its truth.”
“He says he is alive, Lieutenant!” Mrs. Norden had exclaimed. “We must find a way to help him. We must find who could be responsible for something so evil.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?” Tragg had retorted, his voice climbing in volume. “That sick minds can cast spells that render living people as good as dead? That we’re all wandering around in a fog believing Andy is dead when he supposedly isn’t? That we’re all stuck in this Hell, including Andy, and there has to be some way out of it?”
“Lieutenant.” Mignon’s rebuttal had been very quiet but very stabbing. “I know you can’t have forgotten Vivalene and Florence and the Forbidden Box. Their spells altered reality in the most chilling and heart-wrenching of ways.”
Tragg had been silenced into just staring at the notes again. Looking at it that way, the spell Andy was describing probably wasn’t any less unlikely than these others. But it still seemed more unreal, more horrifying.
“. . . I don’t want to believe if it isn’t real,” he had said at last, his voice anguished and cracking. “I don’t want to think there’s any way to get Andy back if it’s all just a fantasy.”
“But if it isn’t . . .” Mrs. Norden had stepped closer, looking up into Tragg’s downcast eyes with desperation and pleading. “If there is even a particle of a chance that it could be real, we must try to find the solution. We must try to help Andy!”
And of course he had known she was right. At last he had nodded in tired, worried resignation and had requested the time to think it over.
He sank into a chair, running his hand over his forehead. The notes were still clutched in his other hand. And whether or not he could make himself let go and have faith, there was one thing he knew for sure-one chilling fact that stood to support the tale of horror.
The handwriting was Andy’s.
At last he looked up, still unsure what to think or do. His heart was turning cartwheels. “Andy?” he whispered. “Is there any chance . . . ? Are you really . . . can you really be here? Are you alive? Is there anything you can say or do to let me know? Anything besides this?” He shook the notes in the air. “Can you . . . can you write me a note too?”
Everything was eerily silent. Tragg heaved a sad sigh, slumping back in the chair.
He had no idea that Andy was indeed there, that Andy had been trying to talk to him, to reach out to him, without any success at all.
And what struck Andy with panic and horror was the fact that he had not had success with anyone else, either. As he had followed Mignon and Mrs. Norden to Tragg’s house, the sensation that he was there had faded. Mignon had finally been unable to feel his presence at all. And considering the confused and searching look Mrs. Norden had cast about Tragg’s living room as they had left, she also had not been able to. The words she had then whispered had confirmed it.
“Andy?” she had called, softly. “Andy, where are you? Are you here? Did you go? I don’t know anymore. I can’t sense you!”
He had been right next to her, but she had not felt it.
“I’m here,” Andy cried in agony, as he had cried then. “At least if people could sense me, that was something. But now they can’t even do that. Lieutenant, you don’t even have any idea that I’m right here, kneeling next to your arm.”
He tried and failed to clutch at the overstuffed chair arm. “What’s wrong with me?” he wailed. “Why am I fading in and out of everyone’s knowledge worse than ever? What kind of spell could do this? If I’m not a ghost, what am I?!”
“You’re just lost, Lieutenant Anderson.”
There it was again, the voice he had come to regard with such repulsion and disgust. He recoiled, looking to the ceiling. It was there, it was next to him, it was in every direction in the air.
“If I’m so lost, without any way left to contact anyone, can’t you at least tell me who you are?” he demanded, bitterly. “I’ve been facing an enemy I don’t know at all, or don’t remember even if I did.”
“My name would mean nothing to you. We have never met.”
“You must have some reason for doing this,” Andy frowned. “Some secret grudge against me or someone I love . . . something!”
“Why?”
The one-word question left Andy with a deep chill. “Because . . .” He swallowed hard.
“Because you can’t comprehend that it’s possible for someone to just do this for the fun of it?”
“Fun?!” Andy’s retort was strangled. “Oh yes, I can comprehend it’s possible. But I don’t understand what kind of a kick you could possibly be getting out of this! What kind of treacherous sadist are you?!”
“Someone from the distant past, Lieutenant Anderson. Someone who discovered how to reach out through time and space and warp it to my own desires and whims. There is nothing that can save you, to be perfectly frank. Nothing except someone who can match wits with me on my plane. And even in your highly advanced day and age, there is no one who meets that criterion.”
Andy got to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You said that if I could convince any of my family and friends that I’m alive . . . !”
“Ah yes. But it hasn’t made a difference, has it? If anything, you’re only getting worse. You’re fading, Lieutenant. You’re fading into the nothingness, the static, of being trapped between two planes. The human body can’t survive such a thing for very long.”
“You said I had until Halloween!” Andy burst out. This was a nightmare, a horrible, crushing nightmare that was closing in on him ever more with each passing moment. And now, if this sick being was telling him the truth, it sounded like what was being used was some sort of freak science rather than magic. Not that the knowledge made things any better. There was little, if anything, he could do about it.
“I did, didn’t I. Well, maybe you do and maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ll be quite out of your head by then.”
“What will happen to me?” Andy snapped. “You said I’d be trapped in limbo for the rest of my life. If you like torturing people, wouldn’t it be more effective to trap me for years rather than having my life end on Halloween?”
“You have no guarantee that if you die, your spirit will be released from limbo. How much more horrible would that be, Lieutenant Anderson? No hope of salvation or rescue, even to travel to Heaven. Just a never-ending torment, a realization that even when your loved ones die, they won’t meet you. They wouldn’t be with you ever again.”
The mad cackles echoed through the house and pounded into Andy’s head. He covered his ears as he trembled, horrified and stricken by the dire predictions upon him.
“Oh God, no,” he whispered. “Oh please, no. Help me. Help me, please! Get me out of this Hell!”
But he could scarcely hear himself above the raucous, unfeeling laughter.
And though he was only feet away, Lieutenant Tragg could hear nothing at all.