A New Writing Project
I have another story with the same sort of tone that The Coffin's Occupant has, except it has a female enigma. I started writing it a while back, but never got beyond the first chapter. Should I continue it?
“Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed. A statue was wheeled off stage and another one took its place. The statue that was being rolled onto stage was of man in full Victorian dress, sitting in a fancy chair. His arms hung laxly by his sides and wagged back and forth as he was moved. His head was tipped forward as though he had simply nodded off to sleep, and a large hunting knife protruded from his chest. A girl watched its progress in the television, intrigued by the statue’s grotesqueness. The image was fuzzy from the UHF channel the auction was being held on, yet it was clear enough to see that the statue was wearing a rich brocade jacket and complementing breeches.
The auctioneer began to drone loudly, “This next piece stands on itsown. It is titled ‘Adieu to the Gentleman’, nicknamed ‘The Greeter’ because he was the statue that sat by the door in the exhibit.” The girl felt a shiver up her spine, imagining opening a door to a dead body.
“What’s this?” the girl’s mother asked sharply, making her jump.
“Some artist is auctioning off all of the statues in her gallery.”
“Yetch,” the woman said looking at the grotesque statue on stage. “You’re too young to see stuff like that.”
“Isn’t eleven old enough?” the girl pleaded, turning back to the television screen.
“Nope.” The mother hit the “off” button. “Eleven is 26 years too young.”
“Just because it creeps you out doesn’t mean it creeps me out,” the girl mumbled under breath, listening to her mother leave the room.
Once her mother was gone, she turned the volume down on the television set so she had to be right next to it to hear it.
“Sold!” The statue was wheeled off. “This next piece is a set of two. It is titled ‘Isolde and Tristan’. Isolde, nicknamed ‘The Sleeper’ for the number of people who have fainted in front of her, is on the right. Like her partner, she is made out of painted clay. She hangs from two thousand minuscule threads in this iron cage to give her the appearance of floating.” The camera zoomed in on Isolde. Her arms were extended like bird’s wings and her hands curved like claws. She wore a tattered grim-reaper-like robe, and her long, straight, light brown hair hung dramatically. More disturbing than her aggressive posture was her face; it was plain and looked as though she was passively asleep, simply enduring her cage.
“Tristan, nick-named ‘The Soldier’, is made from painted clay and encased in a block of plastic, seen on the left. He kneels with his arms bound behind his back and his head bowed in tragic prayer. Starting at 500 dollars…” The camera zoomed in on Tristan. His colonial soldier’s uniform was splattered with mud, and a noose hung around his neck. There was a deep cut on his left cheek, and some of his curly, dark hair escaped his ponytail and stuck to his face.
The girl sat up and touched Isolde’s face in the television set, enthralled, and half wishing she could grow her hair that long. Suddenly Isolde began to sway back and forth on her strings, and attendants in black t-shirts with the word “STAGEHAND” stenciled in white rushed out to stabilize her.
The little girl leaned closer to the television set, suspense built as the statue rocked wildly in its cage. A few people in the audience screamed as it hit the sides with loud clangs. The attendants reached through the bars and grabbed it, stopping it in mid swing. The camera zoomed in on Isolde’s face again. The statue’s eyes opened and looked directly into the camera, right into the girl’s eyes. In that moment, she heard a voice with a heavy Irish accent speaking inside her head.
“MY NAME IS MÁIRE.”
Fifteen years later:
The girl was in front of a television set, but now she was a security guard in a government building. She was watching the hall monitors in a bored way, waiting for something or nothing to happen.
“You know,” her coworker said, massaging his eyes. “In movies, the security guys are always the first to go. It’s like we’re expendable or something.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, half listening.
“Maybe one of us security folks have confiscated a few too many of them Hollywood Folk’s drugs.”
“Yeah.”
“Therefore, if an alien gunman arrives, we know that we are toast.”
“Yeah.” Her coworker looked at her and smiled.
“Addy, you’re falling asleep again.”
“Ye-huh? Whadamiss,” she mumbled.
“An old lady picked a wedgy in corridor 3a, and a woman dragged a screaming kid from the Department of Motor Vehicles and gave it a spanking. Other than that, not much.”
Addy rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. She had been having a daydream, about what, she could never remember. Whatever it was, her mind wanted to return to it. A name slowly drifted back to the surface of her memory. “Máire,” she whispered to herself. Máire had been her imaginary friend from the moment that she floated out of the television set. Addy and Máire had enjoyed each other’s company, until Máire had started telling her to do things. At that point Máire started being mean, making things happen to Addy, making her get sick. Finally, Abby told her pediatrician about Máire. The doctors took her to a psychiatrist, and Addy was diagnosed with schizophrenia. They forced Máire to stop talking in her mind, but she was always present. She had always loved and envied the way Máire’s hair floated around her, affected by every tiny breeze but unaffected by the wind. She had been so jealous of Máire’s hair that she had grown her hair out like Máire’s, but Addy’s hair was a darker brown and subject to being oily. Suddenly she felt nauseous, and a sharp pain rose in her stomach.
“Oh, good God!” she exclaimed.
“What?” her coworker said, leaning over to see her monitors better.
“It’s that time of the month.”
“Thanks, I needed to know that,” he mumbled, settling himself back into his chair. “I’ll watch your monitors while you go to the bathroom, d’accord?”
“Thanks,” Addy said, and made a run for the bathroom, praying that she had a pad in her purse. The feeling grew worse, and she tried to remember if she still had any painkillers with her. Her mind entered a thick fog of confusion, and Addy panicked, breaking into a run to the restroom. As she shoved the door open, her knees gave out. A figure appeared, a clear face in front of her. The face had long, light brown hair and eyes that stared down into her soul.
“DO YOU REMEMBER ME, ADDY?”
Addy passed out.
When Addy awoke, it was dark except for the lights on the computer that measured her pulse and made sure she was still alive. “Good evening Adelaide,” a cheery voice said; a cool hand touched her forehead. “You gave us quite the scare. How do you feel?”
“I dunno,” Addy moaned. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A little over a day. One of your coworkers found you unconscious on the bathroom floor. I have a question, were you taking any prescriptions?”
“Yes,” Addy said, trying to remember its name. “Whachamacallit… something another for schizophrenia.”
“It appears that you forgot to take your pill yesterday.”
“That would explain it,” Addy said, remembering Máire’s appearance.
“Explain what?” The pleasant voice came closer.
“Máire came back,” she said closing her eyes tightly. “My imaginary friend. She forced me to memorize an address. I don’t understand why. Why do you want me to go there? What will I find?” she yelled at the air. “You’re not real; you’re just a chemical imbalance!”
“I AM REAL. COME, SEE ME FOR YOURSELF.”
“You aren’t real! Go away!” Addy screamed, curling into a ball, shutting her eyes tightly.
“I WON’T.”
The kind voice became louder, whispering in her ear, “Ignore Máire. Your doctor is coming; you will be safe very soon.”
Máire laughed. Her voice changed; it was soft and gentle.
“COME AND SEE ME; I’M LONELY.”
“I won’t!” Addy hissed. She closed her eyes tighter, but she saw an image in her head. A great iron cage stood at the end of a barren hall, and Máire was inside, covered with dust, suspended from thousands of pieces of fishing line. Her hair had cobwebs in it.
“RELEASE ME.”
Or should I spend my effort on The Coffin's Occupant instead?
“Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed. A statue was wheeled off stage and another one took its place. The statue that was being rolled onto stage was of man in full Victorian dress, sitting in a fancy chair. His arms hung laxly by his sides and wagged back and forth as he was moved. His head was tipped forward as though he had simply nodded off to sleep, and a large hunting knife protruded from his chest. A girl watched its progress in the television, intrigued by the statue’s grotesqueness. The image was fuzzy from the UHF channel the auction was being held on, yet it was clear enough to see that the statue was wearing a rich brocade jacket and complementing breeches.
The auctioneer began to drone loudly, “This next piece stands on itsown. It is titled ‘Adieu to the Gentleman’, nicknamed ‘The Greeter’ because he was the statue that sat by the door in the exhibit.” The girl felt a shiver up her spine, imagining opening a door to a dead body.
“What’s this?” the girl’s mother asked sharply, making her jump.
“Some artist is auctioning off all of the statues in her gallery.”
“Yetch,” the woman said looking at the grotesque statue on stage. “You’re too young to see stuff like that.”
“Isn’t eleven old enough?” the girl pleaded, turning back to the television screen.
“Nope.” The mother hit the “off” button. “Eleven is 26 years too young.”
“Just because it creeps you out doesn’t mean it creeps me out,” the girl mumbled under breath, listening to her mother leave the room.
Once her mother was gone, she turned the volume down on the television set so she had to be right next to it to hear it.
“Sold!” The statue was wheeled off. “This next piece is a set of two. It is titled ‘Isolde and Tristan’. Isolde, nicknamed ‘The Sleeper’ for the number of people who have fainted in front of her, is on the right. Like her partner, she is made out of painted clay. She hangs from two thousand minuscule threads in this iron cage to give her the appearance of floating.” The camera zoomed in on Isolde. Her arms were extended like bird’s wings and her hands curved like claws. She wore a tattered grim-reaper-like robe, and her long, straight, light brown hair hung dramatically. More disturbing than her aggressive posture was her face; it was plain and looked as though she was passively asleep, simply enduring her cage.
“Tristan, nick-named ‘The Soldier’, is made from painted clay and encased in a block of plastic, seen on the left. He kneels with his arms bound behind his back and his head bowed in tragic prayer. Starting at 500 dollars…” The camera zoomed in on Tristan. His colonial soldier’s uniform was splattered with mud, and a noose hung around his neck. There was a deep cut on his left cheek, and some of his curly, dark hair escaped his ponytail and stuck to his face.
The girl sat up and touched Isolde’s face in the television set, enthralled, and half wishing she could grow her hair that long. Suddenly Isolde began to sway back and forth on her strings, and attendants in black t-shirts with the word “STAGEHAND” stenciled in white rushed out to stabilize her.
The little girl leaned closer to the television set, suspense built as the statue rocked wildly in its cage. A few people in the audience screamed as it hit the sides with loud clangs. The attendants reached through the bars and grabbed it, stopping it in mid swing. The camera zoomed in on Isolde’s face again. The statue’s eyes opened and looked directly into the camera, right into the girl’s eyes. In that moment, she heard a voice with a heavy Irish accent speaking inside her head.
“MY NAME IS MÁIRE.”
Fifteen years later:
The girl was in front of a television set, but now she was a security guard in a government building. She was watching the hall monitors in a bored way, waiting for something or nothing to happen.
“You know,” her coworker said, massaging his eyes. “In movies, the security guys are always the first to go. It’s like we’re expendable or something.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, half listening.
“Maybe one of us security folks have confiscated a few too many of them Hollywood Folk’s drugs.”
“Yeah.”
“Therefore, if an alien gunman arrives, we know that we are toast.”
“Yeah.” Her coworker looked at her and smiled.
“Addy, you’re falling asleep again.”
“Ye-huh? Whadamiss,” she mumbled.
“An old lady picked a wedgy in corridor 3a, and a woman dragged a screaming kid from the Department of Motor Vehicles and gave it a spanking. Other than that, not much.”
Addy rubbed her forehead, trying to clear her mind. She had been having a daydream, about what, she could never remember. Whatever it was, her mind wanted to return to it. A name slowly drifted back to the surface of her memory. “Máire,” she whispered to herself. Máire had been her imaginary friend from the moment that she floated out of the television set. Addy and Máire had enjoyed each other’s company, until Máire had started telling her to do things. At that point Máire started being mean, making things happen to Addy, making her get sick. Finally, Abby told her pediatrician about Máire. The doctors took her to a psychiatrist, and Addy was diagnosed with schizophrenia. They forced Máire to stop talking in her mind, but she was always present. She had always loved and envied the way Máire’s hair floated around her, affected by every tiny breeze but unaffected by the wind. She had been so jealous of Máire’s hair that she had grown her hair out like Máire’s, but Addy’s hair was a darker brown and subject to being oily. Suddenly she felt nauseous, and a sharp pain rose in her stomach.
“Oh, good God!” she exclaimed.
“What?” her coworker said, leaning over to see her monitors better.
“It’s that time of the month.”
“Thanks, I needed to know that,” he mumbled, settling himself back into his chair. “I’ll watch your monitors while you go to the bathroom, d’accord?”
“Thanks,” Addy said, and made a run for the bathroom, praying that she had a pad in her purse. The feeling grew worse, and she tried to remember if she still had any painkillers with her. Her mind entered a thick fog of confusion, and Addy panicked, breaking into a run to the restroom. As she shoved the door open, her knees gave out. A figure appeared, a clear face in front of her. The face had long, light brown hair and eyes that stared down into her soul.
“DO YOU REMEMBER ME, ADDY?”
Addy passed out.
When Addy awoke, it was dark except for the lights on the computer that measured her pulse and made sure she was still alive. “Good evening Adelaide,” a cheery voice said; a cool hand touched her forehead. “You gave us quite the scare. How do you feel?”
“I dunno,” Addy moaned. “How long have I been asleep?”
“A little over a day. One of your coworkers found you unconscious on the bathroom floor. I have a question, were you taking any prescriptions?”
“Yes,” Addy said, trying to remember its name. “Whachamacallit… something another for schizophrenia.”
“It appears that you forgot to take your pill yesterday.”
“That would explain it,” Addy said, remembering Máire’s appearance.
“Explain what?” The pleasant voice came closer.
“Máire came back,” she said closing her eyes tightly. “My imaginary friend. She forced me to memorize an address. I don’t understand why. Why do you want me to go there? What will I find?” she yelled at the air. “You’re not real; you’re just a chemical imbalance!”
“I AM REAL. COME, SEE ME FOR YOURSELF.”
“You aren’t real! Go away!” Addy screamed, curling into a ball, shutting her eyes tightly.
“I WON’T.”
The kind voice became louder, whispering in her ear, “Ignore Máire. Your doctor is coming; you will be safe very soon.”
Máire laughed. Her voice changed; it was soft and gentle.
“COME AND SEE ME; I’M LONELY.”
“I won’t!” Addy hissed. She closed her eyes tighter, but she saw an image in her head. A great iron cage stood at the end of a barren hall, and Máire was inside, covered with dust, suspended from thousands of pieces of fishing line. Her hair had cobwebs in it.
“RELEASE ME.”
Or should I spend my effort on The Coffin's Occupant instead?