Digging in the dirt
Title: Exit- Stage Right
Author: kowarth
Notes: probably utterly diverted from the prompt by getting caught up in the lovecraftian.
Rating: PG-13 for horrorendous prose.
Characters: River, OC’s
Summary: prompt by omfgitsjo for the spoiler_song ficathon: River, "That cryptic soul who crept through a crack in the forbidden door and glimpsed the frightful vistas of the void beyond." (From The case of Charles Dexter Ward)
She was a singular character whose like had been rarely been seen in the hamlet upon which she descended. She called herself an archaeologist but there were no letters after her name (such events were still to come for her but to the local sheriff her details were right and proper, doctorate, masters, professorship in black and white. No note that she should, by rights, still be incarcerated in the institution where she obtained all those qualifications. If only there had been.)
As the librarian here I was the closest Sheriff Boydd had to an academic. We were a rural community at heart and the arrival of this effervescent presence in our midst caused ripples ahead of her actual appearance.
She was a shock of high practical boots, fitted vest and many pocketed trousers. All the items that hung from her belt certainly made her look the part but somehow she managed to maintain the air of someone about to attend a dinner party than someone used to spending days sifting soil for pottery shards.
‘Hello, I’m River Song.’ Sheriff Boydd flushed as if the mention of her name was an intimacy of the most sacred proportions. I detected a hint of the plum lipstick that framed her mouth against the wiry beard the sheriff favoured and sighed. ‘I’m here about...’
‘The Robinson’s basement.’ I finished for her. It is essential for my narrative that it is understood the basement of the Robinson farmstead is the only unusual event to occur on our colony in the last 200 years. ‘I don’t see why they would send an archaeologist. We requested a clerical force.’
‘The Bishop’s busy and I’m much better in a frock.’ She purred. Her face was a gentle smile, carefully crafted. But her eyes told a different story. There was a hint of irritation and I flattered myself that it was because I hadn’t swooned on sight as Boydd no doubt had.
I ignore the censure of her gaze and the implied judgement, turning to my buggy instead and motioning her aboard. For Boydd’s sake at least the sooner the woman had done her job the better.
‘Pony and trap, how delightful. You should have said I’d have brought a picnic.’ She swung herself aboard with practiced ease and settled a little closer to me than she needed to be. I snapped the reigns and left Boydd staring after us.
‘Are you upset with me for some reason, we’ve barely met .’ her every word managed to sound like temptation and It struck me as odd that such a woman would be known to the Bishop, let alone sent as an emissary.
‘You will understand as soon as we arrive.’ I told her, my last word on the subject for the next few kilometres, although not hers.
-
‘Do you avoid technology here?’ She asked as we passed steadily through the vineyards towards the Robinsons. She had been chattering away with little observations throughout our journey. If she had noticed how uncomfortable I was to be making it once again she either ignored it or simply didn’t care.
‘Not particularly. We simply have little use for it’ I glanced toward her expecting contempt on her face but instead found only admiration. ‘Before you ask, no, the findings you are here to inspect have been examined with the tools of the modern age. That hand held scanner of yours will be as confused as we are.’ I nodded to the pouch on her hip and was rewarded with a soft, warm smile.
‘A regular Mrs Sherlock Holmes aren’t we?’ she joked. I took the allusion as a compliment.
‘Observation is an important factor in anyone’s life. If we do not observe we cannot grow.’ I replied.
She shuffled nervously for a moment and I was forced to wonder what exactly she had observed to make her suitable to be sent here. The Farm came into view before either of us continued. I noted that she had seen the steady decline in the foliage as we arrived.
She leapt from the buggy before I had brought it to a stop, sliding the palm device from her pocket to scan the last tree in the row, clicking her tongue at the inconclusive results.
When she turned back to me the playfulness was gone from eyes, replaced with something darker. Something I had seen before, when all this had begun.
‘Tell me what you really found here.’ Her tone made it clear that this was not a request.
‘A door. The Robinsons were extending their basement and they found a door buried in the earth. The markings on it were alien but... everyone felt they seemed religious. That’s when we sent for the Bishop.’
She muttered something uncomplimentary about the office of the Bishop and put her device away, taking a torch from her belt and clipping it to her wrist. A dazzling smile later we were walking into the house.
-
I shall spare you the detail of the rot that seemed to creep as we watched the air of must and decay that dogged our every step with clouds of dust like fungus kicked up at our passage. I paid little attention to the house, whose life appeared to be draining away into the pit that I knew lay below.
My own reservations distracted me from attending upon River Song in this brief walk and I regret that her reactions to the place are now lost to me. Not so the expression that haunted her face the instant the door was within our gaze.
It was a pale oak colour, despite its entombment. It could almost have been placed there the evening before and I readily expected her to accuse me of just such and act. Her torch concentrated on the doorway in its thick mud frame. But the reflection lit enough of her face to chill me as much as the view of the door ever had. I was expecting scorn, or professional wonder.
Instead I saw the unmistakable glaze of hateful recognition. There was no sense of wonder, no curiosity or surprise. It was as though the door had finally showed up after a long absence. Like seeing an unwelcome relative on thanksgiving morn.
She paid no heed to the indecipherable hieroglyphs that framed the disc on the centre of the door; instead she concentrated solely on a patch of random carving that even to my eye seemed almost an afterthought.
‘You know what this is?’ It was my turn to state facts. She merely nodded in reply, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
‘And can explain why the crops are dying now that it has been uncovered? Why the Robinson’s refuse to return home?’ I continued. Again she nodded. All this while she had examined the earth around the doorway in the glare of her torch.
‘Well?’ I pressed. She turned towards me and at first I thought her features were clouded in anger thanks to my interruptions. But as she stepped towards me I saw something else, something other sat beyond her eyes. The sight was enough to still my tongue and quicken my pulse. I wondered if the same thing had happened to the Sheriff. She handed me the torch and kissed me.
I was glad that no one was there to see. And my initial response I must confess could have been handled well. The kiss made me feel light headed and I suspected foul play but could no more prove it than I could the time of day in this light consuming pit.
‘WH... What are you going to do?’ I stammered.
‘It’s a door sweetie,’ River Song purred ‘what else do we do with doors?’ she swung around, her hair alive in the hesitant torchlight. I should have stopped her, should have seen in that moment what was so blindingly clear in hindsight.
She pressed her hand against the centre of the door. The carvings around that disc began to revolve, light streaming through them in a shade of which mankind was never meant to comprehend. Things moved in the light, I took them for dust motes at first but there was no breeze in the room save for that of our breath and yet the things moved.
I heard a strangled hoarse cry and took some moments before realising it was my own.
River Song paid it no mind. She merely turned her head, blew me a kiss and stepped through into the light beyond the door.
For just a moment I could see a universe of evils awaiting her. Stick thin grey creatures that moved like lightening, bulky tank like monstrosities and tentacle wraiths that defied any ability to describe.
The smell, the sheer visceral horror of what lay in the beyond was too much and I fell sobbing to my knees. I watched as River strode into the light, oblivious to the scene forcing itself upon my eyes.
And then the door closed.
-
Sheriff Boydd tells me that when he had heard nothing by the following day he came out to the farm to see what progress there had been. He tells me that I was curled across the seat of the buggy, quite naked under the travelling blanket that I kept there. I was covered in tiny scratches as if I had been caught in one of the occasional whirlwinds. They brought to mind the creatures in the light and I wept.
There was a feeling in the air however, a sense of some grand design completed. Daisies were growing on the verge and birdsong was flourishing overhead. Until that moment I had not appreciated they had been avoiding the place.
Of my clothes, the door or River Song there was no sign.
Author: kowarth
Notes: probably utterly diverted from the prompt by getting caught up in the lovecraftian.
Rating: PG-13 for horrorendous prose.
Characters: River, OC’s
Summary: prompt by omfgitsjo for the spoiler_song ficathon: River, "That cryptic soul who crept through a crack in the forbidden door and glimpsed the frightful vistas of the void beyond." (From The case of Charles Dexter Ward)
She was a singular character whose like had been rarely been seen in the hamlet upon which she descended. She called herself an archaeologist but there were no letters after her name (such events were still to come for her but to the local sheriff her details were right and proper, doctorate, masters, professorship in black and white. No note that she should, by rights, still be incarcerated in the institution where she obtained all those qualifications. If only there had been.)
As the librarian here I was the closest Sheriff Boydd had to an academic. We were a rural community at heart and the arrival of this effervescent presence in our midst caused ripples ahead of her actual appearance.
She was a shock of high practical boots, fitted vest and many pocketed trousers. All the items that hung from her belt certainly made her look the part but somehow she managed to maintain the air of someone about to attend a dinner party than someone used to spending days sifting soil for pottery shards.
‘Hello, I’m River Song.’ Sheriff Boydd flushed as if the mention of her name was an intimacy of the most sacred proportions. I detected a hint of the plum lipstick that framed her mouth against the wiry beard the sheriff favoured and sighed. ‘I’m here about...’
‘The Robinson’s basement.’ I finished for her. It is essential for my narrative that it is understood the basement of the Robinson farmstead is the only unusual event to occur on our colony in the last 200 years. ‘I don’t see why they would send an archaeologist. We requested a clerical force.’
‘The Bishop’s busy and I’m much better in a frock.’ She purred. Her face was a gentle smile, carefully crafted. But her eyes told a different story. There was a hint of irritation and I flattered myself that it was because I hadn’t swooned on sight as Boydd no doubt had.
I ignore the censure of her gaze and the implied judgement, turning to my buggy instead and motioning her aboard. For Boydd’s sake at least the sooner the woman had done her job the better.
‘Pony and trap, how delightful. You should have said I’d have brought a picnic.’ She swung herself aboard with practiced ease and settled a little closer to me than she needed to be. I snapped the reigns and left Boydd staring after us.
‘Are you upset with me for some reason, we’ve barely met .’ her every word managed to sound like temptation and It struck me as odd that such a woman would be known to the Bishop, let alone sent as an emissary.
‘You will understand as soon as we arrive.’ I told her, my last word on the subject for the next few kilometres, although not hers.
-
‘Do you avoid technology here?’ She asked as we passed steadily through the vineyards towards the Robinsons. She had been chattering away with little observations throughout our journey. If she had noticed how uncomfortable I was to be making it once again she either ignored it or simply didn’t care.
‘Not particularly. We simply have little use for it’ I glanced toward her expecting contempt on her face but instead found only admiration. ‘Before you ask, no, the findings you are here to inspect have been examined with the tools of the modern age. That hand held scanner of yours will be as confused as we are.’ I nodded to the pouch on her hip and was rewarded with a soft, warm smile.
‘A regular Mrs Sherlock Holmes aren’t we?’ she joked. I took the allusion as a compliment.
‘Observation is an important factor in anyone’s life. If we do not observe we cannot grow.’ I replied.
She shuffled nervously for a moment and I was forced to wonder what exactly she had observed to make her suitable to be sent here. The Farm came into view before either of us continued. I noted that she had seen the steady decline in the foliage as we arrived.
She leapt from the buggy before I had brought it to a stop, sliding the palm device from her pocket to scan the last tree in the row, clicking her tongue at the inconclusive results.
When she turned back to me the playfulness was gone from eyes, replaced with something darker. Something I had seen before, when all this had begun.
‘Tell me what you really found here.’ Her tone made it clear that this was not a request.
‘A door. The Robinsons were extending their basement and they found a door buried in the earth. The markings on it were alien but... everyone felt they seemed religious. That’s when we sent for the Bishop.’
She muttered something uncomplimentary about the office of the Bishop and put her device away, taking a torch from her belt and clipping it to her wrist. A dazzling smile later we were walking into the house.
-
I shall spare you the detail of the rot that seemed to creep as we watched the air of must and decay that dogged our every step with clouds of dust like fungus kicked up at our passage. I paid little attention to the house, whose life appeared to be draining away into the pit that I knew lay below.
My own reservations distracted me from attending upon River Song in this brief walk and I regret that her reactions to the place are now lost to me. Not so the expression that haunted her face the instant the door was within our gaze.
It was a pale oak colour, despite its entombment. It could almost have been placed there the evening before and I readily expected her to accuse me of just such and act. Her torch concentrated on the doorway in its thick mud frame. But the reflection lit enough of her face to chill me as much as the view of the door ever had. I was expecting scorn, or professional wonder.
Instead I saw the unmistakable glaze of hateful recognition. There was no sense of wonder, no curiosity or surprise. It was as though the door had finally showed up after a long absence. Like seeing an unwelcome relative on thanksgiving morn.
She paid no heed to the indecipherable hieroglyphs that framed the disc on the centre of the door; instead she concentrated solely on a patch of random carving that even to my eye seemed almost an afterthought.
‘You know what this is?’ It was my turn to state facts. She merely nodded in reply, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
‘And can explain why the crops are dying now that it has been uncovered? Why the Robinson’s refuse to return home?’ I continued. Again she nodded. All this while she had examined the earth around the doorway in the glare of her torch.
‘Well?’ I pressed. She turned towards me and at first I thought her features were clouded in anger thanks to my interruptions. But as she stepped towards me I saw something else, something other sat beyond her eyes. The sight was enough to still my tongue and quicken my pulse. I wondered if the same thing had happened to the Sheriff. She handed me the torch and kissed me.
I was glad that no one was there to see. And my initial response I must confess could have been handled well. The kiss made me feel light headed and I suspected foul play but could no more prove it than I could the time of day in this light consuming pit.
‘WH... What are you going to do?’ I stammered.
‘It’s a door sweetie,’ River Song purred ‘what else do we do with doors?’ she swung around, her hair alive in the hesitant torchlight. I should have stopped her, should have seen in that moment what was so blindingly clear in hindsight.
She pressed her hand against the centre of the door. The carvings around that disc began to revolve, light streaming through them in a shade of which mankind was never meant to comprehend. Things moved in the light, I took them for dust motes at first but there was no breeze in the room save for that of our breath and yet the things moved.
I heard a strangled hoarse cry and took some moments before realising it was my own.
River Song paid it no mind. She merely turned her head, blew me a kiss and stepped through into the light beyond the door.
For just a moment I could see a universe of evils awaiting her. Stick thin grey creatures that moved like lightening, bulky tank like monstrosities and tentacle wraiths that defied any ability to describe.
The smell, the sheer visceral horror of what lay in the beyond was too much and I fell sobbing to my knees. I watched as River strode into the light, oblivious to the scene forcing itself upon my eyes.
And then the door closed.
-
Sheriff Boydd tells me that when he had heard nothing by the following day he came out to the farm to see what progress there had been. He tells me that I was curled across the seat of the buggy, quite naked under the travelling blanket that I kept there. I was covered in tiny scratches as if I had been caught in one of the occasional whirlwinds. They brought to mind the creatures in the light and I wept.
There was a feeling in the air however, a sense of some grand design completed. Daisies were growing on the verge and birdsong was flourishing overhead. Until that moment I had not appreciated they had been avoiding the place.
Of my clothes, the door or River Song there was no sign.