Real Live Nightmare

The wind howled in betrayed agony as the storm blew in. The boarded over shutters trembled in terrorized fear as the full crescent moon disappeared behind the shroud of clouds. Lightning flashed, illuminating the forsaken manor in all its many stages of dilapidation; the crumbling foundation to the overtaken yard. The lightning reseeded, painting the manor in ambiguous oblivion, slowly a light began to flicker in an attic window, and a lone black candle sat on the sill. The attic was sparse on entrance, and dust covered, the decade long absence of human touch showing in the webs and dust. The only thing out of place was the bed, a gigantic black mahogany canopy bed, with draperies that dangled from the leviathan bed, blood silk in color and style, with ancient symbols worked into it with spurn ebony silk thread. One section of those gorgeous hangings was pulled back to reveal the coverings within. The covers were in opposite contrast to the clothe hangings, being onyx with crimson threading. The covers were pulled back, awaiting the sleeper to return.

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A piercing scream resounded through the manor, reverberating off all it could. The girl of about nineteen years had been quickly silenced by a large hand, cutting off the shrill siren’s cry. She was then forced further into the manor, her face alabaster from fear and shock, and the grey eyes like that of a captured animal, petrified with terror. The two men tried to maneuver her further into the hallway, each with a hand on the ropes that bound the woman’s wrists, and now helping to act as a gag. They wore cloaks of ashen grey, almost dark enough to be taken as black; it mimicked the beddings with the rouge-red designing stitched into the cloak. The men gave a final brute shove, sending the teen sprawling across the floor. A final grunt and the two men left the girl to wallow in self pity and anguish, while they went to get the other room ready…The simpering female sat up and surveyed the surroundings, not well! She had been thrown into what looked like a formal living room, but was not so now, chipped paint and broken furniture converged all around with the dust. The victim tried to pull the binding off her chapped and bruised wrists, but that turned out to be fruitless. She whimpered in self centered despair, looking at her bound wrists, muddy clothes, and tattering belongings. She curled up into the well versed fetal position, tucking her knees against her chest.

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The two men walked around the attic, hoods down so that their facial features were revealed. They had well toned faces of light cream and contrasting emerald eyes, and hair the color of carrots dipped in blood. The two boys were barely twenty, with patches of fuzz grazing their cheeks. They surveyed their set-up; the black candles, golden pentagram painted on the hard floors, and the altar with its lavish coverings. The two sighed as they heard the girl below move around, annoying sacrifice. The boys each held something for their sacrifice to have; the black dress of sacrifice, with its low neck and bare arms, a necklace with a golden pentagram hanging down from the long chain, and a gold clasp to tie back the hair. The pentagram was the most important though, the sign of their covenant. The men shivered in anticipation for the power the sacrifice would give them… The girl was afraid, in that knee weak kind of way that left the mind stuttering and the body in denial of what was happening around the person. She was there to be sacrificed; it was as true a fact as there was dust under her and a moldy ceiling above her, all truth. Was she scared? Oh yes, most definitely. She was scared in a way any kid would be if they were captured or abducted, not knowing where they were going or for what purpose. The truth of the matter was, she was a lost one; one of those kids that acted all big, but once faced with impending doom, they buckle and become less than a five year old, a kid wishing for their parents to come and chase the bad men away…or was it all a dream?

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With a frightened scream, a girl awoken in her bed, finding the whole thing a horrible nightmare; the storm was real, still crashing around the house like a demented demon, but she was safe. The truth was, in a way she was still trapt in that dream, so shaken by fears of the unknown that she would have been happy to of given her life in sacrifice, rather than face the real world on May Thirty first, two thousand and eight. To no longer be cared for and protected, that was a true nightmare.