Part Seven: Behind Orpheus
Nov. 12th, 2004 03:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uberreinigerMore true tales, back by popular request.
Let alone a good answer why I would go into one alone. Even worse still, why I would go into one alone I've ALREADY gone into once and learned things that should have made me know better.
But the harsh light of day takes its toll on what night has made believable. The rational modern skeptic begins to hold sway over the primitive, superstitious animal. Like the apostles of Christ who saw with their own eyes, and yet did not believe, I too had fallen victim to "common sense."
Termez had tricked me somehow. Or tricked himself and infected me with contagious hysteria. There was nothing in that empty palace of metal save dust and spiders. No invisible being had stood and barred my way. I had imagined it all. Despite all my cynicism upon entry, I clearly nevertheless subconsciously desired a ghost enough to create one.
I would go in again. And nothing would happen. And I would prove that wherever the soul goes after death, it is not here.
Problems had arisen with Termez's guard license, causing him to not be present at work for a few days while he straightened things out. Very well then. This could not wait. I would go in alone. Our thorough exploration had armed me with a comfortable knowledge of where I could safely step. Plenty of room to wander and plenty of time for Our Friend to reveal himself. I would not jump at every shadow this time. Whatever he was, the burden of proof was all on him.
Walking forward into the ground level of the Melt Shop and backwards into its time, the vast corridor dwarfed me, the filth and debris garnishing it conjuring images of what the Soviet resistance tunnels beneath Stalingrad might have looked like once long ago. Fear and apprehension began to fill me again. Was it truly safe to be in here? Moreover, was I wanted here? And then I was beneath the truck loading port, staring hundreds of feet into the air and into the black, empty portal of the Doorway In the Sky.
I have said it before: footsteps on steel grating make a very distinctive sound. There is no mistaking them for anything other than what they are.
Two sounds, one right after the other, like footsteps coming out of the shadowed doorway, onto the landing before it. A pause, a sense of being watched, of being evaluated. Then, one footstep after the other. One slow, deliberate, unmistakeable footstep on each metal stair leading down from the door. Headless of the melted, twisted remains of the stairs, down towards the floor. Down towards the ground level.
Down towards me.
I ran the empty length of that desolate corridor toward the warm safety of the night beyond. And I never looked back.
Let alone a good answer why I would go into one alone. Even worse still, why I would go into one alone I've ALREADY gone into once and learned things that should have made me know better.
But the harsh light of day takes its toll on what night has made believable. The rational modern skeptic begins to hold sway over the primitive, superstitious animal. Like the apostles of Christ who saw with their own eyes, and yet did not believe, I too had fallen victim to "common sense."
Termez had tricked me somehow. Or tricked himself and infected me with contagious hysteria. There was nothing in that empty palace of metal save dust and spiders. No invisible being had stood and barred my way. I had imagined it all. Despite all my cynicism upon entry, I clearly nevertheless subconsciously desired a ghost enough to create one.
I would go in again. And nothing would happen. And I would prove that wherever the soul goes after death, it is not here.
Problems had arisen with Termez's guard license, causing him to not be present at work for a few days while he straightened things out. Very well then. This could not wait. I would go in alone. Our thorough exploration had armed me with a comfortable knowledge of where I could safely step. Plenty of room to wander and plenty of time for Our Friend to reveal himself. I would not jump at every shadow this time. Whatever he was, the burden of proof was all on him.
Walking forward into the ground level of the Melt Shop and backwards into its time, the vast corridor dwarfed me, the filth and debris garnishing it conjuring images of what the Soviet resistance tunnels beneath Stalingrad might have looked like once long ago. Fear and apprehension began to fill me again. Was it truly safe to be in here? Moreover, was I wanted here? And then I was beneath the truck loading port, staring hundreds of feet into the air and into the black, empty portal of the Doorway In the Sky.
I have said it before: footsteps on steel grating make a very distinctive sound. There is no mistaking them for anything other than what they are.
Two sounds, one right after the other, like footsteps coming out of the shadowed doorway, onto the landing before it. A pause, a sense of being watched, of being evaluated. Then, one footstep after the other. One slow, deliberate, unmistakeable footstep on each metal stair leading down from the door. Headless of the melted, twisted remains of the stairs, down towards the floor. Down towards the ground level.
Down towards me.
I ran the empty length of that desolate corridor toward the warm safety of the night beyond. And I never looked back.
