Iron Quill submission: Shiver

[Thechosenone]

(Well here's the round's piece. Please, have at it. Enjoy it. Comment and critique it up. Thanks for reading ladies and gentlemen)

“I know this place.” He remembers the manor is dark and sleeping beneath a December sky. The cold doesn’t touch him as he enters the lighted home. Candles burn from scattered chandeliers. The smell hits before he can see them. There’s none of the ozone stink of Soulstone fumes.

His hand slips from the knob on the white door as he walks in; anticipating something that he can’t name. He can’t tell if it’s a thing that’s happened or a thing that will come to pass.

The wooden planks of the floor shudder underneath his feet. The quiver doesn’t concern him but he wonders why he’s wearing those boots. The black boots of an officer, polished and new. Why would he be wearing those boots?

Of all boots, why those? They should have burned up with the rest.

The floor shudders as he looks down at the foyer from the balcony. His fingers probe the banister’s wood. The sanding and lacquer fail to completely hide the imperfections in the grain.

The door to the estate is open and daylight streams through. He wonders why it was left open again. “William shut the door please! Your sister is going to crawl right out!” He shouts to an empty house. The floorboards breathe a heavy sigh at his unanswered request.

A cross breeze blows hard through the quiet house from some unseen open window or another door carelessly left ajar. He can hear a murmur, a distant familiar voice hidden within the gust. It catches in the foyer and slams the lavender door shut. “Your sister’s fingers could have been in that door William!”

“William…” The name echoes from a voice unspoken and slithers through the air with all the delicacy of a hushed whisper.

He turns and reaches out for the drink. Cubes of ice clatter against the side of the rocks glass, its surface slicked with condensation already. “Thank you Dolan.” He says with little regard to the back of the vested servant behind the glossy paneled bar. Even in the private study of his home there is no escape from the heat.

Dolan nods, turning his head slightly to acknowledge his employer’s gratitude. His face is pale, his eyes raked over by something sharp and careless. Where the bridge of his nose should be is only a fresh red fissure leading into the deepest unknown of Dolan’s skull.

“He called on you again sir. Won’t you answer his message? He’s rather insistent?” Dolan asks. Stringy ropes of saliva and blood loop from his broken mouth as he speaks. They fall over the glasses, the liquors, the floor and across the black vest he’s wearing.

“I’m not in the mood Dolan. Just fill this up again will you?” He stares down into the glass, only ice and lingering remnants of fine whiskey remain. His eyes fix on the glass as its refilled. Dolan’s purple vest faces him; he can see his arm in the periphery of his sight and the spout of the bottle bleeding a controlled stream of spirits.

“As you wish sir.” Dolan’s mouth mutters from somewhere out of sight.

The breeze returns slamming another door. The bottle drops and the glass tips with it.

Something important is gone now and he can’t find it anywhere. Lost or stolen?

He kneels in a pool of cold crimson that blossoms around him, seeping out from his woundless body. Impressions form in the wetness, shapes like still bodies. His eyes wide, his hair hot with sweat and pulled wild by his frenzied hands. He looks up to the ceiling of his cellar, it ripples like the surface of lake disturbed by something beneath. He screams a bestial primal wordless roar into the lavender ocean above. It’s water, clouds and fire all at the same time. “Where is it!”

Four stars are born in the abyss above and flock together. Four hells stare down. The breeze blows, the distant words rattle again.

“Right here.” His wife hands him the envelope over his shoulder. He sets the paper down on the patio table and turns over the envelope. It’s sealed with green wax and an ugly wolf’s head stamp. He doesn’t bother opening it.

“Another one…” He calls over his shoulder to the sound of his wife mixing an afternoon cocktail. “Everyone went their separate ways. We all moved on. Why can’t he just do the same?”

She doesn’t answer. The rattling of the glass just out of sight grows louder. The house shudders.

“Where’s William?” A sudden clarity grips his heart.

His chair is blown forward; the splintering of the house around him might as well be the sundering of the entire world. The walls warp in on him like tight rubber with faces gasping beneath. There are hands everywhere. Each one is like the touch of ice. Colder than ice. The sort of chill that only fear can send down a spine.

The sile of his house opens like a curtain drawn and the flowing, billowing burn of the void pours in. He can feel his heart pound, his eyes widen and his hands skitter across the soft ripped flesh of deck. His nails tear at planks of skin as the breeze carries him in. He can’t hear the voice within the breeze over his own panic.

A door slams but the sound comes from the sky and it’s not wood joining wood but thunder. Clockwork clicks into place. Metal pieces kiss. Drops of water fall from above and tap his black duster. Finger slips off the hammer of his pistol after the simple motion is complete. His eyes focus on the gun, the boots and the wet earth they’re dug into. In the pools of water around him there is a flickering reflection of red and yellow. He can feel heat to his back. Fire.

“It’s as good a place as any isn’t it?” He looks up and answers the question asked of him. He’s there, the white coat, the mud, the flash of the Nipponese Blade, the glitter of gun metal.

“This is where it all started. Everyone else is here now too” The tip of the killer’s sword points to the wet earth. His voice is the familiar melodious French that has become the haunting cancer inside every breeze. “Two anomalies left. Time to put another back.”

He looks down at his pistol again. He can feel an old fear tugging at his heart. It stands in the dark. The handsome man in the Guild coat. Slicked hair, perfect features. The contracts. He watches patiently waiting for his due.

A sound like the snapping of a branch hits. The handsome man in the dark lets out a cry of ultimate release. His tall back crooks forward and his limbs bend. Hair falls into loose greased veneers that hides a face bleeding all its color. The eyes vanish behind a cracked mask the color of bone. Sickness drips from sore ragged lips and around the edges of the mask. He wrings his filthy hands together; waiting for payment to be rendered.

The light in the water flickers with all the colors of a fresh bruise.

“No prayers? Not even now?” The wretched twist of a man ask. His black gums and stained teeth flash like a wolf’s grin.

“I don’t believe in God.” Eyes still on his gun.

“Neither did I” The barrister hisses.

“I just wanted a cure!” He turns from his gun and unleashes hate at the barrister.

“I told you were to find it, as was the bargain. To the letter. To the law.”

“But you told him first!” He points at the man in white who stands frozen. Halted in the moment. “He took it! And I watched as my boy withered!”

“You never said you wanted exclusive rights to it Mr…”

He cuts him off and raises his gun. The abyss, unseen behind him, quivers with delight.

And he sinks.

Sliding down against the white walls outside the bedroom. The wind slams the door shut beside him. Even through the door he can hear whispers of physicians, the cry of his wife and the deafening absence of voice he’ll never hear again.

“William... Oh my boy, my boy." He sobs "This can’t be happening! This CAN’T BE HAPPENING! It isn’t real!”

Pistols skitter across the cobblestone street as the man in black falls to his knees and topples over. Gun fire, screams and the hunger of monsters echoes around him. All is forgotten as he drowns in his own nightmare.

A specter hovers over him. A boy, barely there, fading in and out like a half remembered dream struggling in the first moments of morning to survive.

The man thrashes on the pavement, his eyes wide with a horror that only he can see and the boy can appreciate.

“This can’t be real!” old tears run down his face as he tangles in his duster and his limbs go ridged.

A strange familiarity strikes the specter, the brief smile that twitched upon his lips withers. His voice, innocent and ethereal ,haunts the intersections. “Whose nightmare is this Chompy?” A terrible familiarity infects the ghost.

Something crushes through the barriers between realities, infecting the world with its antediluvian horror again. Claws caress the silken walls of the material universe and teeth dance over its fragile surface. “My most cherished one, chosen above all others. Don’t worry about that now. There is so much time for that. But the fun is almost over. It’s my turn.”

The boy’s smile returns. The terrible echo of the inflicted dream dies away with the promise of watching his friend play. “All done.”

His delicate little finger grabs at his forehead and pulls down as if unfastening a row of jacket buttons all at once. His form rips open like a curtain and the burning, bubbling nebula beating on the walls of reality spills in. The nightmare takes form and a birth scream echoes across the night cursed streets of Malifaux.

The shadow of a god shivers in tear soaked eyes.

[edonil]

Oh, I liked that! Dark, but deliciously so. That was impressive! You really got the idea of a dream nailed down, that haunting mix of the familiar and the wrong, and it just worked out so very well. I loved the imagery of the piece, and you kept to the perspective you laid out very well. And the way you used Chompy and Dreamer was perfect, a subtle touch, but nicely done. A few grammatical pieces you could improve on listed below. The only other quibble I have is that you missed the line! The theme was perfect, but the second ingredient was missing. I know I saw a place to stick it in, but I'm curious where you'll end up putting it.

The sanding and lacquer failing to completely hide the imperfections in the grain.

"Failing" should be "fail" in this instance, if I remember my present tense grammar right.

Cubes of ice clatter against the side of the rocks glass, its surface slicked with condensation already.

I'm not sure where the word "rocks" fits into this sentence.

His face is pale, his eyes racked over and runny.

Another one where I'm confused as to the intent of the wording. Racked over?

He kneels in a pool of cold crimson that blossoms around him, seeping out from his woundless body. Impressions form in the wetness, shapes like still bodies. His eyes wide, his hair hot with sweat and his hair pulled wild by his frenzied hands. He looks up to the ceiling of his cellar, it ripples like the surface of lake disturbed by something beneath. He screams a bestial primal wordless roar into the lavender ocean above. It’s water clouds and fire all at the same time. “Where is it!”

Love this imagery, very evocative! The last sentence about water, clouds and fire seems to be missing something to break it up, or I'm reading it wrong.

the deafening absence of the voice he’ll never hear again.

Missing a word that confuses the sentence.

[Thechosenone]

Thanks for the quick reply and I'll take a look at all of that closer after work. As far as the line though, I tried something different. Its used without being said. When the man in the dream answers the question that wasn't asked. Here basically:

A door slams but the sound comes from the sky and it’s not wood joining wood but thunder. Clockwork clicks into place. Metal pieces kiss. Drops of water fall from above and tap his duster. Finger slips off the hammer of his pistol after the simple motion is complete. His eyes focus on the gun, the boots and the wet earth they’re dug into. In the pools of water around him there is a flickering reflection of red and yellow. He can feel heat to his back. Fire.

“It’s as good a place as any isn’t it?” He looks up and answers the question asked of him. He’s there, the white coat, the mud, the flash of the Nipponese Blade, the glitter of gun metal.

“This is where it all started. Everyone else is here now too” The tip of the killer’s sword points to the wet earth. His voice is the familiar melodious French that has become the haunting cancer inside every breeze. “Two anomalies left. Time to put another back.”

But maybe that works, maybe not.

[edonil]

Actually, that's where I thought it'd be perfect to fit in, so I guess it did work, didn't it?

[Thechosenone]

Made some litle edits from my phone. Glad the line, kinda worked ish, and that overall you enjoyed the piece. Excited to hear from the rest of you.

Also, in advance and as promised, jordan was just as terrible as everyone else panda

[Thechosenone]

Got some days off coming up so if anyone else has some suggestions for edits, feedback or anything let me know. Its rare to have a lump of free time.

[edonil]

Ah! I just figured out what you meant by this line, and the word you were aiming for (I think):

His face is pale, his eyes racked over by something sharp and careless.

I think instead of racked you want raked...wounds from a claw is the idea that I think you seem to be going for. Aside from that, I really don't have anything else to add, unfortunately...

[Thechosenone]

the beauty of team writing is fresh eyes on the material. I didn't catch that. Fixed.

[Hardlec]

I really like how you get several senses involved.

Malifaux is a dark place.

Good stuff.

[Thechosenone]

thanks Hardlec. Glad you enjoyed.