Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Dead as a doornail	By : fundamellie Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pet Shop Boys Views: 798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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There was nothing unusual about my empty, quiet flat when I entered it. No transformation in the craving in the wood of the furniture, no strange noises, no ghosts. Nothing. Only the empty space and oppressing silence that made me think of undiscovered tombs. I retired to bed almost at once but for some reason could not fall asleep. I stared at the ceiling, seeing not very much in the blurry darkness.
I am not usually afraid of imaginary things but even though I knew that everything was perfectly normal, I felt like I was being watched.
I tossed and turned restlessly in my bed for a while but finally must have fallen asleep for I remember nothing more.
When I awoke it was so dark that I could see absolutely nothing. I could not even find the blinking display of my alarm clock on the bedside table. I couldn’t see the faint light from the street lamps that usually crept through the little gaps in the drawn curtains.
It was so quiet that the sound of my heart beating a bit too fast seemed loud as thunder. I almost jumped out of bed when suddenly a defeating noise filled the room and made the glass of the windows clatter. A church bell was ringing out the quarters. I did not dare to imagine how big the church was which housed a bell that produced such a sound.
It was somewhat confusing and a bit scary as well for as long as I had lived here I had never heard any church bells. I was also 100 per cent sure that there even wasn’t a single church in the neighbourhood, let alone one big enough to be equipped with such an impressive bell.
I sat up in bed and listened closely. I counted nine, ten, eleven strokes. Then the bell rang one last time. It was twelve o’clock. I sat there wide-eyed, breathing suddenly faster than normal. This was just not possible! It had been well past 2 o’clock when I had come home. It was out of the question that I had slept through a whole day and most of another night but it also could not be twelve o’clock at noon. It was so absolutely dark. Miserable as the British weather could be, nothing had ever obscured the daylight so completely. I listened carefully again. There was no sound to be heard now that the last chime of the bell had faded. I got up and even found my glasses on the bedside table, knocking down a framed photograph in the process. I felt my way to the window. It was only a few steps away but I managed to run into a chair and to hurt my naked toes when I bumped into a cupboard. I finally found the curtains and hesitantly parted them a little. I peeked outside and blinked repeatedly. What I saw was not what I had expected to see. It was snowing outside and the snow piled up high on the rooftops and in front gardens. Frost glistened on the tarmac and on the windows of parked cars. It was beautiful and yet alarmingly unreal. All the neighbouring windows were decked out in Christmas decoration. I saw tacky blinking Christmas trees which changed colour and dancing Santas. I saw simple stars made out of straw and angle figurines holding candles as well as bows of mistletoe and holly.
I gasp in shock. I was going insane! There was no other explanation. It could not be Christmas, just as it could not be midnight. I had gone to bed on 16th January at 2.25 p.m., I was quite certain of that.
I stood in front of the window for what felt like an eternity, gazing outside in confused wonder. I was trying to make sense of this bizarre situation but could not. Time passed and I was startled out of my reverie when the bell struck the third quarter. It was now 15 minutes to 1 o’clock. The memory of what Jeffery’s ghost had told me on Christmas Eve those three years ago came back to me in a flash. Was this the night I was foretold to meet the first of three ghosts? I wondered if it would be the ghost of someone I had known in life, like Jeffery had been or someone or something entirely different. But if I was really going to meet three different ghosts on three successive nights, didn’t it mean that Jeffery’s mission had failed? But why? What had I done?
Deep in thought I went back to the bed and sat down. I did not want to face whatever was coming next lying down, so I sat there, doing nothing apart from staring into the blackness around me and rubbing my hands together nervously. The remaining minutes passed painfully slowly; in fact they seems to crawl by and each seemed to last for hours. After a while I was almost ready to believe that I had dosed off and had missed the last stroke and that I was worrying over nothing because only my vivid fantasy was keeping me awake. But just as I was getting ready to slip back underneath the covers, the bell began to toll again. The four strokes came in quick succession and resounded forcefully through the empty room. Again the glass of the window pane clattered loudly.
“1 o’clock,” I muttered. “And that’s it. Nothing happened!”
I had spoken before the echo of the last stroke had faded completely and the hour bell had sounded. It did so just when I had finished speaking. It was a deep, sinister, powerful sound and it hung in the air like an enormous, voiceless ONE. All of a sudden the room was filled with a blinding, blazing light. I squinted and held up my hand to protect my eyes. The light flickered for a moment, got even brighter and then dimmed to a more tolerable level of intensity. It was still bright; a warm kind of light that seemed to pulsate slightly. It felt organic somehow, natural; almost like candle light. Only that it was so much more powerful. I swallowed hard and when I dropped my hand, jumped back slightly, startled. The strangest creature I had ever seen was sitting on the edge of my bed, regarding me solemnly. I could have easily touched it; it was less than an inch away. I did not mean to be rude but I could not help staring at it. This odd phantom in front of me had the size and build of a child but there was nothing childlike at all in its features. The face looked oddly old, almost ancient even though its skin was smooth and no wrinkles marred its perfection. There was an uncomfortable depth to the knowing colourless eyes and the full lips were twisted up slightly as if in amusement. The creature’s long, white hair was bound neatly into a pony tail with a bright red ribbon and a little green cap sat on top of its head. A branch of mistletoe had been attached to it and seemed to glow faintly. Its thin form was covered in green tight-fitting trousers and a green short tunic which came down to the creature’s knees and was fastened around the hips by a small belt. It was decorated with a very vivid, winding design of holly and ivory. All in all it looked like an aged Peter Pan decked out for a Christmas Pantomime.
The strangest thing however was that while I stared at the phantom it seemed to fade into the distance and come sharper into focus at the same time. Even though it sat perfectly still, there was a constant motion. Body parts disappeared and doubled up at random and yet it never seemed to change. It was difficult to keep watching it; it made me feel like I was seeing overlapping projections which blurred and bled into each other but never merged and always stayed in focus individually. Only now did I realize that the light that continued to fill the room seemed to radiate from a miniature comet, complete with blazing tail, which was pinned to the phantom’s collar.
“The star of Bethlehem,” the thought rushed through my head as I gazed at the creature. I tried to compose myself and cleared my throat with a little cough.
“Are you the first of the ghosts I was told I would encounter?” I asked.
“I am.” The creature’s voice was gentle and very low. I had to strain my ears to catch the words even though the distance between us was so small.
“Who… or what are you?” I inquired, feeling a little bolder. “Do I know you?”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Chances Past. You ask if you know me, Sir. Indeed you should know me, know me well in fact.”
I felt a little humbled by its cross reply but couldn’t help asking the next question anyway.
“Long past?”
“No, your past.”
“And what is the reason for your visit?”
“Your welfare and that of those closest to you.”
The phantom glared at me and extended a hand.
“Come, rise with me. I have things to show you and we don’t have time to waste!”
The creature’s grip was surprisingly firm and it pulled me up with it as it got up from the bed. Without another explanation it headed towards the window. It opened silently as we approached and I had the feeling that my companion planned to simply step outside, right into the air.
I hesitated but was pulled forwarded regardless.
“I’m no ghost, I will fall,” I objected in a small voice. I didn’t dare to voice any protest about it being far too cold to step out into the freezing chill of a snowy night dressed only in pyjamas, wearing no shoes.
The creature smiled at me slightly and touched my chest at the spot where my heart was beating too fast.
“Do not worry about earthly things like this. My touch will keep you out of danger. Remember this and also remember that a bit of Christmas spirit in your heart will get you through the most peculiar situations.”
I only nodded as we stepped right out of the window and before I could even scream, the scenery around us changed and I found myself standing on a small street in a suburban part of a northern town. It was still dark or rather just getting dark and there was the tiniest lining of orange and gold at the horizon. A handful of boys of possibly 13 or 14 years of age were running down the street, kicking and chasing after a battered looking football. Even though I could not see their face, I suddenly remembered all their names. There was little Scott Daniels who had lived next door with his mother and grandmother; there was Malcolm Larkinson, who had the worst stutter you had ever heard; there were the McKinley twins and two of the elder Wilkinson brothers. I looked around, totally bewildered. The phantom let go of my arm and watched me with the smallest smile playing around its lips.
“Do you remember this place?” it asked in its soft voice.
“Remember it?” I echoed. “Of course I remember it. I grew up here. My parents used to live here until lately.”
“Odd then, that this street has seen your footfall so rarely in recent years,” the creature remarked dryly.
I flushed a little out of embarrassment and turned around some more. The boys were laughing and shouting at each other at the other end of street but as Malcolm kicked the ball into the other direction by mistake they all came running towards us.
“Don’t worry,” the phantom told me as if it had read my mind. “Those are just shadows of things that once have been. They won’t take any notice of us!”
It moved forward again and I immediately followed close behind. We walked down the street and suddenly were standing right in front of the house in which I had grown up.
A little semi-detached building made out of red brick, sitting at the end of a very small front garden. We stepped right through the front door and as soon as we materialized on the other side of it, I was totally overwhelmed by all of the familiar sights, sounds and smells that I seemed to have forgotten for so long. I swallowed past the lump in my throat and looked around. This was home as it had been and somehow even the hideous 60’s wallpaper and the brown carpet looked good in that context. We ended up at the door to the kitchen, from where we could observe my mother and father having what appeared to be a heated discussion. They looked so young that night; as if they had never looked better. Father tall and handsome in his stiff, unsmiling sort of way and mother still pretty with her hair piled up into an unbelievable beehive. I knew the words they were going to speak even before they left their mouths.
I shivered as I looked on. For the second time in my life I heard my father say:
“They let her read Oscar Wilde at school! If that is not indecent, then I don’t know what is! They didn’t send that pervert to prison for nothing!”
“But those are just stories!” My mother interrupted. “They were written for his children. Fairytales. I don’t think there is anything of his… perverted nature in those stories.”
My father looked furious and threw the cloth with which he had been drying dishes to the floor in frustration.
“He was a homosexual!” He exclaimed and he sounded so put of and offended that it nearly broke my heart again. I wanted to step forward, to argue with that man but the phantom tucked the sleeve of my pyjama and made me turn around. I saw the nine year old version of me standing half way down the stairs, listening intently, looking shocked and anguished. Then the boy I once had been rushed up the stairs and the phantom and I followed close behind. I knew what was to come next and I really did not want to see it but the creature, possibly sensing this, dragged me on. We entered my former bedroom and I was surprised how big it had seemed to me then. The nine years old version of me was kneeling in front of the bed, head bowed, mumbling soft words while tears were running down his face. I felt such pity for this boy, who was struggling with what and who he was meant to be at that early age. Something that had taken me decades to fully come to terms with. My lips moved with the words I knew the boy was whispering.
“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, et omnibus Sanctis, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...”
What great sin could he have committed that this boy prayed so feverishly for redemption, I wondered despite of knowing the answer.
I closed my eyes briefly to keep my emotions in check. It had been so unfair, so unjust to force that burden upon him, so unfair...
“You seem to recall the words,” the phantom observed.
I nodded and turned to face it. “I will never forget those words as long as life,” I told it with a conviction I had not known I felt.
“For one who remembers so well, you have not used them in a long while,” the creature commented dryly once more.
I bowed my head like the boy still kneeling in front of his bed and muttered:
“I wish... No, there really is no point to it anymore.”
“What’s the matter?” the phantom asked gently.
I looked up and squared my shoulders. “It’s nothing, really. Only that I wish I had asked forgiveness of certain people.”
The creature smiled and gave a small nod. Then he extended his hand and as I hesitantly took it, said: “On to another time!”
The scenery dissolved around us and then we were now standing in an empty corridor. It was quiet there and it smelled of wood polish, dust and old socks. I looked around and felt a wave of dread rush through me.
We were in my old school, St. Cuthbert’s School for Boys. A door felt shut in the distance but otherwise the place appeared to be deserted. Most doors leading to the class rooms were closed, a few had been left ajar and dusty sunlight fell on the grey stone floor. I looked at my companion, searching for a clue and it gestured me forward. “Go on, don’t hesitate!”
I walked down the corridor, following a turn to the left and then went into another room which I knew would be the changing room. I found a solitary boy sitting with drawn up knees on top of one of the benches running along each side of the walls. He was still wearing his football gear and held one side of his face where a fierce blow of another boy’s hand had struck him. He was not crying but he looked so miserable that I could hardly bare to look on. It was strange seeing my 14 years-old self and not being able to do anything to make him feel better.
The door behind me swung open and my former sports teacher came in and stepped right through me. He stopped in front of my young self and stared down at the miserable boy with barely concealed contempt.
“Still here, Tennant? Got a bit of a beating, huh? Should do you good, being soft and all.”
The boy lifted his head up and through set teeth managed to ask: “Soft, Sir?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Tennant.” My teacher replied, regarding the boy in front of him coldly. “It’s no secret you are a nancy boy. I don’t really care about that, but I won’t tolerate you making a fool out of the whole team! You better show up for the game tomorrow and you better play as if you know how to otherwise I will talk to your parents!”
The boy’s face had gone deep red but he hadn’t diverted his eyes. The teacher turned and walked out of the room without another word, letting his treat hang in the air like some vicious bird of prey. I watched in silent horror as the boy began to weep, mumbling defiantly under his breath as he gathered his belongings and left the room.
The scenery changed again just as he walked past my companion and me and again I found myself in our old house. My younger self sat on his bed and stared at a little brown glass bottle filled with pills in his hands. He placed it on his pillow, silently got up and tiptoed over to the bathroom and poured water from the tab into a toothbrush tumbler and went back to his room.
He closed the door and locked it from the inside, sat down on his bed once more and opened the bottle containing the pills. He emptied its content onto the blanket and then gathered all the small white tablets into his hand, about twenty of them and put them into his mouth. He drank down the water and swallowed hard to get even last of the pills down. Then he lay down on top of his bed and closed his eyes.
He was waiting for something; for all of his troubles to end; for death ultimately.
“No!” I shouted. “Please, not again!”
The hours went past us in a flash; darkness crept into the room and faded and finally the boy was woken up by a fierce knocking on his door.
“For Heaven’s sake boy, open the door! Now!”
It had been my father pounding against the wooden door with his fists, trying to force it open, shouting at me.
“Open the door at once; you are late for school already. You’ll be in trouble for this,
I promise you!”
The boy almost fell out of bed and looked around him in confusion. What was wrong? Why was he still alive? Why was his father pounding against the door? Why was nobody worried about him? He had not known then that instead of sleeping pills he had taken a package of simple aspirin.
On shaking legs he walked over to the door and unlocked it. He felt sick and weak and he had a driving headache. His father came stumbling in and grabbed him by the ear as soon as he caught sight of him.
“Now get dressed and hurry. No breakfast for you. I will drive you to make sure you won’t miss your football match.” He dragged the boy behind him and shoved him into the bathroom, ignoring the sobs and the protest.
My own hands were trembling by now and I really did not want to see any more. Thankfully the ensuing events went by in quick succession. It was like watching a movie on fast forward. One moment I saw my former self sitting in the back seat of my father’s car, fighting against tears of humiliation and anger, next he was in the changing room again, silently enduring the verbal abuse of his class mates. In a blink of an eye he was on the pitch, uncertainly trying to guard the goal, next it was all over and he trotted back to the changing room, keeping the distance to the other boys. He was covered in mud and bruises and he looked anything but cheerful.
When he had changed we followed him into town where he ran to the only sanctuary he knew: the library. He walked up all of the stairs until he came to a little used room full of dusty books with yellowing pages, mostly reprints of so-called English classics.
He froze with the door handle in his hand when he saw that his favourite chair by the window was already occupied. A boy, who was about the same age as I had been, sat there and turned the pages of an illustrated volume of ‘Arabian Nights’. The stranger had straight black hair that was a little too long and he wore the school uniform of another boys-only grammar school from across town. When he heard the noise of my former self’s footsteps he looked up and smiled.
“Bunking off school as well?” he asked and winked. The younger version of me smiled hesitantly and nodded. The other boy got up and extended his hand in greeting.
“Pleased to meet you, my name’s Jeff. Jeffery Cooper!”
I felt the relief again, the curiosity and the gratitude for those friendly words. This time I was not able to hold back my tears and I watched the boys interact for while.
Jeffery! Dear God, Jeffery! 15 years of age and already unbelievably handsome. Tall, lean and cheeky. Twinkling eyes and a grin that was infectious. I had liked him from the spot, had trusted him from the beginning without knowing why.
“Jeffery was quite a loyal person, was he not?” The phantom asked me.
“Oh, yes he was. The most loyal and accurate person I have ever known,” I agreed.
“But he is dead for how many years now?” The creature went on with its interrogation.
“For almost 15 year,” I replied in a small voice. Lord, it still hurt to think of him as buried and gone.
“And did he leave anybody behind towards whom you should feel loyalty?”
I swallowed and nodded. “His boyfriend, Michael.”
The creature looked at me with those piercing eyes and asked one more question:
“When did you last see him?”
“It was last… No, wait. It was... two years ago?” My voice broke as I realized the truth of it. Two years! What had I been thinking? Time was precious with Michael, just as it had been precious with Jeffery. Even though he was doing fine right now, one could never know when his illness would appear again and how much time he had left. I felt severely uncomfortable and could not stand the expression in those strange eyes so I shifted my gaze to my feet.
Everything around us faded once more in a swirl of colours and when I looked up I found myself in a non-descript looking hotel room. It really could have been anywhere in the world, it was the kind of room one forgets as soon as one leaves. I caught sight of myself sitting in a chair watching BBC World. There was a half-eaten dish of pasta and a glass of red wine on a small table next to me. That version of me was almost as old as I was now, the only indication of some years missing was the fact that the short cut hair was a bit thicker on top and that the colour, for all of the grey that had appeared around the temples still could have been described as light brown.
Then man I had been looked grumpy and suddenly I remembered the reason for his displeasure. It had been Christmas Eve nine years ago, when I had been snowed in in Brussels, unable to get back to London to celebrate the first Christmas with Stefan.
I had just finished the thought, when there was a knock on the door. I saw myself get up with a sigh and open the door. I saw Stefan standing in the corridor, frozen but beaming. The boy had looked so much more alive, so much happier then that he did nowadays.
I watched as the two of them got back into the hotel room and how Stefan unpacked his bags and produced quite a fair number of presents and a small Christmas tree from their depths. The expression of surprise and astonishment on my own face had been priceless and made me chuckle even in this bizarre situation. I watched as Stefan and I clicked glasses and finally wished each other a ‘Merry Christmas’.
It was amazing to see how much the boy had transformed the room and the mood by simply being there.
“A small matter to make his boyfriend happy on such a gloomy day,” the phantom observed quietly.
“A small matter?” I asked. “Not small at all! It meant the world to me that he showed up that night.”
“Then, surely, you would have done the same for him gladly?” The creature asked and made me feel uncomfortable once more. The creature regarded me silently once more and then grabbed my arm with more force than I would have liked.
“Come, quick!” It said. “My time with you grows short and there is still something I want you to see!”
I must admit I did not share the creature’s enthusiasm, for by now I was dreading what shadows of the past it would unearth for me to witness.
A general chill seemed to be in the air when we touched down where the phantom had wanted me to be. It was my house in Durham and it was winter. A bitter winter with a biting wind and sinister clouds hanging low. Frost covered everything from the grass and the cobblestones in the yard to the trees and the window panes. We entered the hall just as somebody closed the main door behind him and I was walking up the stairs. The creature made us float up ahead of that slightly younger version of me.
I remembered the clothes I had been wearing, my old glasses. I knew what had just happened. I knew what day, what time it was. The phantom had dragged me back to that fateful Christmas of three years ago; that Christmas when I had really and totally broken Stefan’s heart.
When I could finally see my own, slightly younger face, I felt the breath catch in my throat. How annoyed had I been? How disillusioned and sarcastic? How bitter? How much anger had I kept alive within me in order to drown out the loneliness and the pain?
Why had I so stubbornly refused to admit I had made a mistake, such a terrible, terrible mistake? Why hadn’t I just turned around? Why hadn’t I been able to say how much I regretted certain things I had done?
“Why? Dear God, why?” I was whispering the words under my breath, hardly aware of speaking.
“You ask for a reason,” the creature prompted me. “The reason for what?”
“I… It’s just…” I began, bewildered. “The reason for being so utterly stupid!”
Instead of answering the creature grabbed the sleeve of my pyjama once more and made me follow it. We glided through the front door and into the yard, down the path leading from my property over to my sister’s house. I saw her hurrying along, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as the fierce wind blew settled snow right into her face. She let herself into her own home which appeared so much more welcoming than my own deserted one. Lights were on everywhere; my mother was sitting in the kitchen, talking to my brother Simon’s wife and there was a bit of a commotion in the living room. The TV was on but nobody seemed to pay any intention to the programme, instead my youngest nieces and nephews were running around, singing Carols and the older ones sat on the sofa in various easy chairs, chatting and laughing. Simon just stepped into the house from the back garden, shaking snow out of his hair
“Isn’t Uncle Neil coming over to join us for dinner?” Sandy, the five years old daughter of my sister’s eldest son asked. She looked disappointed when Susan shook her head and said:
“No dear, your uncle Neil is busy right now but he sends you a good-night kiss. I’ll give it to you later.”
She caught Simon’s eye and gestured for him to come over to her. Together they went back into the corridor. They spoke in hushed voices so that no one could overhear their conversation.
“You were outside with the dog, weren’t you?” Susan asked and when Simon nodded, went on.
“Did you see Stefan leaving?”
“Stefan?” My brother frowned. “No. Why, I didn’t know he was here. Why would he leave on a night like this?”
“Because our dear brother threw him out again. He made it quite clear that he sticks to his decision of quitting with that poor boy. You should have heard their argument; Neil didn’t give Stefan even 5 minutes to explain himself. He shoved the boy back out into the cold without asking if he knew how to get back to London.”
“Wow,” my brother shook his head, clearly taken aback. “He really outdoes himself lately with being an unbearable old prick, does he?” He mumbled. “Changing the lock on the boy’s room, double-crossing him and all that stuff… I mean, if Neil thinks he must do it, he can quit with his boyfriend but you should think he’d be a bit more civil about it. Especially today, it being Christmas Eve and all!”
“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” my sister agreed. “So you didn’t see a car leave for Durham, did you?”
Once more my brother shook his head, then his eyes widened in shocked realisation.
“Come now, Susan. Are you saying that this bloke’s out there on his own? Walking to the next bus stop, hanging out there until the next one comes in about an hour?”
Susan nodded grimly. Simon however did not need any more persuasion; he zipped up his jacket again and pulled his woollen hat tighter over his ears.
“I’ll take the Landover and see if I can find him, then!” he announced.
Susan smiled and padded his back. “Wait a second, I’m coming with you. Just need my coat.”
I saw them both head outside into the rapidly falling night. Again the phantom and I followed close behind. Simon drove the Landover down the winding lane, away from the moor and into the direction of the village. It wasn’t that far way, at most a 20 minutes walk but in this weather it seemed to be totally hidden. They indeed found Stefan at the nearest bus stop, curled into a tight ball of limbs on top of the small bench. He had his face buried in his hands and was crying. He was shaking so badly that his teeth were clattering. Susan jumped out of the car and spoke to the devastated boy. After a while, Stefan got up reluctantly and followed her into the car. Simon turned the Landover around and they all drove back to Susan’s house.
Stefan was led into a guest room and Susan piled all sorts of warm clothing on the bed for Stefan to wear. She ran him a bath and put a steaming mug of tea into his blue hands and showed him the extremely big woollen socks her daughter had made than she had been 12. I saw the boy smiling slightly.
When he had finished his bath and his tea and was nicely wrapped up in pyjamas, socks and a sweater on top, he rolled up in bed.
Susan took his wet clothes and boots with her and was just about to close the door behind her when the boy spoke softly.
“Thanks for your help. And Merry Christmas!”
Susan gave him her warmest smile “Merry Christmas to you, too, Stefan.”
Stefan lay there starring at the door for a long time but finally he turned to one side and hugged his blanket closely. I barely heard the next words, he whispered them so softly.
“Merry Christmas to you, Neil. I love you so much!”
I felt like I had been punched heavily into the stomach. I couldn’t stand this any longer.
I turned around, facing the phantom. I would have grabbed its shoulders and shaken it, had my hands not passed right through it.
“Please,” I pleaded. “I wanna see no more. Take me away. This is too dreadful!”
“Those are just the shadows of the things that once have been. You had your fair share in creating them so do not blame me for what you have seen!” The creature rebuked me.
I was on the verge of going down on my knees to beg for mercy, when I suddenly found myself falling. I landed flat on my back and when I blinked and got up, I realised I must have fallen out of bed. I climbed back in and could hardly keep my eyes open until my head hit the pillow. Still I swear I heard somebody whistle the tune of “I walk the line” softly to himself and strangely enough it did not even bother me. I felt so exhausted and emotionally drained that I fell into a deep sleep almost at once in spite of it.
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Dead as a doornail