Trance gets a little sneaky, and karma bites him in the a**. (Con's Discovery.)
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It wasn't in Trance's nature to let things go. So, when Raife said not to go up into the attic because there was something strange going on, he knew he had to go. But of course, he couldn't let Raife know that was his intent. He balked at the idea of invading her private space when she first presented the idea to him. Why would he want to go up into some musty old attic? There wasn't anything up there besides boxes of old books and comic books.
Oh, if only she knew how badly he really wanted to go up there. She'd chain him to a post outside.
There was something irresistable about the forbidden. He was human, after all. Well, as human as anyone got around here anyway.
He tilted his head up to scowl at the crooked ladder that lead up to the attic. Raife had built it herself in a fit of exuberance and handiwork, and, despite offers to replace it with something a bit sturdier and more suitable, it remained, a tribute and a mirror of Raife's often astray mind. He tested a step before he put his weight on it, oddly careful, though it would put him less than a foot off the ground. Despite the look of it, it held firm, daring and defying gravity and living up to the threat.
Despite the stability of that one step, Trance continued to test each step before he put full weight on it, until he was at the top of the ladder, both feet in the attic. Peering down the shaft below, he marvelled that he made it up. It looked unsteady from every angle, not just the one he'd had down below.
He'd been up in the attic once before. After all, he'd had a hand in building it. But he hadn't seen it as it presently was, with the large beanbag surrounded by books. It was just as how Raife had left it after her last scare, a few comic books scattered, and there...the offending one, Superman #76, tossed how she'd tossed it back up the stairs to rest after the incident. That was word around the house, anyway. He picked it up gingerly by its spine. Rumor had it one of the boys had witnessed her wrestling with a book in the living room and she hadn't been herself a while afterward. That was saying something, given what the thief had seen in her time.
He flopped over onto the beanbag with little grace, settling the book on his lap, lifting the edges of the pages with his fingertips. Seemed innocuous enough to him. Just a comic book like the stacks of so many up there. What was there to be so scared of? And why forbid this place? It wasn't particularly scary. He hadn't felt or seen a thing.
Not one to waste a quiet moment, he closed his eyes.
And woke up with a start some time later, feeling wetness under his fingers. His first thought brought him to look upwards. Was there a leak in the ceiling? But it wasn't raining to begin with. It would be easy enough to hear the patter of rain on the roof from here. But nothing came.
Then he looked down at his fingers and startled. a rainbow colored pool was streaming from the book on his lap and his fingers were sinking in it. A little bit of blue snaked around his thumb. A little green wrapped round his pinky. Wrinkling his nose, he brought his hand up out of it. It smelt and behaved like paint. But....the book itself looked dry. He lifted the edge off him. It was dry. The dripping seemed to come from nothing rational. The pages itself were dry and somehow dripping all at the same time, colors bleeding off the bright pages. Superman's cape, Lois's dress. All the colors bled and merged to drip in torrents off the pages, dripping off his body, to pool over the side of the beanbag and onto the floor.
It wasn't until he watched it continue to ooze, fascinated for a while, that he began to notice a couple of things. One was a faint giggling sound, in the back of his brain, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once in the attic, as if it was echoing off the stacks of books and inside his brain. Secondly, the book itself was starting to ooze, like the paint. The corners were turning the consistency of paint. Slowly, as he held it up from himself, the book dripped until it was liquid, spreading and sliding off him to pool with the rest of the mess on the floor. It slithered behind a sack of books, then everything was silent.
It had to have been an illusion. He was still dreaming right? He shouldn't have eaten that week old sub sandwich from the fridge before coming up there and falling asleep. He'd refused the carrots. They were too healthy, DAMMIT! Damn his stomach!
Then the stack of books started to gurgle. Gurgle? It was a pleasant sound, happy even. A happy bookstack? Levering himself up from the chair, he peered over to investigate.
The good news? The paint was certainly gone.
The bad? There was something else making a mess. Something that would continue to make messes and turn Trance's life upside down in a way he hadn't seen since he rescued a tiny baby bird-boy so long ago. Sticky, paint covered fingers reached up to the muse without any fear. Trance picked up the tiny baby boy, swaddling an attached cape tightly around him for warmth.
He should have listened to Raife. He knew better by now.
Oh, if only she knew how badly he really wanted to go up there. She'd chain him to a post outside.
There was something irresistable about the forbidden. He was human, after all. Well, as human as anyone got around here anyway.
He tilted his head up to scowl at the crooked ladder that lead up to the attic. Raife had built it herself in a fit of exuberance and handiwork, and, despite offers to replace it with something a bit sturdier and more suitable, it remained, a tribute and a mirror of Raife's often astray mind. He tested a step before he put his weight on it, oddly careful, though it would put him less than a foot off the ground. Despite the look of it, it held firm, daring and defying gravity and living up to the threat.
Despite the stability of that one step, Trance continued to test each step before he put full weight on it, until he was at the top of the ladder, both feet in the attic. Peering down the shaft below, he marvelled that he made it up. It looked unsteady from every angle, not just the one he'd had down below.
He'd been up in the attic once before. After all, he'd had a hand in building it. But he hadn't seen it as it presently was, with the large beanbag surrounded by books. It was just as how Raife had left it after her last scare, a few comic books scattered, and there...the offending one, Superman #76, tossed how she'd tossed it back up the stairs to rest after the incident. That was word around the house, anyway. He picked it up gingerly by its spine. Rumor had it one of the boys had witnessed her wrestling with a book in the living room and she hadn't been herself a while afterward. That was saying something, given what the thief had seen in her time.
He flopped over onto the beanbag with little grace, settling the book on his lap, lifting the edges of the pages with his fingertips. Seemed innocuous enough to him. Just a comic book like the stacks of so many up there. What was there to be so scared of? And why forbid this place? It wasn't particularly scary. He hadn't felt or seen a thing.
Not one to waste a quiet moment, he closed his eyes.
And woke up with a start some time later, feeling wetness under his fingers. His first thought brought him to look upwards. Was there a leak in the ceiling? But it wasn't raining to begin with. It would be easy enough to hear the patter of rain on the roof from here. But nothing came.
Then he looked down at his fingers and startled. a rainbow colored pool was streaming from the book on his lap and his fingers were sinking in it. A little bit of blue snaked around his thumb. A little green wrapped round his pinky. Wrinkling his nose, he brought his hand up out of it. It smelt and behaved like paint. But....the book itself looked dry. He lifted the edge off him. It was dry. The dripping seemed to come from nothing rational. The pages itself were dry and somehow dripping all at the same time, colors bleeding off the bright pages. Superman's cape, Lois's dress. All the colors bled and merged to drip in torrents off the pages, dripping off his body, to pool over the side of the beanbag and onto the floor.
It wasn't until he watched it continue to ooze, fascinated for a while, that he began to notice a couple of things. One was a faint giggling sound, in the back of his brain, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once in the attic, as if it was echoing off the stacks of books and inside his brain. Secondly, the book itself was starting to ooze, like the paint. The corners were turning the consistency of paint. Slowly, as he held it up from himself, the book dripped until it was liquid, spreading and sliding off him to pool with the rest of the mess on the floor. It slithered behind a sack of books, then everything was silent.
It had to have been an illusion. He was still dreaming right? He shouldn't have eaten that week old sub sandwich from the fridge before coming up there and falling asleep. He'd refused the carrots. They were too healthy, DAMMIT! Damn his stomach!
Then the stack of books started to gurgle. Gurgle? It was a pleasant sound, happy even. A happy bookstack? Levering himself up from the chair, he peered over to investigate.
The good news? The paint was certainly gone.
The bad? There was something else making a mess. Something that would continue to make messes and turn Trance's life upside down in a way he hadn't seen since he rescued a tiny baby bird-boy so long ago. Sticky, paint covered fingers reached up to the muse without any fear. Trance picked up the tiny baby boy, swaddling an attached cape tightly around him for warmth.
He should have listened to Raife. He knew better by now.
