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A slow, steady drip echoed down the wide hall. Anderson didn’t remember such a hall adjoining his study, but then, there was much he no longer remembered. He marked his place, closed his journal, and rose from his weathered desk.

That’s how it always began.

The old man's steps were measured, matching the heavy drip. The light at the end of the hall was dim and flickering. It came from slender candles, melted down to stumps, resting upon their waxen cascades. They dotted a long table, a table which was groaning under piles of fruits and bread, bowing under the weight of gilded glass.

The fruit was puckered and shriveled, the bread spotted with mold. Even the glow of the candles seemed wan and shuddering.

Drip, drip. A stream of thick wine had wound its way to the end of the table, and pooled on the floor like blood. The neglect touched everything…cracking the clawed feet of the table, tarnishing the delicate silverware, dulling the intricate carvings that leered from every lintel and ledge. It had the air of a feast for a wedding that never happened…a surprise party for a birthday that everyone forgot.

The heavy atmosphere made Anderson’s skin crawl. The silence grew until it was almost deafening, broken suddenly by the wail of an infant. He started, looking around the vaulted chamber. Riches were piled like rubbish. Fat pomegranates split to show glistening ruby seeds, and golden trinkets crowded the corners like toys. Again, the cry rose, undulating and plaintive.

Panic gripped him. It was no place for a child, not as it was. He could almost imagine it otherwise…the candles still tall and bright, the food unspoiled, and music chiming through the halls. It would have been beautiful. Decadent. But who would bring a child to a place like this?

The cry peaked, and Anderson flinched at the sudden sound of cracking glass. A thick framed mirror, the height of the entire wall, had split straight up the middle at the keening wail. He turned towards it, dazed, and found himself staring at his own reflection.

Not his reflection, not exactly. It moved like him, reeled back like him, but it was the image of Anderson from a very very long time ago. The sharp young face grinned suddenly, and the mirror shattered completely as the infant’s cry reached an incredible pitch.

__

Anderson sat up in bed, heart pounding. The dream always left him like this, dizzy and disoriented. It wasn’t the dream that scared him, though.

The old man looked around slowly, at the leather journal on his bed stand, the crystal ashtray half full of Spanish peanuts, the alarm clock still blinking 12:00. This was the hardest part of the dream. Not the corruption. Not the crying. Not the doppelganger.

It was waking up to this.

RP with Granny - Fin!

A steady, rapid drip…like a heart beat...echoed down the wide hall. Anderson already stood waiting for the hall that would adjoining his study. Here, his memory was perfect. He never looked back, always forward into the Great Hall.

That’s how it always began, now.

The old man's steps were swift. He strode forward, eager to see what lay beyond. The light at the end of the hall was steady and subtle. It came from a multitude of slender candles, dotted with rolling wax that lay like great pearls down their length. They were scattered over a long table, a table which was groaning under piles of sweetmeats and soups, bowing under the weight of gilded utensils and twisted horn vases.

The fruit was scattered and spilled, the bread torn and tossed. Even the chairs were upended, scattered to corners and under tables on their sides.

Drip, drip. A stream of thick wine had wound its way to the end of the table, and pooled on the floor like blood. The discord touched everything…the table was askew, the chandelier swinging, every strange object and artifact oriented directly towards him. It was as though the room was a compass, and he was True North. It was a feast, interrupted…a fete that now held its breath.

The anticipation was so thick that it wrapped him in tension. Anderson's steps slowed. He could hear the intake of breath that always came before the wail, and he raised his hands to his ears before the screaming started. Riches were piled like rubbish, and they tarnished and cracked in the face of the unseen infant's shriek. Fat pomegranates split to show glistening ruby seeds and moulded, desiccating inward, the bread shrank to give life to a carpet of patchwork green. Again, the cry rose, undulating and plaintive.

Panic gripped him. It was not the child he feared for…it was this place. He could almost imagine it, the way it was meant to be…the candles still tall and bright, the food unspoiled, and music chiming through the halls. It would have been beautiful. Decadent. But who would bring ruin a place like this?

The cry rose, and Anderson flinched at the sudden sound of cracking glass. Not now…he was so close! He'd wanted to see what was beyond the windows, fogged like winters frost at their edges!! He'd wanted to press his face to that glass like a child, and gaze out at the moonlight and whatever it held!!

It was too late. He could hear the crack spread, like a rift in ice, and he was drawn towards it. A thick framed mirror, the height of the entire wall, had split straight up the middle at the keening wail. He turned towards it, anxious and ill, and found himself staring at his own reflection.

Not his reflection, not exactly. It moved like him, reeled back like him, but it was the image of Anderson from a very very long time ago. From a long time ago, and with vivid, cherry red eyes. The sharp young face grinned suddenly, and the mirror shattered completely as the infant’s cry reached an incredible pitch.

___

Anderson woke, but did not move. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his heart going faster than was comfortable. He could almost still hear that hateful cry.

Automatically, his eyes focused on the cherry, still resting atop the catcher on his nightstand. He blinked at it wearily, the dream still spinning and fading in his mind, and closed his eyes to find sleep again.

The wail of the infant filled his very apartment, making the very glass in the windows reverberate and shudder. Anderson stumbled out of the hall, soles of his shoes still tacky with spilled honey wine and crushed fruits. His arm went wide as he stumbled, sweeping the clock and picture frame off his desk. The decay was spreading…creeping out of the hall like a network of vines. It cracked and peeled at his wall paper, spreading in unsightly blotches like bruise colored water stains on his ceiling. The brass of his headboard tarnished and flaked, all because of that crying, that incessant crying…

Somewhere, distantly, came laughter. Cruel and amused. It wove together with the crying to make a fishnet of cacophony, raucous and encompassing like standing in the center of a flock of angry crows. Anderson swung his arm again, knocking his own glasses from his face, but both the wail and the laughter only grew louder.

It would drive him mad, this noise. This decay. His flailing fingers closed around something…the pen from his desk, which was splintering and warping…and he brought it closer to his face to squint at it through the blur of poor vision. His narrowed eyes focused on the point, glistening with a hint of blue black ink. Jaw set, determined, Anderson lifted the pen in his fist until it was pointed directly towards his ear, and…


…suddenly, the infant's wail ceased.

His arm trembled, pen still leveled at his very own ear. Why had it stopped? He hadn't done it yet…had he?

"Wait…what….what was I going to do?" With growing horror, he dropped the pen on his desk, watching as it rolled and dropped to the carpet with a dull thud. Had he truly been about to put out his own ear?!

The laughter came again, cold and slow. Anderson pulled himself straight. He'd been dreaming. His bed was not tarnished, his desk unmarred. The cry of the baby had vanished…but why was the laughter still echoing in his ears?

His eyes settled upon the dream catcher, and the moment they did, the laughter ceased. It wasn't that he stopped hearing it…he could hear the laughter curtail with a hitch of breath, like a child that didn't wish to reveal its hiding place. Gnarled old hands curled into fists, and Anderson started forward toward the accursed artifact.

A flicker of motion from the corner of his eye made him spin. The old man caught the edge of his desk, his balance wasn't what it used to be. There, from the other direction, another flash. His heart was racing, but he couldn't get a clear look at it. Was anything even there? Perhaps it was his mind-

A final flicker of shadow, and his dream catcher began to swing against the wall as though someone had swiped it with a broom. The feathers fluttered and twisted, plump cherry bouncing against the net. The laughter was gone again, held at bay as long as Anderson kept his gaze locked on the dream catcher.

It was going to be a very long night.

Anderson was sitting upright in bed, heart hammering. He was used to the dream bleeding into reality, but he was awake. He was sure of it.

He could hear footsteps in the pitch blackness of his room.

It wasn't like the haunting echoes that seemed to follow him. The laughter, the distant wailing of the infant. This wasn't like the dream at all. There was someone here, in the dark of his chambers, pacing the wall where the dreamcatcher was hanging. Even now, in the dark, he could hear the faint tick of the frame rapping against the wall as it stirred in the breeze.

Someone was in his room, and Anderson was suddenly terrified. His door...had been locked from the inside.

The pacing stopped abruptly, and the old man realized he was holding his breath, trying to stay as quiet as he could. Straining to listen. Silence…until something was flung against his face in the dark. Anderson bellowed, cheek smarting from where the small object had struck him, and fumbled with the light on the bed stand. His water glass crashed to the ground in the dark, spilling and splintering, before he clicked on his little lamp.

The room was empty.

Now the laughter came, the familiar and distant laughter. As for what had struck his face…

A cherry lay nestled in the folds of his blanket, split and leaking from where it had impacted against his face. His hands shook as he picked it from the bedspread, stain spreading like blood. His breath was ragged, thick fingers fumbling with the wet fruit.

Hush now baby, don't you cry~