FicWad

The atmosphere is tense. Even with the moon casting calmly glowing rays into his window, he can feel that uncertain vibe running through his blood. The stars aren't out tonight. The wind is picking up, and whenever a big gust of salty night wind passes through the house, an eerie whistle sounds. It echoes throughout the large wooden staircase next to his bedroom.

It's bone chilling.

He can’t sleep. The clock on his solid oak nightstand is ticking incessantly. It's too dark. There's too much space. Too many hidden shadows with unhumanly figures, objects looking like weapons in the blackness. Lamps that are normally cheerful and yellow seem frozen and morose.

The old rug that takes up nearly half of his floor, the one that he’d spent countless times spread out on, contemplating life. It appears as if someone has sewn it to the floor with a needle and thread, tightened the knots until the fabric has flattened against the floor, almost ripping in the seams. It reminds him of those strange wooden carved dolls. With the needles for fingernails, sharp enough to cut your throat and leave you streaming in red. The ones that have those big, unblinking black button eyes that pierce right through you. Stringy hair, and tattered clothing that is probably made of some sort of animal skin.

Brendon shivers.

His body quakes. The old blankets he's laying in are not keeping him warm, and his thin body is curled tightly around a throw pillow. His eyes are wide open. Brown and youthfull, yet somewhat daunted. They flicker towards the door. The house’s walls are rattling slightly from the force of the wind, making the door to Brendon’s bedroom shake. The doorknob jiggles. The sharp metal twisting has his nerves on a string.

His window is closed. He’d made sure of that before he’d darted into bed. His curtains are open, though. He curses himself for not closing those as well. Now he can see nothing but the shadows of the trees. Their branches like cold, unwelcome fingers, stretched out and reaching for something. Anything.

He breathes out.

A powdery fog escapes his lips. They, as with the tips of his fingers, were slowly turning blue. He hadn’t noticed.

His hands clutched at a small mauve teddy bear, knuckles white in a fierce grip. It was held close to his heart. He could feel its pulse racing under his thumbs.

The phone rings.

He jumps a bit, slighted by the shrillness of the sound. Brendon’s frightened eyes fix on it, sitting at the foot of his bed. It had been in his room since the beginning of the week. It normally stayed in the kitchen downstairs, but he’d unhooked it from the wall and brought it to the safety of his room.

The phone rings again.

This time the boy reaches out, bony hand taking the receiver and quickly putting it to his ear. His grip turns vicelike. The curly black cord dangles lifelessly, barely moving. Its curls no longer curly, but crooked. Brendon had spent hours wringing the plastic in his hands, in frustration and fear.

“Yes...I'm fine.” he answers. His voice is that of a whisper. It sounds distant. He knows who's calling. It's two in the morning. His...friend? No, his butler. Friends rren’t things he ever remembered having. Someone had to be worried about him, though.

Then again, it is Nortin’s job to take care of him. It’s not as if he's actually concerned about Brendon, who is steadily sinking lower and lower into nothing. It seems almost an obligation, and a chore he has to do. Taking care of the stupid terrified boy in his almost ghastly large mansion.

All alone.

Soon Norton won’t have to worry about doing his job, though.
Because nothing is coming fast, and Brendon knows it.

But what if someone can save him?