GRIM Chapter 2

GRIM Chapter 2

Here it is! Hope you like it; tune in next week for chapter three, Wednesday for a new video, and Thursday for a new post. 

CHAPTER 2

J A C O B

WASHINGTON, D.C.

JULY 5, 1969

11:47 P.M.

            I was the only one who noticed the black car when it first pulled up on the curb next to the bar.

            Unlike most of the vehicles in the nation, this one was quiet and soft, making a sound like the purr of a cat, pulling in smoothly and gliding along just above the dark asphalt. Its wheels were clean and shining with fresh rubber, and its bumper and grill and door handles were all newly polished, glinting in the light from the nighttime neon signs hanging on the glass outside the pub.

            I knew that they had come for me. I could not see through the tinted windows, but I knew it: they were watching me, waiting for me to get in and go.

            I had no choice.

            Do I wish that I had stayed behind, left them to deal with their issues on their own, without my knowledge or presence?

            Of course.

            I set down the small shot glass and rose to my feet, tuning out the sounds of the slap-happy bar-goers as I buttoned up my black suit. I straightened my tie of the same color, as it was slightly askew.

            When I had made it out the door, without even leaving a tip, I stood and watched the car for a while. Its engines did not go completely silent. It just sat, calling me to a future that I had not predicted could even be possible.

            Then the back door opened spontaneously, without having been open by any visible person. It just swung open, barely missing the rainwater-smothered sidewalk, and sat there. I could wait no longer. So, quietly, without the direction of anyone, I got in the car.

            “Mr. Dawn,” greeted the apprehensive car driver, a fellow secret service agent of mine, “Been drinking on the job?”

            I ignored him and stared out the window.

            He just smiled and stepped on the gas pedal, the car lurching forward and slowly floating down the nighttime lower-class streets of D.C. He was a young man, about twenty-five, with sunglasses on his eyes despite the fact that it was close to midnight. The man next to him was tall and lanky, with the same pair of Aviators on and a grim, cold expression, like his underwear wasn’t on quite right. His face was bony and slightly wrinkled, and he just stared ahead at the rain.

            A sound jolted me out of my buzzed state: the phone ringing in the back seat. I could never get used to those mobile car phones. The latest technology, I suppose.

            “It’s for you,” grunted the skinny man, his voice clogged and almost slimy.

            Cautiously, I answered.

            “Hello?”

            “Mr. Dawn. I trust you have been doing well?”

            “Only on Mondays.”

            “You haven’t been…drinking, by any chance, have you?”

            “No, I was down at the water park playing in the kiddie pool. What do you think I was doing?”

            “Good. Because the alcohol will be needed to dull the effects of your next…assignment.”

            His voice is stiff and low and a bit scratched, almost frighteningly so.

            “If anyone asks, you’re just going to have a drink with an old college friend.”

            “Good. That’s exactly what I want to be doing right now.”

            “I will see you in five minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

            “Sorry in advance.”

            He hung up, and I did, too.

.     .     .

            The White House at night always looked formidable to me, like a fortress that guards some precious thing that only a select few are allowed to see. I think he liked it that way.

            When the guards had escorted me to the doors, I straightened my jacket once more; I had to look my best for a meeting with the Big Cheese.

            The door in the wall swung silently open and let me in. Then it closed tight, leaving me stranded in one VERY powerful room with one VERY powerful person.

            Richard Milhous Nixon.

            A single orange desk lamp illuminated the seemingly massive and hollow room, and it did the same to his similar face. He was round and bit beefy around the neck, with a protruding nose and intense eyes. He wore a jet-black suit, freshly ironed, and a shining red tie.

He rose from his chair and walked around it to greet me.

            “Jacob Dawn,” he said, smiling weakly, “It’s a pleasure to meet someone of such high…prestige.”

            He lingered on the word, as if taunting me.

            “Have a seat,” he offered, but to me, it sounded like more of a command.

            The room, like its name described, was an oval shape, and Nixon’s desk was wooden and dark, with a bright red telephone, a nameplate, a buzzer, and a…tape recorder.

            Curious, I asked about it.

            “Why the tape recorder?” I inquired, as the President sat back down in his tall brown leather chair. He flashed me the briefest of glares before answering.

            “Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed, pulling something out of a drawer. An old-looking folder, filled to the brim with papers and photos and documents. In big red letters on the cardstock file, it read:

CLASSIFIED

            “So, Jacob, before I speak to you about this…matter, I need you to promise me one thing.”

            I nodded slightly. “And what’s that?”

            “That you won’t scream.”

            I didn’t even answer that question, because his face was dead serious. President Richard Milhous Nixon was a man I respected but one I deeply feared. Maybe it was his voice. Maybe it was his bright red tie that stood out against the black. Or maybe it was because he did not respect ME. But whatever it was, I knew that I felt chills down my spine when I was in his presence.

            “Yesterday, one of the security night guards was patrolling the halls,” he began, opening the folder in such a way that I couldn’t see the inside, “When he heard noises. Odd noises, like whispers in the air.”

            This was eerie, but intriguing.

            “You sure he wasn’t…I don’t know…intoxicated?” I asked.

            “I’m sure. We took drug tests.”

            I nod. I was hoping he wouldn’t say that.

            “But after a few moments, he decided to take a photo of the air around him. And when it got developed, it looked like this.”

            Nixon pulled a picture out of the folder and plopped it down on the desk. It made me jump when I saw it, and much to my surprise, the President did not laugh at me. Because this was no laughing matter.

            The photo, black and white and grainy, depicted one of the empty halls of the White House, one of the ones that I had just walked through on my way here. But in the center of the hall, just in front of the darkest spot on the photo, there was the image of a skull. One that was gray, ghastly, and ghoulish, like something out of those ghost hoax photos on the news. It was staring directly into the camera, its mouth agape and its eyes glowing unnaturally.

            It was staring right at me.

            “Wh—What is it?” I asked, looking back up at the President.

            “I don’t know,” he said, “But I have been called to Area 51 for a emergency meeting.”

            “What is the meeting for?”

            “I think this exact matter,” he said, standing up and walking towards the door, “I am leaving tomorrow.”

            “Wait,” I said, “Why am I here?”

            “You are here,” he informed me eerily, “Because you are coming with me.”

            And with that, he turned and left the room, leaving me in the Oval Office, listening to the pattering of the rain on the windows.

           







c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.

           

           

        

GRIM Chapter 1

GRIM Chapter 1

Dear my esteemed and wonderful readers,

The first chapter of GRIM is finally here! Sorry it came late; it took more revision than I expected. But I hope you like it, and stay tuned for Friday, when chapter 2 will be posted!

  

Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

Virginia Star—August 5, 2013

GIRL DISAPPEARS

FELLSMERE, VIRGINIA—Sophia Lange, 16, was last seen on August 3, 2013. Her parents report to not having made contact since July 30. Please contact the police immediately if found.

More reports to follow.

CHAPTER 1

B R O O K E

FELLSMERE, VIRGINIA

AUGUST 5, 2013

6:37 P.M.

            There are places in the world that no one can see.

They are quiet, untouched places, out of the ways of society, where only the birds make sound and the trees whisper in the winds. Like stains on a carpet, they are always there, but always go unnoticed.

            Where I was, I felt like I was in one of those places. It was a lonely dirt road in the center of quiet Virginia, one that people rarely ever use and rarely ever want to. It was nearing dusk, and the green trees were slowly transforming into the autumn spectacle that would only last a few weeks. The sun was orange in the sky, hanging low, setting a soft glow on the world. The road was twisty and hilly, as it moved with the land and its obstacles.

            My jet-black Mustang didn’t ride smoothly. I wasn’t used to the jostling the road brought to my seat, as I gripped the steering wheel comfortably. The car came from my dad; he gave it to me when I was old enough and when he was getting a new Porsche. I loved the vehicle; it was smooth, reliable, and sporty, but not too showy, like an Apple computer.

            I rolled down my window to let some cool air in; the air was stuffy inside. The ride was unusually painful; but I needed to find a back road to get to Sophia’s house; her street was blocked off. I hadn’t heard from her in a few days, but I needed to study for finals at school, and needed her to help me.

            My cell phone buzzed in the cup holder I had set it in. It was a black smart phone, the latest version. The caller ID showed a picture of a redhead girl and read “OLIVIA HART.”

            “Hey girl,” I said into the phone, as I held it up to my ear, “What’s up?”

            “Nothing,” she responded, “Hey, I was calling to ask: where the heck are you? I tried looking for the trail of coffee you always leave but I couldn’t find it.”

            “Ha-ha. I’m out taking a back road to Sophia’s house; her street is blocked.”

            “Creeper,” she mocked, “Why do you need to get to her house?”

            “Homework,” I informed her. “And you’re one to talk, you just called me to find out where I am.”

            “Well, I need to talk to you about something I saw in the newspaper this morning.” Her tone was more somber.

            “Just hang on, I’ll call you back, gotta—”

            I was thrown out of my seat as my car veered off the road and slammed into a tree front-first. My head hit something, the steering wheel probably, and then my vision went awry.

            “Hello? Hello? Brooke, you ok?”

            Those were the last sounds I heard before passing out.

            The sounds of crickets chirping was the sound that woke me up.

            My senses had already returned, and my muscles were once again functional, so I opened my eyes and found the stars peering down at me. It was a peaceful night in August, but not in my thoughts, as I frantically tried to pull myself up and find my phone.

            My parents would have been terrified at this point. But to make matters even more disturbing, what if they weren’t? I suppose I never really did give them a set time that I was going to return. But they at least would have called me. I needed to find my phone.

            When my eyes rested on the car, my stomach sank and I gulped. It was demolished, with the entire hood and front half of the vehicle smashed and the windshield completely shattered. One of the tires was deflated, as well. I had wrecked my first car.

            I knew that the phone couldn’t have been far away from the car, so that’s where I searched first. I peeled the door backwards and it fell right off its hinges. The inside looked no better than the outside, as the steering wheel was missing, and the leather seats were torn and battered. Trying not grieve the loss of my vehicle, I fumbled through the interior of the car, shoving miscellaneous objects out of the way. There was no glow of a smart phone to be seen.

            As I kept searching through the vehicle, my thoughts turned to the nighttime. If I hadn’t found my way home or to Sophia’s house, then I would have had to spend the night. And I have always been afraid of camping.

            When my hands found the glove compartment, I popped it open and grasped a flashlight. A small, dinky one, just in case I might land in a situation like this. I pressed the button on the butt of the handle and a glowing beam of emanating white light shone through the night. My hand flew up over my eyes until they had adjusted.

            Back outside of the car, I let my gaze wander the area, assuring that I was alone. I don’t know what it is about darkness and forests that make the world so creepy.

            The phone was nowhere to be seen. Not on the path. Not in the car. Not next to the car. Not in the grass. And thus, I resolved to try and reach Sophia’s house on foot. It wasn’t too long of a walk.

            My feet fell to the rhythm of the chirping crickets, as I slowly trekked the dark forest path. The sounds of the wood increased in eeriness, changing from a simple chirping bug to the hoot of an owl to the howl of a wolf to all three combined. I began to glance over my shoulder every so often, as I was tired and I was starting to see things out of the corner of my eye.

            Tall things. But they weren’t trees.

            The path inclined slightly downhill, and thankfully it did not run into the trees, so the walk was fairly easy. If I could make it to Sophia’s house, I could borrow her phone to call my parents.

            My parents. What would they say if they found that the Mustang and my phone were both broken, unable to be repaired? Well, those things might not matter if they just know that I’m ok and unharmed.

            The trees seemed to watch me as I wandered aimlessly along the path. I noticed that as I progressed, their limbs seemed to grow longer and more ominous, as if reaching out to grab me.

           

            It took roughly thirty minutes or so until I reached the wall behind Sophia’s house. Dark, green overgrowth hung over the sides, and there were scratches in the crimson brick, as if there had been a struggle not long ago. I looked up at the two-story house with white siding and noticed that every light was off inside, and several windows were broken.

            Something was wrong, and there was only one way to find out what:

Go inside and search the house.

            I wiped the sweat away from my fingers and fought off the chills that were shooting down my spine. Holding my flashlight at waist-height, I tried to keep my increasingly nervous hands from shaking as I progressed forwards towards the house.

            Sophia’s house was generally large, with a brick wall surrounding the back yard that had absolutely nothing in it but an old wooden swing that constantly creaked back and forth. The grass in the back was tall and weedy, like fingers reaching up to grab my legs. The brick wall was taller than me, which was pretty tall. The house had a wide back deck and a basement underneath, which I had never been in.

            I slowly walked across the back yard towards the dark house, which loomed over me like a parent when scolding their child. The swing in the corner of the yard was motionless. I could feel the air grow slightly colder. My steps were silent as could be.

            The flashlight quivered in my hand, as my fingers began to get numb; I noticed that I had been gripping too hard.

            Then a sound reached my ears, and I jumped, whipping around and letting out a yelp. I heard the noise of a twig crack behind me. There was nothing to be seen, except the swing was now rocking back and forth, making an eerie creak.

            Taking a deep breath to calm myself and stepping forward, I turned back to the house and eventually found myself standing on the back deck, staring through the glass doors in the rear wall of the house. My flashlight shone through the panes to reveal a small kitchen, with white tiling on the floors and a wooden table. On the table was a note, with frantically-scribbled words on it.

            I took a deep breath, and then grabbed the door handle and drew it back. The glass door moved with ease.

            Inside the house, I shone my light all around the room. The kitchen was fairly normal, with just a wooden table and a few black marble counters, along with a fridge, a phone, and a door leading into the next room, which contained the staircase and foyer.

            Quietly letting my flashlight wander around the room, I noticed nothing unusual, just a regular kitchen. My fingers eventually found themselves wrapped around the small yellow piece of torn notebook paper. The letters, drawn rapidly on the page, read:

There is a stranger at the door.

D0N’T LET HIM IN.

            Who?

            I just stared at the paper for a moment. Was Sophia robbed? Do I have the wrong house? Did someone here go insane?

            Then another sound reached my ears, one coming from the front of the house, one that only made my body freeze.

            TAP. TAP. TAP.

            A faint noise from outside the front door, like a quiet and discrete knock. I heard it again.

            TAP. TAP. TAP.

            “Hello?” I said, softly, but my voice sounds loud in the silent house.

            TAP. TAP. TAP.

            Despite my curiosity, instinct told me not to open the door. Instead, I ran over to the counter next to the fridge and grabbed the home phone from its spot. I slipped it into my sweatshirt pocket and then turned to leave.

            Then my flashlight flickered, briefly, stranding me for only a second in total darkness. And then, when my light had returned to its original luminescence, I saw something sprawled all over the wall with the glass door. One, single word, one that I do not think had been there before.

R U N

            I did exactly what the message told me to do. I rushed forward and slid the glass door rapidly open, charging out into the backyard and sprinting towards the woods, not turning to look back, not even bothering to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I did not stop until I had passed the brick wall and had reached the gravel wooded path.

            My gaze turned back towards the house, and I watched it as a single, eerie white light came on in the uppermost window. And in front of the light was the silhouette of something tall, thin, and dark, and it was watching me. Terrified and hoping that I was only dreaming, I spun on my heel and began to run off into the woods, trying to make it back to my car.

            And then when I looked back at the house, the silhouette was gone.

c. Taylor Ward 2013. All rights reserved.