They had said he never listened, and someday he’d learn his lesson. They told him not to go into the old Hill mansion. They told him not to touch the stain on the floor in the abandoned library.
He kept wrenching back and forth, trying desperately to pull his fingers from the stain. It looked like an old, dark grease stain, deep maroon in color and with a texture like oatmeal. He had reached down to touch it, to feel it. Now it held his fingers in an iron grip, despite his wild motions to pull them out.
An uncomfortable sensation started up his arm, under the skin, like a roughened tongue licking the inside. It crept higher as he thrashed around, the joints in his fingers and arms threatening to pop under the pressure.
He felt it in his ears, his mouth and behind his eyes, a scouring inside his flesh. His heart hammered harder and harder, his thrashing became more animated, and yet his fingers would not release.
He pushed his feet under him for more leverage. He felt the tingling in his feet and the painful strain in his fingers as he pushed with all his might. His eyesight turned a dirty red, and a blur began to take over his world. He looked around at his darkened, dilapidated world as his heart began to shudder.
As the ruby red world began to darken he had one last, drifting thought. Yes, he had indeed learned his lesson.
Copyright 2013 Russell Dickerson, All Rights Reserved.
