My novel, 'The Twelve', began on a whim when I was fifteen years old and within a year I had finished. I have not touched it in a long time, and the idea of it sitting under my bed gathering dust hurts my soul a bit. So I have decided to share it, j...
A boy walked down a hallway, each step echoing back to him, amplified off the high ceiling. His skin tinted different delicate shades as he stepped in and out of the bright shadows from the stained-glass windows. He was distracted by a moment, captivated by the beauty of the little dazzling halo's of colour around his feet, but soon he felt an eerie presence in the room and he hurried on.
Then he was there, in the very centre of the room. Ahead of him was the mysterious archway, the one that called him onwards, beckoning him. It was made of a pale grey stone, crumbling in some places. Its lost stone fragments lay scattered around the room. But the boy didn't take in these details. The ancient archway filled every space in his mind. He had to reach it. The darkness within the archway was thick. No matter how hard he strained he couldn't focus on what lay beyond. And the harder he strained the more difficult it became to keep his eyes focused on the stone. They seemed to slip to the side, moving onto this piece of rock, or that window. Exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, the boy stepped forward. His stomach plummeted in an instant as he took in the mistake he had made. Before he could pull his foot back, it slipped into the tile as if it was honey and continued to slide in deeper, slowly. He tried to tug his foot out, desperate to run to the archway, desperate to escape this room. Exerting all his effort into one last tug, he lost his balance and stumbled, nearly shrieking in frustration as his other foot moved forward to catch him and also slipped neatly into the floor. Overwhelming panic flooded his veins like ice. His eyes shot up to the archway and the panic crept further into his mind as he realised he was defeated. There was no way out. He could see the darkness now – it had revealed itself finally. But the boy understood it was not normal darkness. He could see it pushing out of its home within the archway, crawling towards him. It was a cold darkness, a consuming darkness, and it was what the boy feared more than anything. It was rolling towards him, across the hall, aiming blindly for a victim. It turned pieces of rubble aside and swept through every crevice off the hall – it was searching. It was close to the boy. It didn't know he was there, but soon it would. The boy suppressed an awful scream as the feeling of dread rose in his stomach. Please, don't find me, he thought frantically. Please, leave me alone.
But it was too late. The fog, the black darkness, had found him. It seemed to turn invisible eyes on the boy as it advanced, seemed to stare at him blankly. Cruelly. Then it was around him, forcing out any clean, natural air and filling the space with its foul, rotted stench. He held his breath, knowing what would happen if he didn't. Don't, don't, don't, he told himself. But his lungs screamed in protest and without permission from him, they gulped in the darkness. He spluttered as it burnt his throat, and reflexively tried to cough it back up but it was already taking effect. He felt his mind detaching itself from his body and floating away. His eyelids started to droop and his head sagged onto his chest. He fought to stay upright but already the tiles were claiming him, pulling him down into the ground. Weakness overcame him. With a moan of defeat, he fell to the ground and slowly sank into the darkness.
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