Halls of Desolation (MotherHorror contest entry)

Halls of Desolation

By Mark Alan Trimeloni

Copyright 6/2/13

(Pictures used: #1, #2, #4, & #7)(2190 words)(MotherHorror contest entry)

"You won't find Heaven here," the curator says, marking the wall of the hallway with a red-streak.  His fingers glide softly across green, peeling paint.  Perhaps, the paint was another color before the ravages of time and mold.  The only certainty is the blood.

"Man, that's a little gross don't you think?"  The question hangs in the air, waiting for a response.

"Are you really questioning me?"  The curator grabs Eli Jackson by the throat.  Pale white fingers close the black man's windpipe, making him drop to the ground.  The knees of his blue jeans shredding on the splintered wooden planks.

"Please let him go." Barely a whisper from Rachel.  The curator looks her in the eye.

"Brown, such a beautiful color in the shadows of this place."  He lets the man go.  Eli coughs on the way to the floor.  "I am intrigued by the subtle features against your pale skin.  Armenian?"

"No, not even close," she says, reaching to help Eli up.  "My mother was Irish."

"Irish/Armenian then?"  The curator strokes Rachel's auburn hair as she pulls hard on her friend's arm.  Before she can argue, he walks over weathered boards to a window.  Soft light filters down, exposing a dilapidated iron radiator.

Then she sees the woman.  A wraith-like figure moving under a flickering fluorescent bulb.  The face never fully coming into view.

"What is the matter, my dear?"  The curator runs cold fingers along her arm.  Rachel screams.

"Why the hell do you keep touching me?"

The curator fiddles with a tarnished brass cross on his lapel.  She notices his slender digits inching along black fabric.  Each long nail poking into ragged holes.  A smell of ether wafts into her nostrils.

"Let me show you why."  His voice low.

Rachel follows him to a dark room.

"I can't see," she says, trying to push Eli off her.  "Can't you stand on your own?"

The large-black man rocks unsteadily back and forth.  The curator pushes him over.  A loud thud echoes through the hallway.

"Arotaclies!" The curator's voice rises in the increasing darkness.  "Fetch me my lamp."

Moments later, a naked imp bounds out of the shadows.  Rachel sees a tail whip in and out of the light.  A sharp tip snaps back and forth.  The redness of the creature's skin glows with an eerie internal life.

"What the sweet Jesus is that?"  Rachel jumps back as if burned.  The imp flashes her a gold-toothed smile.

"That's Arotaclies." The curator makes a cooing sound toward the creature.  "I call him my, 'Pimp Imp'."

"Oh my, God."  Rachel watches as the curator lifts a sleeve and draws a long, jagged nail across his wrist.  Blood flows into the imp's waiting maw, coating the gold-teeth crimson.  She feels tiny fingers stroking the back of her neck and jumps.  The imp smiles.

"Where's his fucking tail?"  Rachel screams.

"Enough!"  The curator grabs the tiny lantern from the beast and kicks the creature back down the hall.  "Look inside the room."

Rachel peers into the darkness as the light of the lamp radiates a thin yellow glow.  She sees a woman's face.  Black hair flows over white features.  Eyes filmed over with milky cataracts, making her blind.  A ghostly finger drawn across sewn lips in a hushing gesture.