Scuttle Buttin'
Demons at bay
- Joined
- Apr 27, 2003
- Posts
- 15,881
WARNING: This thread may contain intense scenes of violence, torture, abuse, rape, and other triggers. Please read with caution.
Essex, England - June, 2009
Adam Horowitz was embarking on a summer of perpetual boredom. An intelligent boy, he'd been accepted to Saint Andrews for university and spend his first year making new friends, taking new bedmates, and causing his fair share of trouble. The problem with attending such a university was that his friends were now spread across three continents and even more time zones, and he was back home with little to do for the summer. A trip to visit his flatmate in Spain had been killed by his stepfather due to the cost of such an excursion, and a trip to his grandmother's on the coast was suggested in it's stead. It was, at least, a change of scenery, along with the added potential of bikini-clad women on the sand, and so he gave in and packed a bag.
His grandmother, a half-deaf woman in her 80's who didn't always remember his name, seemed happy to see him. Soon, he learned this was because she no longer had to pay a neighbor boy to take care of her hedges, and Adam began to quickly regret his decision. The heat, while not bad down near the water, was intense to the point of unbearable while working with the pair of clippers that were at least as old as the woman that owned them, and the little squeak they made when closed gave him a headache that killed the rest of his day after using them. Those, unfortunately, were the exciting days.
Every night by 8:00, she would disappear into her room and turn on the old television she had perched dangerously on a chair in the corner of the room, then crank the volume beyond a level any sane person could consider reasonable. It was then that Adam actually felt free to explore, whether it be the town, the house, or the plethora of porn he was able to find with his phone. Though he'd brought his laptop, he hadn't even considered that she'd not have any internet service at her house until he asked what her WiFi password was, and she looked at him like he was speaking Russian.
Late in June on one such evening, with Lawrence Welk thundering through the walls two rooms away, Adam discovered a door in the ceiling of the pantry, with a short string dangling from it. Figuring anything that may've made a nest up there would be asleep and he'd have a fighting chance at getting away, he took hold of the string and pulled.
For a brief moment he thought it was going to snap in his hand before the door moved an inch - he was convinced that he was, by far, the youngest thing in the house now - but mercifully it held, and with a groan that would've woken any person with decent hearing the door turned on it's old hinges. The wooden ladder was folded into thirds, and with little concern for the sound of it's reluctance to straighten he pulled it out, until the feet rested against the grey carpet.
Cautiously he climbed, testing out each step before putting his weight on it. The attic above was shrouded in heavy darkness that the faint shaft of light from below did little to pierce. Pulling out his phone, he thumbed on the torch and shone it around the room. To his surprise, it extended nearly the entirety of the house, though most of it was empty space. Leaving the light on, he descended the ladder to grab his grandmother's old straw broom, then made his way back up armed for battle with the rampant spread of spiderwebs that seemed to be everywhere he looked.
Walking slowly, wanting more than anything to avoid falling through the ceiling of her bedroom and killing the woman with a heart attack, he made his way into the darkness, guided by the cone of line cast forward by his phone. In a far corner, thankfully on the opposite side of the house from what sounded like a nature documentary blasted through a megaphone, the white light swept across a small gathering of old and dust-covered boxes.
With the broom waving back and forth in front of him, Adam made his way methodically over to the boxes. Leaning the broom against the nearby wall, he blew a layer of dust off the top of one cardboard box, then used his hand to wipe away the three below it. Pulling at the tape that, through some miracle, was still holding things closed, he opened the box and coughed at the dust that now seemed to be a cloud around his head. Inside, among what seemed to be mostly junk and old knickknacks, was a photo album with a warped and water damaged cover. Pulling it out, he set it on a corner of the box and kept his light on it as he flipped it open. Most of the pictures were in black and white, and clearly from when his grandmother was little, if not before. The water damage extended down into the pictures, with many of them altered beyond recognition. One picture though, a corner of it damaged but otherwise intact, made him stop and stare. The face in it was familiar, but still he didn't think he'd seen it before. Perhaps he'd ask his grandmother about it later.
The photo album was closed and replaced, and for a moment he was swallowed up by the darkness as he slipped his phone into his pocket so he could moved to box aside and access the one under it. Pulling his phone back out, he found that behind the semicircle of boxes was an old, worn trunk tucked all the way in the corner. The leather was cracked and faded, covered in the same layer of dust as every other surface in the room, but it was also more likely to have protected what was inside it. Using his feet and one free hand, he pushed aside the remaining boxes to get to the trunk, and found himself shining the light at last on a rusted, ancient-looking lock slid through the latch. The metal was rough as he pulled at the lock, and he knew by the extensive rust that the key, if one still existed for it, had no hope of opening it.
Using the toe of his shoe, he pushed at the trunk a little, and found he was unable to budge it. Whatever lay inside was clearly heavy, to the point that he was surprised the boards up there were able to hold it for so long. Picking up his leg, he kicked once at the lock, and then cursed at the pain in his toe. The lock, however, seemed completely unharmed. He was going to need something more than just a kick. A quick sweep of the attic showed him that the only useful thing up here was a broom, and he was under no illusion that it would remain in one piece for long. With a resigned sigh, he snatched the broom up from where it leaned against the wall, and began making his way to the shaft of light that led back down to the rest of the house.
A bit of searching found a tool box under the sink in the kitchen, and a hammer that felt solid in his hands was contained within. The house-rattling volume of whatever was screaming out of his grandmother's television told him she was still asleep, and so he didn't even waste time checking on her before he made his way up the wooden ladder again.
His trip across the attack was quicker this time, with no webs to knock out of his way and his path already known, and as the clock neared 10 p.m., he found himself once again shining his light on the trunk. Dropping down to one knee, he took a deep breath and began to swing the hammer. The first clink! of metal on metal was loud in the dark attic, louder than he expected, but for the first time he found himself thankful for the half-deaf woman and her comically loud television habit.
One swing of the hammer followed another, and nearly a half hour passed before the lock finally gave in to the combined years, rust, and repeated impact of the hammer, and with a grinding clang it fell open. Sweat standing out on his forehead, he rested his forehead against the dirty lid of the trunk and worked to catch his breath. Unseen in the darkness, a black smudge was left behind on his forehead when he finally straightened.
Pushing the lock out through the latch, he swung it up and opened the latch, excited to see what was inside that made it so heavy. Somehow, rows of leather-bound notebooks was a disappointment, though exactly what he'd expected he couldn't say. With something approaching a resigned sigh, and certain that his summer of boredom was not going to change, he picked a book at random and pulled it out. The others in the row leaned in to fill the void left behind, but he barely saw this as he flipped the lid of the trunk closed and made his way back to the ladder without a look back.
Down the ladder, and he folded it back up and closed the door, everything from below appearing as if it was untouched. Too late, he realized he'd left the hammer up in the attic, and he knew he'd have to remember to grab it before he left for the summer. He planed to flip through the book before he went to sleep for the night, but he didn't expect much and had no plans to climb back up into the darkness and dust any time soon.
Mercifully, his room was on the opposite side of the house from hers, and with his door closed it almost felt like he had a little peace. The small lamp on the bedside table cast just enough of a glow to read by, and still unaware of the dark spot of dirt on his forehead, he climbed into bed and set the book in his lap. Opening to a random page in the middle, he found himself confronted with handwriting that had begun to fade in places. Brow furrowed, hunched over in the middle of his bed, he began to read...
Essex, England - June, 2009
Adam Horowitz was embarking on a summer of perpetual boredom. An intelligent boy, he'd been accepted to Saint Andrews for university and spend his first year making new friends, taking new bedmates, and causing his fair share of trouble. The problem with attending such a university was that his friends were now spread across three continents and even more time zones, and he was back home with little to do for the summer. A trip to visit his flatmate in Spain had been killed by his stepfather due to the cost of such an excursion, and a trip to his grandmother's on the coast was suggested in it's stead. It was, at least, a change of scenery, along with the added potential of bikini-clad women on the sand, and so he gave in and packed a bag.
His grandmother, a half-deaf woman in her 80's who didn't always remember his name, seemed happy to see him. Soon, he learned this was because she no longer had to pay a neighbor boy to take care of her hedges, and Adam began to quickly regret his decision. The heat, while not bad down near the water, was intense to the point of unbearable while working with the pair of clippers that were at least as old as the woman that owned them, and the little squeak they made when closed gave him a headache that killed the rest of his day after using them. Those, unfortunately, were the exciting days.
Every night by 8:00, she would disappear into her room and turn on the old television she had perched dangerously on a chair in the corner of the room, then crank the volume beyond a level any sane person could consider reasonable. It was then that Adam actually felt free to explore, whether it be the town, the house, or the plethora of porn he was able to find with his phone. Though he'd brought his laptop, he hadn't even considered that she'd not have any internet service at her house until he asked what her WiFi password was, and she looked at him like he was speaking Russian.
Late in June on one such evening, with Lawrence Welk thundering through the walls two rooms away, Adam discovered a door in the ceiling of the pantry, with a short string dangling from it. Figuring anything that may've made a nest up there would be asleep and he'd have a fighting chance at getting away, he took hold of the string and pulled.
For a brief moment he thought it was going to snap in his hand before the door moved an inch - he was convinced that he was, by far, the youngest thing in the house now - but mercifully it held, and with a groan that would've woken any person with decent hearing the door turned on it's old hinges. The wooden ladder was folded into thirds, and with little concern for the sound of it's reluctance to straighten he pulled it out, until the feet rested against the grey carpet.
Cautiously he climbed, testing out each step before putting his weight on it. The attic above was shrouded in heavy darkness that the faint shaft of light from below did little to pierce. Pulling out his phone, he thumbed on the torch and shone it around the room. To his surprise, it extended nearly the entirety of the house, though most of it was empty space. Leaving the light on, he descended the ladder to grab his grandmother's old straw broom, then made his way back up armed for battle with the rampant spread of spiderwebs that seemed to be everywhere he looked.
Walking slowly, wanting more than anything to avoid falling through the ceiling of her bedroom and killing the woman with a heart attack, he made his way into the darkness, guided by the cone of line cast forward by his phone. In a far corner, thankfully on the opposite side of the house from what sounded like a nature documentary blasted through a megaphone, the white light swept across a small gathering of old and dust-covered boxes.
With the broom waving back and forth in front of him, Adam made his way methodically over to the boxes. Leaning the broom against the nearby wall, he blew a layer of dust off the top of one cardboard box, then used his hand to wipe away the three below it. Pulling at the tape that, through some miracle, was still holding things closed, he opened the box and coughed at the dust that now seemed to be a cloud around his head. Inside, among what seemed to be mostly junk and old knickknacks, was a photo album with a warped and water damaged cover. Pulling it out, he set it on a corner of the box and kept his light on it as he flipped it open. Most of the pictures were in black and white, and clearly from when his grandmother was little, if not before. The water damage extended down into the pictures, with many of them altered beyond recognition. One picture though, a corner of it damaged but otherwise intact, made him stop and stare. The face in it was familiar, but still he didn't think he'd seen it before. Perhaps he'd ask his grandmother about it later.
The photo album was closed and replaced, and for a moment he was swallowed up by the darkness as he slipped his phone into his pocket so he could moved to box aside and access the one under it. Pulling his phone back out, he found that behind the semicircle of boxes was an old, worn trunk tucked all the way in the corner. The leather was cracked and faded, covered in the same layer of dust as every other surface in the room, but it was also more likely to have protected what was inside it. Using his feet and one free hand, he pushed aside the remaining boxes to get to the trunk, and found himself shining the light at last on a rusted, ancient-looking lock slid through the latch. The metal was rough as he pulled at the lock, and he knew by the extensive rust that the key, if one still existed for it, had no hope of opening it.
Using the toe of his shoe, he pushed at the trunk a little, and found he was unable to budge it. Whatever lay inside was clearly heavy, to the point that he was surprised the boards up there were able to hold it for so long. Picking up his leg, he kicked once at the lock, and then cursed at the pain in his toe. The lock, however, seemed completely unharmed. He was going to need something more than just a kick. A quick sweep of the attic showed him that the only useful thing up here was a broom, and he was under no illusion that it would remain in one piece for long. With a resigned sigh, he snatched the broom up from where it leaned against the wall, and began making his way to the shaft of light that led back down to the rest of the house.
A bit of searching found a tool box under the sink in the kitchen, and a hammer that felt solid in his hands was contained within. The house-rattling volume of whatever was screaming out of his grandmother's television told him she was still asleep, and so he didn't even waste time checking on her before he made his way up the wooden ladder again.
His trip across the attack was quicker this time, with no webs to knock out of his way and his path already known, and as the clock neared 10 p.m., he found himself once again shining his light on the trunk. Dropping down to one knee, he took a deep breath and began to swing the hammer. The first clink! of metal on metal was loud in the dark attic, louder than he expected, but for the first time he found himself thankful for the half-deaf woman and her comically loud television habit.
One swing of the hammer followed another, and nearly a half hour passed before the lock finally gave in to the combined years, rust, and repeated impact of the hammer, and with a grinding clang it fell open. Sweat standing out on his forehead, he rested his forehead against the dirty lid of the trunk and worked to catch his breath. Unseen in the darkness, a black smudge was left behind on his forehead when he finally straightened.
Pushing the lock out through the latch, he swung it up and opened the latch, excited to see what was inside that made it so heavy. Somehow, rows of leather-bound notebooks was a disappointment, though exactly what he'd expected he couldn't say. With something approaching a resigned sigh, and certain that his summer of boredom was not going to change, he picked a book at random and pulled it out. The others in the row leaned in to fill the void left behind, but he barely saw this as he flipped the lid of the trunk closed and made his way back to the ladder without a look back.
Down the ladder, and he folded it back up and closed the door, everything from below appearing as if it was untouched. Too late, he realized he'd left the hammer up in the attic, and he knew he'd have to remember to grab it before he left for the summer. He planed to flip through the book before he went to sleep for the night, but he didn't expect much and had no plans to climb back up into the darkness and dust any time soon.
Mercifully, his room was on the opposite side of the house from hers, and with his door closed it almost felt like he had a little peace. The small lamp on the bedside table cast just enough of a glow to read by, and still unaware of the dark spot of dirt on his forehead, he climbed into bed and set the book in his lap. Opening to a random page in the middle, he found himself confronted with handwriting that had begun to fade in places. Brow furrowed, hunched over in the middle of his bed, he began to read...