Michael clutched his arms around his chest, bracing himself against the wind. His destination lay before him, through a dank hole in the earth that had the audacity to call itself a cave. He entered, inhaling the musty air and praying that his feet managed to find a decent foothold.
With the flick of a switch, his flashlight sprung to life. It did little good, though. The darkness seemed to be an actual tangible force physically pushing the light back to its source. In the corners of his eyes, shadows seemed to shift of their own volition. Michael sighed, took a deep breath, and continued forward.
It was a difficult journey, long and arduous, but he knew he was heading in the right direction. He could hear it. It was soft at first, almost inaudible, slowly growing louder as the distance lessened. It was low and unintelligible, something like a cross between the wind and a murmur, the sound of voices on the edge of existence.
Soon, Michael could deny it no longer. The shadow on his left was the same shadow that had been on his left since he entered. It was a shade, traversing the length of the cavern not because it was following him but because they shared the same destination.
Once he knew what he was looking at, Michael could make out several of these vague shapes around him, like beings that weren’t quite there. This, he supposed, wasn’t that far from the truth.
Then, he was surrounded by them, their murmuring much louder now. He pushed his way forward, moving through the crowd. His heartbeat was speeding up, ignoring his mind’s insistence that there was nothing to worry about—at least not yet. But the pressure, the tactile sensation of beings rubbing not so much against his skin as at some intangible part of himself only vaguely related to his physical body, was hard to ignore.
Finally, he came to the river. Here, the shades of the dead congregated, waiting for the opportunity to move on. It was hard to tell how many, but it was clear that he was surrounded by them. He could hear their not‑quite‑real words as they whispered in his ears. It was impossible to know what was being said. Words of anger, words of friendship, words of warning … The language seemed to exist somewhere just on the brink of his understanding but always beyond his comprehension. But whatever thoughts they hoped to convey, they all waited here around him on the banks of the Acheron.
There was no way to cross. The black water—if indeed it was—would swallow anyone foolish enough to attempt swimming the river, and with no bridge in sight, Michael had little choice but to sit on the bank, carefully looking to the horizon for any sign of motion.
Finally, he saw it, a speck somehow visible in the darkness. As it moved closer, the shades seemed to become agitated, pushing and struggling to get as near the shore as was possible. They exerted no physical effect on Michael, per se, but the force he felt pressing on that inexplicable place deep inside was unnerving. He stood, trying vainly to push aside the fear and doubt, and waited.
Soon, the speck was close enough to make out the shape of a small boat. As it came nearer, the vessel’s age and state of disrepair became increasingly apparent. There was little choice in the matter, however. This was the only way across. And he had to get across. Everything depended on it.
The ferry pulled ashore, carving a small trench in the dirt as it had done for centuries. Shortly after, a foot touched the ground beside the trench, just as it too had done for centuries. The man attached to the foot carefully surveyed the shades before him and, at length, pointed a thin finger to one, which promptly boarded the vessel, pausing only long enough to give a small coin to the ferryman. Pocketing his payment, the ferryman turned his attention back to the shades.
Michael swallowed his fear and stepped forward to meet the man face to face. He paused as the man looked him over, his haggard, gaunt face giving him an almost skeletal appearance, though he was clearly human.
The man leaned forward, resting on his oar, and spoke in an aged, gravelly voice. “This is a place for the dead. You do not belong here.”
Michael nervously replied, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Charon, but I need to use your boat.”
Charon exhaled a brief, sharp chuckle. “Centuries have passed since a living man asked for my … services.” He grinned an unpleasant, frightening grin. Even the shades seemed to pull away from him at this sight. “The … eh … man in charge … He doesn’t really like it.”
Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s very important that I get across.” Then, digging awkwardly in his pocket, he produced a small coin. “I have the fare … I …”
Charon’s bony fingers plucked the coin from Michael’s hand. “Get in.”
“Oh …” Michael climbed aboard. Sitting down, he asked, “Don’t you even want to ask what I’m doing here or anything?”
The ferryman dismissed the question with a wave of that emaciated hand. “It gets boring down here.” His grin spread even wider, threatening to tear apart the flesh at the corners of his lips. “I just want to see what he does to you.”
posted by arthbard at 7:46 pm on Friday, September 18, 2009
[ 2 comments ]
September 18th, 2009 at 7:56 pm
Well, I’m working on creating characters for a new series of animated shorts I hope to be able to show sooner or later … Well, most likely later. The going’s slow, as they say, and the project’s sucking in the bulk of my creative activity at the moment, so … In lieu of anything else, and with very little effort on my part, here’s part one of a short story I wrote a few years ago.
Parts two and three to be coming in the near future.
September 23rd, 2009 at 8:31 pm
Yay! I look forward to all your expressions of creativity. It might be an old story but it’s new to me.
I’ve dredged up an old post from about 3 years ago, myself…It’s new to most of the people that read my blog now, though.