IT
*.... The rain from the evening shower has washed some of the filth
from the streets...
The empty storefronts echo his footsteps across the deserted tarmac....
"This hell hole seems almost inhabitable." he groans to himself.
He flips the remnant of his Lucky out into the void,
creating his own little shooting star....
"Maybe I should make a wish."
He finds the number from the matchbook,
652
.
It looks as lifeless as all its sisters on the block,
but he knows it isn't....
Something lives here.... maybe not human,
but
something
.
He tries the lobby door. No need to be buzzed in.... the lock is shattered.
He pushes the door inward, listening to the deafening silence.
The interior of the building duplicates the desolate moonscape outside....
no immediate sign of anything with a heartbeat.
He begins climbing the stairs.... s-l-o-w-l-y, one step at a time,
his back to the wall....
looking upward into the blackness.
The coolness brought on by the shower is wasted on him....
he is sweating like a lover hiding in a bedroom closet....
He begins hearing tiny noises.... real.... or imagined??
The step creaks.... he stops.... frozen.... his heart pounding like a kettle drum....
Did something move above him???....
or is he seeing shadows of things that aren't there???
He pulls his .45 from its bed beneath his armpit....
his only friend....
always faithful.
He regains some confidence and attempts another step.
He still feels a presence above him.
After what seems like hours, he has reached the second level.
He slowly sticks his head around the corner
and tries to see down the lightless hallway....
Is something there?....
Is that movement?
The .45 is getting slippery in his sweaty hands....
so hard to see....
so hard to concentrate....
nothing to see....
everything to imagine....
He returns his attention to the stairwell....
to the journey up one more flight of endless stairs....
to what????
As he turns his back to the hallway
and places his foot on the first step toward the next floor,
he feels it....
a hot breeze blowing across his neck....
as if someone was breathing on him....
The .45 slips from his un-feeling fingers
and skitters down the steps into the black abyss below....
Against every sane nerve within him....
he turns back toward the hall....
and sees.....
IT !!!!
Back to THE BEACH
THE DANCE
THE TERMINAL
NUMBERS
SAM SPADE FANTASY
WINDSWEPT
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