Art Pact 42


"We'll push the fifth button in the row," Rostok told me. "There's a good reason for not pushing the other four, but no reason not to push that one. Since we have to do something, we'll do that."

I examined the glyphs and icons surrounding the buttons, but couldn't make head nor tail of them. They looked like octopus tentacles with serifs to me, or half-mutated trees.

"Why aren't we pushing the other four buttons?" I asked. The others groaned. "OK, ok! I was just asking!"

"Why don't you just press it," Garn said, "and quickly, before we have to go through another explanation."

"I didn't hear the first time," I said.

"Or the second or the third, but whose fault is that? Just get on and do it before Rostok starts talking again."

"She does deserve to-" Rostok began.

"PUSH IT!" the others shouted, and startled into action I stabbed my finger down onto the button. It felt old, like something from an Indiana Jones film - stone, badly smoothed, that scraped against its socket and then clunked solidly into place. The glyph above it lit up - not at once, like a light, but in a spiralling pattern travelling out from the lowest part of it, as though following the stroke of a calligraphic brush. When the whole sign was full of life it began to glow strongly, pulsing and throbbing. The chamber began to fill with a deep hum that waxed and waned in time with the light. Around me the others shuffled nervously.

"I don't like the look of this," Garn muttered. "Did you do it right? I mean, you pressed the right button, didn't you?"

"Of course I pressed the right button!"

"Well did you press it right?"

I took a swipe at him, dissipating his face for a few seconds into a cloud of whispy fragments. When he reformed he frowned at me furiously, then strode through my outstretched arm and carefully examined the console.

"A simple yes would have sufficed," he said testily. He peered at the buttons for a few minutes, then shrugged. "But I see you're right in this particular instance."

"Yes," I said, rolling my eyes. "Miraculously, given that there's only one way to press a button, I did manage to do it correctly. Now that we've got that sorted out, perhaps one of you could just go through the walls or something and have a look for what's making that noise?"

"Can't," Rostok said. "Walls are too old."

"Oh great, now you tell me."

"I did explain several times befo-"

"Can it," Esselle told him. "Look, idiots, we're not going to get anywhere by hassling Alex. We need her here, don't forget."

"That's right," I agreed. I stared at Garn. "You do need me here."

"Of course, of course," he said airily. He seeped across the floor to the closed door (still closed, sadly), and poked around its edges with some of the more vapourous of his tendrils. The flapping twists around his right leg pushed and probed at the slight crack near the hinge, but could find no entrance. "Well this is getting us nowhere fast."

The humming continued to get louder and louder, although it still matched the variations in the little light. I began to feel around the walls to see if I could sense the source of the vibration. It seemed slightly stronger around the door, but not enough that I could definitely say that I wasn't just imagining it. I motioned Esselle to the corner with me, and asked her to try it.

"You never know," I said, when she arched a questioning eyebrow. "What if it's thing that exists in the - you know, on your side?"

"Unlikely," she said. "Why would you be able to hear it? Or feel it?"

"I can hear you," I pointed out.

"True, but you can't feel us." She put her ghostly hand around mine, and squeezed so that little puffs of essence drifted away from her fingers into a little halo. I smiled, and slowly withdrew. "Anyway, I can't feel it. I think it's most likely to be in the live world."

As if to prove her point, the vibration reached a sort of high-pitched peak, like a gnat flying around in circles. After a few seconds of the squeaky whining it suddenly lowered and began to focus. Now it was definitely coming from the space above the closed door, and the stone itself began to slide slowly aside.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Art Pact 176 - In Memory

We gathered at the side of the road, one by one drifting in from who-knows-where. We didn't see, didn't know that another one of us had arrived until there was suddenly one more of us standing there, looking down at the metal. We didn't speak, either. Other people passed around us, but to us they were just grey ghosts in the rain. None of them had been there, so none of them mattered. They might have stared at us, might have cursed us for a minute as they came upon our little gathering stuck solid in the flow of pedestrians like a plaque in a blood vessel, but to us they barely existed. We came in, one by one from who-knows-where until all eight of us were we-knew-where, and all eight of us looking down at the metal and thinking our own cold thoughts. Seven was the last to arrive, as usual. Looking down at the metal I saw her shoes first, elegant black things with a high-heel filled in as is the style. Next to her Three: messy trainers. Next to him, Two in flat pumps. On
Read more

Art Pact 115

"Oh the worst thing about it was just the terrible cold," she said, peering out into the street. The bus pulled up at the lights, stranding her directly in front of an old man in a plaid cap who stared in through the window blankly. He was the same age as her father, but much thinner - a grey raincoat covering up a bony frame that somehow managed to impress itself on the clothes above it in the form of angular eruptions at the shoulder and elbows. From the long sleeves of the coat extended bony wrists that ended in hands white and pink where the strained handles of overloaded orange plastic bags cut into the flesh of his fingers. He looked like a special effects skeleton that had somehow escaped from the studio, donned a hat, and gone out shopping at Sainsburys. On the other end of the line Donovan muttered something trite about the temperature at which it would snow, and she nodded absently, forgetting that he could not see her. The old man looked up, staring directly int
Read more

Art Pact 124

Bruekner shaves with a razor blade. No razor - just the shiny metal rectangle clamped between his thumb and index finger, dragged slowly over his arm in slow strokes, down from the shoulder to the elbow in one long movement, then back up the same smooth path, across a little bit, repeat. His upper arm is the smoothest, most flawless skin I have ever seen, not the slightest hint of the dark hairs that crown his other shoulder, and bronzed to perfection by the sun. I want to touch it, but I am sat on the other side of the waiting room, the smaller side reserved for women, and it would be foolish at best to cross over. Alston sees me watching and nudges me, winking and sticking her tongue out. "Oh, go boil your head," I tell her. Her mouth bunches up into a mock prim expression and she shakes her head sadly, as if I have failed her in some way. Her edges ripple, as though there is a wind in the ether that is dragging her away from me, and I notice that every few seconds she s
Read more