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reges-nemus · 2 years

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December 18, 1932

It has been three or four days since that near constant scratching has begun, and in those three or four days I've managed maybe two hours of sleep in total. I'm not sure why I'm writing this, to keep my mind occupied I suppose. To have some place I can gather my thoughts, lay everything out so I can try to find some solution to this scratching.

It started either very late on the night of the 14th, or very early in the morning of the 15th. It woke me up but I didn't check the clock for a long time, I just laid there and listened to the scratching behind the wall at the head of my bed. At first I thought it might have been mice or rats chewing on something, widening one of their passages. Then I heard it, just faintly. Honestly I'm not sure of what I heard, but it sounded like whispering. Most likely it was fragments of some conversation from the hall, or my still half asleep mind playing tricks on me. Whenever I think about it though I feel uneasy and on edge.. In any case though I didn't sleep the rest of that night.

Just after 9 o'clock the next morning, when I knew the maintenance man would be in his office downstairs, I put on my coat (it's always so cold in this damned building) and went to speak to him. I told him about the noise and he grabbed his bag of tools and followed me to my apartment. He stood there for a bit, with his ear pressed against the wall, just listening. I had to ask him three times what he thought the noise was before he answered in the most banal and monotone voice I think I've ever heard, "Everything is fine, it's just the pipes, they rattle when it's cold out.". I asked if he was sure, because it sounds like scratching or chewing, and that I'd never heard pipes make that sound before. His reply felt almost accusatory, "Everything is fine. It's just the pipes." and with that he left. At the time I thought he was just being lazy, didn't want to set out traps or poison for the mice, didn't want to repair the holes they had made in the baseboard in the halls, just wanted to sit and listen to the radio in his little office.

To my relief about an hour after the maintenance man left, so did the scratching. I was able to sleep for an hour or so before it started back up again. I tried beating on the walls, hoping to drive away these relentlessly chewing and scratching pests, but they didn't stop. I figured if I wanted them gone I'd have to take matters into my own hands. I spent the better part of an hour gathering all the loose change I could find around my apartment, a bit more than a dollar and a half I believe it was, and walked a few blocks to a hardware store to buy traps and poison. I remember the walk being awful. My lack of sleep seemed to add to the melancholic atmosphere that is ever present here during the winter. Peeking through a gap in the boards covering my window (need to seal that gap later) reveals an indentically smothering blanket of gray clouds hanging low in the sky. I also remember feeling incredibly tense and uneasy as I walked, as if behind every corner there was someone who would leap out and kill me. That feeling persisted into the hardware store, and the walk home wasn't any better. When I got home I loaded the traps with cheese, peanut butter, bread, and anything else I thought might attract the mice and rats who were still chewing and scratching away inside my walls. I also dosed some extra food with the poison and carried the lot into the hall, placing the traps near the holes in the baseboard and the poisoned food in little piles around the traps.

The rest of that day, the 15th, was mostly uneventful. I sat in the kitchen and tried to read, tried to distract myself from the scratching. I pulled an old radio from under the bed, hoping to drown out the noise but that didn't work either. No matter what station I tuned to all I got was a wavering "oooooo" sound with static. It was at this point I started to think that the rats were toying with me. I know that's a ridiculous thing to believe, but the thought was still there. The scratching would cease for a few moments and I would begin to fall asleep, but as soon as I felt myself drifting away it would start again, louder than before. The scratching was their laughter, mocking laughter.

In the early hours of the morning (after getting no more than maybe 15 minutes of sleep all throughout the night) I heard one of the traps in the hall spring shut. I hopped from my chair and almost ran out of the door, but managed to collect myself. Opening the door and entering the hallway I slowly crept around the corner and, kneeling down, looked at the traps. They were all sprung, but empty. The poisoned food was gone as well. I stood up and with a sigh I tossed the trap back onto the floor. As I turned to head back to my door I saw one of my neighbors staring at me. She's a very old woman, at least 80, but I don't know her name. I asked if she had heard the rats in the walls and her reply felt like a punch to the chest, "It's the pipes, they rattle when it's cold. Everything is fine." I immediately protested and told her, with no ambiguity, that rattling pipes don't sound like that, and that it had to be some vermin in the walls. She practically hissed at me, "Why can't you just be happy with what you have!?" and preceded to storm her way back into her apartment.

I haven't left my apartment since my encounter with her. I spent the rest of that day and yesterday sitting here, unable to sleep. I've listened to the scratching and chewing and thought about what she and the maintenance man said. At first I thought maybe it was some kind of orchestrated joke, telling me the same thing like that. I see her and a couple other tenants in his office all the time, crammed tightly around his desk whispering to each other. Then I realized what is truly happening. Every time I happen to pass by his office while they're meeting they all stare at me like I had just killed their collective mother. Angry and full of hate, but they never say anything. They just stare until I leave. I know now though, they placed these rats in the walls and followed me to the hardware store on the 15th and made me feel so tense.

In any case, it's almost noon and I've been writing this for near an hour. I will find something to eat and return when something else happens.

. -Michael

December 19, 1932

Something happened last night, and I'm still unsure as to what exactly it was. I had ate and finished sealing any gaps between the boards covering my door and windows when I noticed the scratching growing louder. I found where the noise was most intense and placed my ear against the wallpaper. At first I heard only what I expected, chewing and scratching, but what I heard next has left me shaken. I heard the whispering again, and laughter, and mockery. The whispering became clearer the longer I listened. "Michael... Michael... Hahaha... Michael..." Before I knew it my legs became week and I slid to the floor, my ear never leaving the wall. The next several hours are like a quickly fading dream in my mind. I was in some kind of trance, taken far away from my kitchen floor by those whispers. I was in that stupor until only a few hours ago. Things are concrete and certain now. The rats in my walls and the other tenants, their mockery and surveillance, their closely whispered meetings in the office, it has all become more clear.

I'm only writing now as I needed a break. I've been scraping a hole in the wall where I listened. I know of their mockery and scheming, the whispers made that clear, but I need a solution. The walls are too thick to hear what the whispers have to say. I could just break a hole in the wall but I'm afraid it will scare them away. Better to do this quietly.

. -Michael

December 24, 1932

I feel horribly silly for what I've written. I made it through the wall and everything is fine, the pipes rattle when it's cold.

. -Michael

Another short story, idk if it's good

#writing #short story #creepy #horror

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a-sweet-pea · 4 years

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Soup or Stew

A lil borrower one-shot starring Elle and James. Been meaning to dust this off for a while but I never wrote the intro. She’s borrowing for snacks in the cupboard when the bean shows up unexpectedly (don’t they always?). Hope this can tide folk over until I get some fresh stuff going!

- x -

“A wee mouse, is it?” The giant took the bag of sugar off the shelf below her, and leaned forward to peer into the dark back corners of the cabinet. She took advantage of the fact that his attention was elsewhere to tiptoe from behind the honey jar to the tall rectangular package of biscuits. I wanted one of those, she thought sadly. Oh well, another day. Though he was out of sight, Elle could tell by the sound of it that the giant was taking jars and packets of things off the bottom shelf; at this rate, she would be through the hole and back down the ladder before he even started on top one. “Wee sleekit cowrin, timrous beastie, whit a panic’s in thy breastie.” His voice vibrated the wood shelf beneath her; it sounded even deeper and larger echoing off the walls of the cabinet. “Thou need nae start awa sae hasty, wi’ bickering brattle! Ah would be loathe tae run an chase ye, wi’ murd’ring prattle.”

Her heart was racing in her chest. Good, then don’t. Keep on reciting poetry and stop rummaging around. She slowly edged around the back of the biscuits, past an unopened jar of peanut butter, toward the hole in the back of the cabinet. Freedom. She went the last stretch of it crouching low to the ground. So low that her knapsack tipped, and two thumbtacks fell out with a clatter that could probably be heard three rooms over. Dammit. She turned her head, just in time to see the giant’s face eclipse the light in the cabinet opening.

“Whit the…” His eyebrows shot up, his eyes widened. She watched another silhouette come across the light; a hand open and reaching. No, no, no, she thought, racing to the shadows at the back of the cabinet. You idiot, how could you be so loud, you are the worst at sneaking. The hand thudded down onto the shelf and swept back and forth on the spot where she had just been. Which meant that it was between her and the hole, she couldn’t even make a run for it. But, maybe I can sneak past it. Slowly, the hand moved across the shelf away from her, the fingertips brushing against the peanut butter jar and a few loose grains of rice. Good, she thought, taking silent trembling steps toward the hole. You just stay over there for a bit. It did not. Something large and soft and warm prodded her leg, almost knocking her over.

“Ah, there you are.”

Her stomach dropped; she hardly had time to turn around before she felt massive fingers curl around the back of her and lift her up and out into the light of the kitchen.

I’m dead.

James couldn’t believe it.

But he had to, because there it was, tumbling off of his palm into a little trembling heap on the counter. Not a mouse at all. A tiny human figure, no more than five inches tall.

“How are ye so small?” She stood up and fixed him with a deer-in-the-headlights type stare. “And whit were ye daein’ in ma cupboard?” She straightened the hem of clumsily-sewn purple dress and opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. After a silent moment, she crouched down, tucking her head down against her knees and covering her head.

“No questions.” A muffled high-pitched voice came from the shaking ball. “Just get on with it.”

“Get on wi what?” He leaned down a little further, taking in the small details of her appearance. She had mouse brown hair tied in a low ponytail with a scrap of red cloth. There was a patchwork bag at her side, in which James could just barely make out a few recognizable shapes; a few thumbtacks, a paper clip, a torn off bit of a yellow post-it note.

“Squishing. Poison. Eating me. Whatever you’re going to do.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

The little voice was stronger, almost pouty. “I’m not afraid!” James chuckled, and the little ball shuddered.

“Naw, of course you’re no afraid. Ye’ve got nu’hin tae be afraid of.”

“Is that so.” The ball didn’t move. She was such a tense wee marble; he just wanted to scoop her up and give her a cuddle, but he resisted the urge.

“Naw, of course no. There’s nothing scary about me.”

“So, you’re not going to boil me into a soup.”

“Ah dinnae like soup.”

“A stew then.”

“Soup and stew are the same ‘hing.”

Her head popped up, and there was something of an edge to her tone when she spoke. “They are not!”

“Aye, they are.” James tried not to let the excitement show in his voice. Her eyes were bright and her expression delightfully contrarian. “Soup is meat and vegetables in water. Stew is meat and vegetables in water.”

“That doesn’t make them the same thing!” She uncurled and sat upright, cross-legged. “You might as well say sandwiches and pizza are the same thing, just cause they both have meat and cheese on bread.”

“I would agree with that.”

“No, you’re not supposed to agree with that.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re supposed to say, ‘That’s ridiculous, no one would say that.’ Because it is, and no one would.”

James laughed. “Well, ah said it, and I’m no hearing a counterargument.”

“That’s because I’m thinking of one.” She stood up and paced back and forth, scratching the back of her head thoughtfully. Outwardly, James remained passive. Inside, his mind was racing, trying to catch up with the events unfolding on the counter. Such a tiny thing. Why was she in the cabinet? Does she live here? Was that why his guitar picks had been disappearing; had she been squirreling them away in her tiny bag to use as plates or shingle a miniature house? He’d been a bit peeved at the time, but he supposed if they were being put to use, that wasn’t as bad as them sliding between a crack in floor boards, never to be of use to anyone ever again.

“Ahm waiting.”

“Well, you can keep waiting!” She drew her mouth into a thin line, and James laughed.

“Aye, I can. I’ve got nu’hin’ better to do this evening.” He sat back and watched her pace back and forth across about 8 inches of counter space like she was the Great Mouse Detective, until suddenly she stopped and turned to face him with a triumphant expression..

“There’s two pieces!”

“Two pieces of what?”

“Bread! A sandwich has two pieces of bread with stuff in the middle. And it’s just for one person. A pizza is a big round bread with stuff on top of it. Also, it’s for multiple people to eat.”

“Speak for yoursel, wee yin. Ah can eat a whole pizza, easy.”

“Well you shouldn’t.”

“Besides,” James crossed his arms and leaned over, resting them on the counter in front of her. He was close enough to see freckles on her face now, like grains of sand. “I thought the argument was about soup and stew.”

“It’s about establishing..a…precedent…” The girl froze statue still. Her gaze travelled up along his arm to his face. Her’s was a bit pale.

“Hey, dinnae go shy on me now.” He spoke as softly as he could, and watched as his breath blow a strand of hair away from her face. “I just wanted tae get a better look at ye.”

“W-why?” She clutched at the strap of her bag where it reached across her shoulder, like it was a safety harness.

“Have you ever seen oanybody my size before?”

“Yes, all the time. You guys are all over the place.” She gestured widely with her hands, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, I’ve never seen oanybody like you.”

“That’s because we’re very good at hiding.”

“No that good.” James said it with a smile, but immediately regretted it.

“I guess not.” The girl shook her head and looked away from him; raising a miniscule hand to wipe her eye.

“Hey, dinnae dae that!” Without thinking, reached out and curled his fingers gently around her. She gasped and her eyes were like saucers as he lifted her into the palm of his other hand. “It was a joke, that’s aw; ah didnae mean it. I’m sure you’re great at hidin’.” Her eyes were wet, and pink around the edges, but she wasn’t crying anymore. She appeared to have short circuited.

“You…you p-picked me up. I’m…in your hand.” Her little hands prodded his palm.

“Oh, aye. Sorry. I jist, I wanted tae gie you a cuddle, you know?” James was nearly as sorry as he probably should have been, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. He’d wanted to pick her up again since he put him down. She was such a fascinating little creature. Holding her felt not unlike holding somebodies pet rat; if pet rats could talk and nick office supplies.

“You…you weren’t just lulling me into a false sense of security so you could scoop me up and Science me?”

“Science you?”

“Y-you know,” she stammered. She hadn’t stopped rubbing his palm. “P-put me in a jar and poke me with a thermometer or something like that.”

“No. I am not going to science you. Or eat you. Or squash you. Or oany of that.”

“Promise?”

“Aye. Promise.”

“Not…not even if I say something that makes you mad?”

“Wee yin,” he spoke as soft and gentle as he could. “There’s nu’hin ye could say to me that would make me want tae hurt ye.”

“Soup is a thin watery broth o-or a cream base with chopped meat of vegetables or noodles or fish or whatever suspended in it, and the proportions are lots of liquid to a little bit of solid stuff. Stew is always beef, and it’s cooked for a long time with vegetables, but never noodles or fish, and the liquid is more meat sauce than anything else, and it pretty much only barely covers the solid bits. So while I concede that they are in the same category of foods, they are absolutely different.”

James tilted his head and fixed her with a stony glare. “I am going to boil you in a soup.”

“Really?” The high, anxious tone of her voice took all the fun out of the joke.

“No, no of course not! Whit kind ae monster do ye take me for?” Her shoulders relaxed immediately. “Ah am hungry tho. If I made a pot ae mac ‘n cheese, wid ye have some?”

Her eyes just about rolled back into her head. “I love mac and cheese. But by the time I get to it, the scraps are stone cold, and cold mac and cheese is basically worse than no mac and cheese at all.”

“And its no soup, right?”

“No.” Her laugh was like a little bell ringing with a tiny goose honk in the middle. “It’s not soup.”

#g/t fluff #giant/tiny #g/t fiction #g/t writing #asweetpeawriting #asweetpea #g/t

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lolcat76 · 7 years

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Prompt: Regina thinks Roland has an imaginary friend.

If Regina thought beinga single parent was hard, it was nothing compared to being a quasi-stepparent.

When Henry had imaginaryfriends from his not-so-imaginary storybook, Regina put him in therapy. Nowthat Roland had imaginary friends – talking mice and transforming robots andfriendly ghosts, Regina was seriously considering cancelling her Netflixsubscription.

She couldn’t decide whatwas worse, Henry (rightfully) thinking that she was the Evil Queen, or Rolanddemanding that he let his rat friend help her cook dinner, because, as he said,“You don’t use enough salt.”’

Oh, she could show him salt.

It wasn’t a coincidencethat his imaginary rat friend showed up the first night that Robin and Rolandhad spent the night at her house. She wasn’t a bad cook, exactly; she had a fewthings she did well – lasagna and apple turnovers, with or without poison – butRoland hated tomatoes and his father was more than a little turned off byapples, so she improvised.

Improvised, and nearlyset fire to her kitchen. Thank God for fire extinguishers and peanut buttersandwiches.

Thank God Robin didn’tlike her for her kitchen skills. Well, how the hell was she supposed to be agood cook? Her mother raised her to marry well and rule kingdoms, not to maketuna casserole.

Despite the earlymisfire, they came back again and again, mostly for take-out and occasionallyfor boxed macaroni and cheese, and every time, Roland whispered over hisshoulder to some imaginary being who knew how to keep the pasta from stickingtogether.

She’d spent her entirelife being judged by her mother; being judged by a four-year-old was far moredamning to her self-confidence.

“He likes an imaginaryrat more than me,” she whined, when she and Robin were tucked into her bed andthe boys were long asleep.

“He loves you. Just…notyour cooking.”

“I cooked for Henry for11 years, and he never complained. And are you telling me that my cooking isworse than a spit of meat over a campfire?”

To Robin’s credit, hewas smart enough not to answer that question. “Of course Henry never complained.Henry isn’t a complainer. Roland, though…you know he can be a bit over the topsometimes.”

Remembering how loudlyRoland shrieked the first time he saw a shower, Regina nodded in agreement. “Shortof using magic to whip up a five-course meal every night, which I know willonly make things worse, what do I do here?”

Robin wasn’t a fan ofmagic, although he wasn’t nearly as afraid of it as his son, but even he had toadmit that the thought of a five-course meal out of thin air wasn’t the worstidea he’d ever heard. Especially if it came with magic to do the dishesafterward.

“I don’t know, Regina. Snowis a good cook. Maybe you could ask her for some tips?”

She levelled a frosty glare at him. “Maybe you could sleep in the backyard.”

He chuckled. “Then whowould keep your icy feet nice and warm at night?”

“Come up with anothersuggestion, please.”

Robin didn’t think ofhimself as a particularly indulgent parent, but he did let his son go onwhenever he got caught up in a flight of fancy. If he had a talking, cookingrat as a friend, better to let him enjoy his imagination. “Ask the rat foradvice. Tomorrow, when you’re making dinner.”

“That’s a pretty boldassumption, that you’ll be invited back to dinner.”

“Wouldn’t be much of athief if I weren’t bold, would I?” He smirked at her, and she lost the battleto keep a straight face. She tucked herself a little closer to him and shiftedher legs until her cold feet were pressed against his calves. “Regina, I’veseen you cook. You follow every recipe to the letter, right down to googlinghow much a pinch of salt should be. Roland’s got an imaginary friend who wantsto cook. Maybe you should use your own imagination and let him help. It couldn’thurt.”

“So, what you’re sayingis, to hell with Julia Child. Ask the imaginary rat for advice.” She turned theidea over in her head for a minute. “Fine. It’s less humiliating than askingSnow.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That’s my girl.”

***

Apparently, the rat waswell versed in cooking chicken and dumplings, because Roland fed her tips on searingthe meat, mixing the dumplings, and even the proper way to slice thevegetables. If he weren’t barely able to tie his own shoes, she’d happily handover the knife and cutting board and let him do all the work, but she listenedto his suggestions with a smile on her face.

She had to admit, it wasactually fun. Henry had never been much of a fan of what went on in thekitchen, only putting his book down long enough to grace her with his presenceat the table and toss aside a “Thanks, Mom,” after he put his plate andsilverware in the dishwasher. Roland asked a lot of questions while she worked,but they were good questions, and she had endless patience for small boys. Bythe time they sat down to what she was privately calling family dinner, she waslooking forward to seeing how the meal turned out.

Good. Better than good,actually. She was going to have to apologize to an imaginary rat for doubtinghim. Roland and Robin cleaned their plates, and even Henry said, “That wasreally good, Mom.” She shrugged and said it was nothing, but she looked down ather own plate and saw that it was practically licked clean.

Take that, Snow White. The Evil Queen can makea family dinner too.

She was so pleased athow well dinner turned out that she set the boys loose in the family room withthe wifi password and prayed that Robin would have the good sense to make surewhatever they chose didn’t have too many explosions, or Roland would wake up inthe middle of the night and crawl into bed with them, promising that he’dprotect them from invaders to the castle.

She was just loading thelast dish when a streak of movement caught her eye.

A rat.

A rat in her kitchen. Arat in her kitchen, a rat wearing a chef’s toque, was running hell bent for leathertowards her pantry.

Either she wascompletely losing her mind, or she was going to have to have a mighty long talk withsome of the other magic practitioners in Storybrooke who might know how a chef-trainedrat came to take up residence in her kitchen.

She’d worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, she left a large hunk of overpriced gouda on the butcher’s block before shutting off the kitchen lights. Her mother had raised her to be polite, after all, and say thank you when the occasion called for it.

#lolcat fic #oq ff #oq fanfiction #outlaw queen #hood mills family #sometimesangryblackwoman

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