Post by Daniel MacNamara on Apr 6, 2020 17:25:49 GMT -5
Silence, was the absence of sound, or so they say. The thing is, when things go silent? They scream in other ways that become so deafening that even usually the most unaware people take notice. No birds chirping, no insects chittering, nothing but the absence of the sounds that you should be hearing. Suddenly, you can hear the sound of your own heart beating because nothing’s working to sound it out, and the disquiet of your mind sets in, telling you what’s watching you even if there’s nothing there. The few sounds that you might hear suddenly become a crescendo that comes laced with your instinctual paranoia because none of this feels right, none of this feels..
Okay. It doesn’t feel okay.
For all the love of music and its use in horror films, nothing’s quite as terrifying as the sounds that silence brings to you, because when there’s nothing to occupy one’s mind, there’s only the mind, and the worst fears that lay within it.
Perhaps that was why Danny had a fire going on the shoreline that he was camped out at, because the crackle of the fire was better than the silence of the night and the heat was better. There was no one else but him at first glance. Just the flame haired boy sitting in his jeans and black jumper with his matching wellies. He looked quite smart, didn’t he? He warmed his hands on the outside of those flickering flames, seeking comfort from the cold stillness of the air that came off the nearby lake, the subtle shifts in the water occasionally breaking up the idleness of the air, the sounds of it that might have gone unnoticed on a normal night seemed to only be made louder in the quiet of this one.
The light illuminated only parts of him, and even then the dancing light seemed to distort him as it casted shadows over his gaunt face, a face that was almost canine and hungry by the meager light. He didn't seem keen on talking at the moment, his hesitation almost making the moment pregnant with anticipation as those eyes of his remained on the fire just a few feet in front of him as if he was listening to it with rapt attention.
It was almost like with each fiery lick of those dancing embers, another plot point of a story became unraveled, spilling out little footnotes and previously unread subtext to him. It was as if the fire held secrets for him, and he was all too happy to listen.
“Fear is a survival instinct.”
There it was, he was finally speaking, but his voice was directed at the fire where he kept most of his attention.
“The fear of dying, the fear of being alone, the fear of failure, the fear of what’s lurking in the dark. It’s a driving force, and a powerful one at that, but you’re not watching me to hear a rundown of what fear is, and what it does. You’re watching me because you want to hear how all of this is going to relate to .. him.”
That’s when Danny looked up, and with a small, wry, grin passing his features he’d continue.
“And so, I submit a story to the approval of The Midnight Society: The Tale of the Bye Bye m-- Wait. No. That’s taken. The Tale of the Toxic Aven-- No.. Gods damn it.”
He scratched along his jawline in faux-thought before lighting up!
“Wrestling’s Most Dangerous ma-- No. The Bloke from Silent Hi-- No, that’s trademarked too.”
Danny glanced back down to the fire, focusing on it as he racked his brain for things to call his mock tale of fear and woe that would somehow relate to Erik Holland.
“I suppose I could call this particular tale ‘Erik Holland and his inability to be original’ but that comes off too snarky and disingenuous. He lacks style, he lacks panache, and everything else that makes a good story appealing, but the fact is there is one thing Erik Holland has if nothing else, and that’s determination. Like a dog that’s been run over and still has the audacity to chase cars that he knows by now are going to hurt him in ways that the veterinarian can’t undo. Holland doesn’t know when to give up. If you beat him down, he’ll claw at the ground with bloodied, broken, fingers until he’s crawled back up to his feet to do it again. For a tale of horror, it’s fitting because the self alleged monster has to have nearly supernatural fortitude, does it not?”
Pause. Beat.
“So, in a serious nature this time, I submit to you the tale of the monster that failed.”
His grin remained, but his hands slowly retreated from the heat of the fire, hugging his knees with his arms.
“His failure is what’s going to be the subject of this horror story. You see, this monster wasn’t ever truly scary. No one ever recoiled in fear of his face. No one ever stared at him slackjawed when they saw what he kept locked away inside of him. There was no disdain in his father’s eyes as when he saw the man that he became, no mournful shrieks from his mother caused by his countenance. I’m afraid that our monster was never truly a monster in anything but his size and his failed attempts at being scary. You see, this monster’s psychotic break ended up with a trip to the psychiatric ward. No one was truly hurt beyond himself, a mental prison that was forged by his own mind instead of the machinations of others. Erik Holland, is only a monster in his own mind, because he’s the only one scared of him.”
He breathed in sharply, only to release it all in one sigh.
“The man who’ll hijack a cause to be offended by, on the behalves of other people, often overshadowing them so he can speak from a position of moral authority isn’t a man that I fear. The man who goes from normality to a facade of faux monstrosity with a spooky veneer, claiming that I’ve awoken something deep inside of him because of some off color twitter banter, again, isn’t a man that I fear. So easily worked up, so theatrical, I feel as if this man’s life is more comparable to a Lifetime Halloween Special right down to the cheap CGI and badly choreographed fight scenes than a true tale of horror.”
And that’s the smile broadened, only the smile didn’t reach those utterly unchanged eyes of his that were more reminiscent of a doll’s than a person’s in that moment.
“You’re a failure as a monster, Erik. Completely, utterly, and you can’t play the hero because of how you’ve set yourself up as any sort of villainous thing that you can conjure yourself up as in hopes that something might actually stick. You want to leave a mark so egregiously that you’ll take up positions that don’t fit you; the only reason you even want this match is because you think there’s a glimmer of hope that you can make a snatch at my belt, the NVR World Championship, if you somehow defy all odds and beat me. You’re a multiple time world champion who’s prime years seem to be behind him, a man ruled by obsessions, always reaching for what he can’t have. So desperate to be in the spotlight that you’ll rip the microphone from the hands of those who want to speak for themselves, that you’ll even challenge champions of other companies to show that you’re truly Wrestling’s Most Dangerous Man. It didn’t work when you challenged Bryan Laughlin, it’s not going to work here.”
He didn’t move, he didn’t even seem like he cared what he said. The fatigue was so evident in that boy’s face that this was almost going through the motions for him. Just sitting there with a smile on his face that looked so out of place that it was unsettling.
“...And despite all of that, Erik. Despite the chasing cars that you can’t catch, despite the numerous nicknames given yourself, despite the annoying, contradictory, personality shifts that come along when you feel the need to be relevant with each passing, desperate, grasp that you make. That’s the horror of this story, isn’t it? You becoming just like your father, passed over, looked at like a stranger in this business made out of carnies and wretched souls. Despite all of your suffering, you refuse to quit. Just like me, surrender isn’t inside of you. You lack the good graces to know when you’re so utterly beaten that victory is beyond you. Even with that, though, we’re not alike. There’s no community in our suffering, Erik. No common bonds between us. No moments in which we can relate. You want to be the man who people who love while trying to be the one that plays on their fears. I just.. want to be free to be myself.”
Finally, the smile faded from his face. He looked old, despite that youthful countenance. He looked downright ancient, even.
“Scream, if you want. Talk loudly, boisterously about how you’re the thing that goes bump in the night. Do… whatever it is that you think you need to do, Erik. Play the knight come to slay the blood furred wolf, play the monster that comes to torment the villagers, but pick a role and for once in your life, have the conviction to see it through to the end.”
Quietly, Danny moved to stand to his feet, grabbing a shovel that’d been laying next to his tent, scooping up a measure of wet sand from the shoreline.
“Either way, this story ends with one of us finding out the extent of what we can take.. As a warning, Erik? You should know that I won’t quit until you’re buried beneath the mountain of your ineptitude. That’s the story I’m telling. It begins here, and it ends when you’re beneath the dirt.”
With that, he flung the shovelful of dirt onto the fire, extinguishing it.
Okay. It doesn’t feel okay.
For all the love of music and its use in horror films, nothing’s quite as terrifying as the sounds that silence brings to you, because when there’s nothing to occupy one’s mind, there’s only the mind, and the worst fears that lay within it.
Perhaps that was why Danny had a fire going on the shoreline that he was camped out at, because the crackle of the fire was better than the silence of the night and the heat was better. There was no one else but him at first glance. Just the flame haired boy sitting in his jeans and black jumper with his matching wellies. He looked quite smart, didn’t he? He warmed his hands on the outside of those flickering flames, seeking comfort from the cold stillness of the air that came off the nearby lake, the subtle shifts in the water occasionally breaking up the idleness of the air, the sounds of it that might have gone unnoticed on a normal night seemed to only be made louder in the quiet of this one.
The light illuminated only parts of him, and even then the dancing light seemed to distort him as it casted shadows over his gaunt face, a face that was almost canine and hungry by the meager light. He didn't seem keen on talking at the moment, his hesitation almost making the moment pregnant with anticipation as those eyes of his remained on the fire just a few feet in front of him as if he was listening to it with rapt attention.
It was almost like with each fiery lick of those dancing embers, another plot point of a story became unraveled, spilling out little footnotes and previously unread subtext to him. It was as if the fire held secrets for him, and he was all too happy to listen.
“Fear is a survival instinct.”
There it was, he was finally speaking, but his voice was directed at the fire where he kept most of his attention.
“The fear of dying, the fear of being alone, the fear of failure, the fear of what’s lurking in the dark. It’s a driving force, and a powerful one at that, but you’re not watching me to hear a rundown of what fear is, and what it does. You’re watching me because you want to hear how all of this is going to relate to .. him.”
That’s when Danny looked up, and with a small, wry, grin passing his features he’d continue.
“And so, I submit a story to the approval of The Midnight Society: The Tale of the Bye Bye m-- Wait. No. That’s taken. The Tale of the Toxic Aven-- No.. Gods damn it.”
He scratched along his jawline in faux-thought before lighting up!
“Wrestling’s Most Dangerous ma-- No. The Bloke from Silent Hi-- No, that’s trademarked too.”
Danny glanced back down to the fire, focusing on it as he racked his brain for things to call his mock tale of fear and woe that would somehow relate to Erik Holland.
“I suppose I could call this particular tale ‘Erik Holland and his inability to be original’ but that comes off too snarky and disingenuous. He lacks style, he lacks panache, and everything else that makes a good story appealing, but the fact is there is one thing Erik Holland has if nothing else, and that’s determination. Like a dog that’s been run over and still has the audacity to chase cars that he knows by now are going to hurt him in ways that the veterinarian can’t undo. Holland doesn’t know when to give up. If you beat him down, he’ll claw at the ground with bloodied, broken, fingers until he’s crawled back up to his feet to do it again. For a tale of horror, it’s fitting because the self alleged monster has to have nearly supernatural fortitude, does it not?”
Pause. Beat.
“So, in a serious nature this time, I submit to you the tale of the monster that failed.”
His grin remained, but his hands slowly retreated from the heat of the fire, hugging his knees with his arms.
“His failure is what’s going to be the subject of this horror story. You see, this monster wasn’t ever truly scary. No one ever recoiled in fear of his face. No one ever stared at him slackjawed when they saw what he kept locked away inside of him. There was no disdain in his father’s eyes as when he saw the man that he became, no mournful shrieks from his mother caused by his countenance. I’m afraid that our monster was never truly a monster in anything but his size and his failed attempts at being scary. You see, this monster’s psychotic break ended up with a trip to the psychiatric ward. No one was truly hurt beyond himself, a mental prison that was forged by his own mind instead of the machinations of others. Erik Holland, is only a monster in his own mind, because he’s the only one scared of him.”
He breathed in sharply, only to release it all in one sigh.
“The man who’ll hijack a cause to be offended by, on the behalves of other people, often overshadowing them so he can speak from a position of moral authority isn’t a man that I fear. The man who goes from normality to a facade of faux monstrosity with a spooky veneer, claiming that I’ve awoken something deep inside of him because of some off color twitter banter, again, isn’t a man that I fear. So easily worked up, so theatrical, I feel as if this man’s life is more comparable to a Lifetime Halloween Special right down to the cheap CGI and badly choreographed fight scenes than a true tale of horror.”
And that’s the smile broadened, only the smile didn’t reach those utterly unchanged eyes of his that were more reminiscent of a doll’s than a person’s in that moment.
“You’re a failure as a monster, Erik. Completely, utterly, and you can’t play the hero because of how you’ve set yourself up as any sort of villainous thing that you can conjure yourself up as in hopes that something might actually stick. You want to leave a mark so egregiously that you’ll take up positions that don’t fit you; the only reason you even want this match is because you think there’s a glimmer of hope that you can make a snatch at my belt, the NVR World Championship, if you somehow defy all odds and beat me. You’re a multiple time world champion who’s prime years seem to be behind him, a man ruled by obsessions, always reaching for what he can’t have. So desperate to be in the spotlight that you’ll rip the microphone from the hands of those who want to speak for themselves, that you’ll even challenge champions of other companies to show that you’re truly Wrestling’s Most Dangerous Man. It didn’t work when you challenged Bryan Laughlin, it’s not going to work here.”
He didn’t move, he didn’t even seem like he cared what he said. The fatigue was so evident in that boy’s face that this was almost going through the motions for him. Just sitting there with a smile on his face that looked so out of place that it was unsettling.
“...And despite all of that, Erik. Despite the chasing cars that you can’t catch, despite the numerous nicknames given yourself, despite the annoying, contradictory, personality shifts that come along when you feel the need to be relevant with each passing, desperate, grasp that you make. That’s the horror of this story, isn’t it? You becoming just like your father, passed over, looked at like a stranger in this business made out of carnies and wretched souls. Despite all of your suffering, you refuse to quit. Just like me, surrender isn’t inside of you. You lack the good graces to know when you’re so utterly beaten that victory is beyond you. Even with that, though, we’re not alike. There’s no community in our suffering, Erik. No common bonds between us. No moments in which we can relate. You want to be the man who people who love while trying to be the one that plays on their fears. I just.. want to be free to be myself.”
Finally, the smile faded from his face. He looked old, despite that youthful countenance. He looked downright ancient, even.
“Scream, if you want. Talk loudly, boisterously about how you’re the thing that goes bump in the night. Do… whatever it is that you think you need to do, Erik. Play the knight come to slay the blood furred wolf, play the monster that comes to torment the villagers, but pick a role and for once in your life, have the conviction to see it through to the end.”
Quietly, Danny moved to stand to his feet, grabbing a shovel that’d been laying next to his tent, scooping up a measure of wet sand from the shoreline.
“Either way, this story ends with one of us finding out the extent of what we can take.. As a warning, Erik? You should know that I won’t quit until you’re buried beneath the mountain of your ineptitude. That’s the story I’m telling. It begins here, and it ends when you’re beneath the dirt.”
With that, he flung the shovelful of dirt onto the fire, extinguishing it.