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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
2012 - Spring - It Wasn't Me Entry

The Room - 1. The Room

Just something a little different for this anthology. A very personal experience.

You are sat in a room. It is dark. You can smell volcanic ash.

 

You look around you, you can see nothing. You take a deep breath. Exhale.

 

You think to yourself ‘I am in a room. It is dark. Why am I here?’

 

You hear a voice. It calls to you. You can’t tell where it is coming from but you can hear a voice.

 

‘Can you smell it?’ It says.

 

You think to yourself, ‘I am in a room, it is dark and I can smell volcanic ash. Why is something so strange happening to me, someone that is so normal?’

 

You hear a voice. It calls to you. You can’t tell where it is coming from but you start to see a light.

 

‘Can you see me?’ it says.

 

You think to yourself, ‘I am in a room, it is dark with a little bit of light, I can smell volcanic ash and a child’s voice is talking to me. Am I insane?’

 

You look around. The source of light has provided you with just enough light to see the entirety of the room that you are in.

 

You are alone. You are tied to a chair. There is a bed. You are in a room. Victorian furniture.

 

A creepy doll hangs from the ceiling. It is almost as if it is hanging from nothing. No rope. No wire. Just floating in mid-air.

 

You shake out of your stupor. You look around the room you are in. You see the light is coming from a television set. Strange. A television set in the middle of a room like this. A Victorian room with Victorian furniture.

 

You wonder with your eyes. You cannot move. Your hands and feet are tied to the chair and the room has started to cut into your hands.

 

Your eyes look down at your hands. They are bleeding. What do you do?

 

You look at the television screen. A bright white light.

 

You then see a face. You are in a room, it is dark, you can smell volcanic ash and a child’s face has appeared out of nowhere on a television screen that isn’t even plugged in.

 

You follow your eyes. You look up at the doll hanging on its own in mid-air.

 

You realise you remember the doll.

 

What is it? What do you remember?

 

The thought of the doll is too horrible for you to comprehend, so you leave the thoughts of it behind.

 

How do you escape?

 

You are in a room. You are watching a bright light. The voice begins to talk to you again.

 

‘Three blind mice, three blind me, see how they run, see how they run…’

 

Your heartbeat builds. You begin to sweat. You see the television screen getting brighter.

 

The voice speaks again.

 

‘Humpty dumpty sat on a wall; humpty dumpty had a great fall…’

 

You hum along with the tune. You can’t help it. It just happens. Why is this doing this to me, you think.

 

You scream. No-one can hear you. No-one will ever hear you.

 

You are in a room. You are watching a screen that is singing at you.

 

You hop your chair closer to the television screen.

 

You see under the television set a newspaper.

 

You read the newspapers headline. ‘Man gone missing after mysterious fire.’

 

You continue to read. A voice begins to read for you.

 

‘Man presumed dead in fire. His partner is highly distraught. The Victorian house burnt down last night, presumed set on fire by youths.’

 

As you read the newspaper, you feel something watching you, breathing down your neck.

 

You breathe in. Exhale.

 

You hear a voice whispering into your ear.

 

‘Don’t turn around. You know why you are here.’

 

The voice faded away.

 

Why are you here? Why are you going through this?

 

You look up at the sky, look up and dream. Dream of a better life, dream of a better place.

 

You don’t want to die.

 

You don’t want to live.

 

You can never answer this question. You are in a room. You know it wasn’t you. You know you are in a Victorian house that burnt down last night and yet this room remains.

 

You read the newspaper, you know the truth.

 

But what is the truth? Do you really know the truth?

 

The doll falls from the ceiling into your lap.

 

You look into its creepy staring eyes and suddenly the television screen brightens.

 

The child’s face is still watching you. It begins to speak.

 

‘I know what you did. Tell us. Tell what you did. We need to know. We need to know before you can be saved.’

 

You think. You don’t know what you have done wrong.

 

The voice in your ear resurrects. ‘You know what you did. You know. Tell us. We need to know before you can be saved.’

 

The doll moved. It floated up into in front of your face.

 

You try to avoid looking at the doll but you cannot.

 

You remember what happened.

 

You know who did it. You know why it happened.

 

Why did you let it happen?

 

The child on the television begins to speak. ‘If you don’t remember then we must find out. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we shall begin.’

 

The room around you plunges into darkness.

 

Your heartbeat builds to an even greater pace than before.

 

Why?

 

Why did you do it?

 

The voice has gone. You are gone. The doll is gone.

 

You are tied to a chair. You are in a room, tied to a chair.

 

You take a deep breath. Exhale.

 

You think to yourself ‘I am in a room. It is dark. Why am I here?’

 

You remember this. But yet, you don’t remember it happening before.

 

Something is familiar to you.

 

Then the light returns. The face. The smell. The doll.

 

You realise something is playing with your mind.

 

But you cannot resist.

 

What can you do?

 

You are helpless, you are useless and you are guilty.

 

Are you sure you don’t know anything.

 

You are helpless and guilty.

 

Just admit it.

Copyright © 2012 Johnathan Colourfield; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
2012 - Spring - It Wasn't Me Entry
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Chapter Comments

LJH

There is a strange aesthetic to this work that I can only describe as mercenary to the theme of the Spring Anthology. Two words drew me to the work, and those words make up the title, The Room. At once, the title attracted me to it and I was hoping to read a dramatic discourse, a framed moment in time of an event inside a room, not just any room, but this room, The Room. I wanted suspense, perhaps horror, I wanted drama, perhaps a little fantasy. I wanted something like Stephen King’s, Room 1408.

 

To my utter amazement, I got more.

 

Johnathan Colourfield’s story is based on something that may have happened to him for he admits that this is a “very personal experience”. There is the smell of volcanic ash. It is dark. There are voices; a child’s voice. There is a light. He is tied to a chair in a dark Victorian room with a bed and a TV set. There are nursery rhymes. One thing is clear, a house had been set alight.

 

In the tradition of Virginia Andrews, the suspense builds up as the reader seeks a valid conclusion, because the author has drawn him in by using second person narrative. Using second person narrative is surreal, and there is a definite trend towards incorporating it into popular fiction. The second person viewpoint is often seen in experimental writing, cult or art novels, for example, in “Bright Lights, Big City” by Jay McIniery. Second person creates an almost intrusive intimacy, and is most effective when used in the present tense. The author wants to make his reader uncomfortable. He places the reader in the middle of the action, a witness to the events in the story.

 

Johnathan manages this narrative extremely well, although there are breaks in present tense when he suddenly moves to simple past tense. A gremlin in the editing process I would imagine. But, by using second person narrative, he deliberately makes the reader the victim, so to speak.

 

The Room is nightmarish. The YOU is bordering on dark insanity. There are nuances of blame for the fire, for the voice asks a question, “Why did you do it?”

 

The tale leaves enough space for the reader to formulate his own views. But if the reader has taken note of the nursery rhyme and the newspaper report, it will become evident that the man is the victim, and maybe, just maybe, this is a hate crime. And maybe, just maybe, the entire story is based on hypnotic regression? Nothing is as it should be in this story. So many questions. No available answers. This is precisely why I mentioned in the beginning of the review, that The Room has a strange beauty that is mercenary.

 

The prose is beautifully constructed. The sentences are clear and cut to the bone. This ismade deliberately to heighten the drama, and the darkness of the piece.

 

I was pleasantly surprised by the execution of the prose itself. Masterful. If I did not know that Johnathan wrote it, I would have assumed it to have been written by Edgar Allen Poe, or maybe even Virginia Wolf, all artistes of dark prose.

 

To paraphrase The Room. Enter. YOU will be scared shitless. The rest is up to YOU. Hopefully, YOU will awake from YOUR nightmare.

Johnathan Colourfield
On 03/19/2012 05:48 AM, LJH said:
There is a strange aesthetic to this work that I can only describe as mercenary to the theme of the Spring Anthology. Two words drew me to the work, and those words make up the title, The Room. At once, the title attracted me to it and I was hoping to read a dramatic discourse, a framed moment in time of an event inside a room, not just any room, but this room, The Room. I wanted suspense, perhaps horror, I wanted drama, perhaps a little fantasy. I wanted something like Stephen King’s, Room 1408.

 

To my utter amazement, I got more.

 

Johnathan Colourfield’s story is based on something that may have happened to him for he admits that this is a “very personal experience”. There is the smell of volcanic ash. It is dark. There are voices; a child’s voice. There is a light. He is tied to a chair in a dark Victorian room with a bed and a TV set. There are nursery rhymes. One thing is clear, a house had been set alight.

 

In the tradition of Virginia Andrews, the suspense builds up as the reader seeks a valid conclusion, because the author has drawn him in by using second person narrative. Using second person narrative is surreal, and there is a definite trend towards incorporating it into popular fiction. The second person viewpoint is often seen in experimental writing, cult or art novels, for example, in “Bright Lights, Big City” by Jay McIniery. Second person creates an almost intrusive intimacy, and is most effective when used in the present tense. The author wants to make his reader uncomfortable. He places the reader in the middle of the action, a witness to the events in the story.

 

Johnathan manages this narrative extremely well, although there are breaks in present tense when he suddenly moves to simple past tense. A gremlin in the editing process I would imagine. But, by using second person narrative, he deliberately makes the reader the victim, so to speak.

 

The Room is nightmarish. The YOU is bordering on dark insanity. There are nuances of blame for the fire, for the voice asks a question, “Why did you do it?”

 

The tale leaves enough space for the reader to formulate his own views. But if the reader has taken note of the nursery rhyme and the newspaper report, it will become evident that the man is the victim, and maybe, just maybe, this is a hate crime. And maybe, just maybe, the entire story is based on hypnotic regression? Nothing is as it should be in this story. So many questions. No available answers. This is precisely why I mentioned in the beginning of the review, that The Room has a strange beauty that is mercenary.

 

The prose is beautifully constructed. The sentences are clear and cut to the bone. This ismade deliberately to heighten the drama, and the darkness of the piece.

 

I was pleasantly surprised by the execution of the prose itself. Masterful. If I did not know that Johnathan wrote it, I would have assumed it to have been written by Edgar Allen Poe, or maybe even Virginia Wolf, all artistes of dark prose.

 

To paraphrase The Room. Enter. YOU will be scared shitless. The rest is up to YOU. Hopefully, YOU will awake from YOUR nightmare.

:o thank you so much Louis! I'm honoured to get such a rave review :D extra cookie and milk for you later :P
Beloved

WOW just wow this had me on edge the whole time I felt my hair stand on end. Awesome story :D I could picture everything at first I was like why was the person there? what's with the smell? who or what is the light? I had so many questions and as I kept reading I kept picturing everything at first I was like could the person have been kidnapped? was someone trying to play a joke? I was freaking out lol. It definitely has left me wondering very good story :D

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