January 2020 writing prompt

January 2020 writing prompt

"Write about a time someone talked you into doing something you didn't want to do"


Candles flicker against the dank stone walls of a basement, outlining the periphery of an elaborate pentagram chalked onto the bare concrete floor.  Deep cold seeps through the fabric of my jeans, numbing my legs at the pressure points.  Droplets of a dark sticky substance are spattered across the floor but when I try to focus my gaze on them my head starts to swim.  I'm so tired. The air hangs heavy with the mixed scent of beeswax and old damp, and something else that I'm afraid to name.

Why is that so important? I get the nagging feeling that I'm forgetting something important, something vital but what?

At that moment a faint scuffing noise draws my attention to the darkest corner of the room, which the faint candlelight refuses to illuminate.  My disorientation worsens as I try to decipher the shadows in that dark corner, as if my eyes refuse to focus no matter how much I concentrate my efforts.  They refuse to dwell there, I can't see a thing, only a hazy darkness. What am I doing here? Where am I?

"Julien? Is that you?" A small familiar voice calls out from that corner.

The bile rises in my throat as chill bumps spread across every exposed surface of skin on my body. That voice...

"Julien!" The child's voice calls again, "I'm scared. What's going on?"

Julien... in a rush my mind is flooded with clarity. I am Julien LeFleur, and the last thing I remember is.... dammit I can't believe I'm this stupid. Stupid stupid stupid!!

Family legend claims that the LeFleur clan are Sensitives. That we have a closer tie to the spirit world and to the unseen.  All my childhood I grew up hearing stories about great aunt so-and-so who claimed to have had a conversation with the devil at a crossroads and left with her soul intact, or big daddy such-and-such who was able to predict every birth and death in the family down to the day.  Grandmere professed to hear angels up until her dying day, and my little sister... sweet little Faustine.

What was I doing? Grandmere is probably rolling in her grave right now, she taught me better than to mess around with this kind of Foolishness. That's is what she called dark magic, Foolishness. As if negating the damned and making it out to be silly would somehow lessen the danger.

A wave of nausea rocks me back to reality. Cold sweat beads on my upper lip and brow despite the cold. A susurration of voices in my head.  Out of reflex I raise my hands to my ears and scream.

"STOP!"

Deafening silence, like the muted stillness following snowfall. Or the expectant silence indicating the presence of a predator.

"Brother, help me" The plaintive voice calls out. I can't see her. What is she doing down here in this godforsaken hole? My baby sister. I was supposed to protect her! Keep her safe!

Soft sobs erupt from the darkness "I'm scared... where are you?"

Why can't I remember? The soft dripping of liquid hitting the concrete floor snags my attention. This... is wrong, there shouldn't be this much blood. I feel so weak. No, I'm not supposed to. Can't remember why, but there's the nagging feeling that I'm only safe within this circle.

"W-who are you?" I call out to the darkness. Silence fills the air. Angry now, "Who are you!". It's not Faustine, not my little Faustine. 

My Faustine died months ago, struck by a speeding vehicle just outside of our house. It was a crisp autumn afternoon. She was outside, as usual, trying to convince me to play hide and seek with her. Somehow she got too close to the road just as a delivery truck sped by, and apparently lost her balance. If I was out there with her, instead of inside the house ignoring her... my stomach knots with the remembered anguish of that day.

A small girlish voice calls out "Please help me... I can't go on. You called me here, and now I can't go on. It's dark... and scary." She pleads "Please brother".

Protective instincts take over just as guilt rears its ugly head. Is this my fault too, am I causing her pain in death? How? "'Tine, what do I do? Don't be scared, I'm coming to get you". I drunkenly shamble to my feet, shoes slipping in the blood and wax that has accumulated on the floor beneath me.  My limbs feel heavy, I'm gasping for air. So much blood...

The whispering is back. Telling me exactly what to do. This isn't right. I don't want to, but I have to save my little sister. That's my job,  I'm her big brother, her protector, that's what I'm supposed to do.  I stand to my full height, square my shoulders, and fix my gaze to that dark corner as I step over the faint chalk outline.  I can almost see her face, just as darkness envelopes my consciousness.

******