Drip…drop. Drip…drop.

Water, seeping through the cracks, spilling onto the floor below. The dull sound is but one of the few things audible in this dark, dank place. Rats skirt past your feet, their soft fur one of the few things almost comforting to feel. They squeak quietly as they run by, the usual chit chatter of their kind. A part of you can almost hear the dripping sarcasm in-between garbled vowels; or perhaps, you’re simply imagining it.

We see you’re here again. Welcome back.

You’ve been here so many times, and yet it’s still hard to define what is real here, and what isn’t.

It’s cold here too. There’s no draft here. It’s just…cold. It’s that feeling you get when you’ve realized you’ve stepped a little too far into the neighbor farmer’s yard. You’re the one who gets left behind by your cohorts, the one who’s left staring down the blank eyes of the shotgun. You know you shouldn’t be here, but you can’t seem to run away either. The breeze picks up, almost as if to cover the impending “Crack!” headed right for your ears. It’ll be the last thing you ever heard.

You’re all alone, little one.

The soft pitter patter of your feet echoes through the near-black halls, the almost slimy floor just about silent in its squishing. You want to hold the walls with your hands to avoid slipping and falling; but by now, you know better.

No need to startle a sleeping bat, no need for your fingers to grace the mouth of an eternally smiling skull. No need to grab a handful of spider web, only to jump back at the slight hissing sound, its occupant less than pleased with you.

There’s no need for anything really – except to keep moving forward.

Just a little further now.

Drip…drop. Drip…drop. Splash!

The water continues spilling down the walls, some escaping from the ceiling; only to land on you, the dark realm simply not cold enough. The water runs its winding way down through your hair, soaking it to the core. The taste it leaves is less than delectable, rotten at best. It soils your clothes, cascading down your shoulders, your back, slithering in and out down your legs, serpents descending from the trees. The rats continue to play around your feet, their never ending chatter echoing through. They love the filthy water, darting to and from like children in a water park.

Pitter patter, pitter patter. Swish, swish, swish. Pitter patter, pitter patter.

That all too familiar sound beings to echo lightly through the halls. The sound of dancing feet, the swishing of a dress. You know you’re getting close now. The hairs on your neck being to stand on end, thrilled yet chilled as well.

I wonder how she fares today…

The dull clangs of a chain start to become audible as well, as you near the corner, turning right at the end. Here resides the only light in this whole realm, the only other beings here.

The light seeps through an opening at the top, resting on the shape of a young girl. You’ve seen her so many times, and yet she still unnerves you whenever you do.

Her dress is a plain white, covering her creamy skin, ending just above her knees. The hem is tattered, torn, with little rips strewn here and there throughout the outfit. Hair, red like fire, sways with her movements, hardly having time to touch her shoulders, as she dances round and round, just like always. She is restricted, however, by a single thin chain, coiled around her neck like a snake to its prey. She doesn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest, even when she has to spin the other way around to avoid choking.

The most fascinating, if the most disturbing, part of her is her eyes. They are hardly colorful, hardly full of life.

No, they are hardly anything. They’re simply empty sockets, almost like a skull just about ready to burst from her head. It’s a bottomless abyss, so easy to get lost, so hard to return from.

She barely pays you any mind as she continues to dance. ‘Round and ‘round she goes, a child playing an eternal game of Ring around the Rosie.

Pockets full of Posies,
Ashes, ashes,
We all fall down.

Your hands slide onto the bars in front of you, the only thing standing between you and her. You take care to mind the spiders crawling on it nearby, spinning pretty webs for ugly prey. A lone bat glides just inches from your head, and you feel a chill race through your spine as the air from its wings connects. Subconsciously, you tug at the bars, almost as if trying to yank them out of place, to maybe get inside, to stand near her, to reach out and touch her, and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here.”

Suddenly, she stops, with all the finesse of a ballerina. It’s hard escaping her hollow gaze, as she worries her bottom lip. With what emotion, however, has yet to be known.

The bars slowly start to open, slipping away from your hands gently, the grime soiling them.
You hardly pay it any mind, however, as she continues to simply stare.

The worst is yet to come.

But you already know.

The hand creeps its way forward, perhaps an invitation to join. It’s not coming from the girl, however.

Slowly, creaking slightly, an old tree not quite ready to expire, it slinks its way from beneath her skirt. The hand itself is stitched together, though it seems rather loose and unorganized, like the work of a child not quite experienced with the needle. The girl simply stands there, the hand not fazing her either. The fingers wriggle and writhe, waiting for that separation of hand and appendage. It never happens.

The hand stops inches from your face, just barely close enough to grace the bottom of your chin. You want to run, you want to scream and yell and cry. But you’re frozen in your spot, the mind hardly moving, hardly talking, commanding “Run you fool!” You have half a mind to reach out and simply glide your hand across hers, to get that feel of it, to wonder what it’s like to touch something so beautiful and unworldly at the same time.

But you don’t get the chance to.

Something skirts the back of your ankle, but it doesn’t feel like a rat. It’s wet, slimy, and hot to the touch. Something equally wet and hot drips down to the soles of your feet.

The tongue’s motion hardly has time to register as the owner’s breath ghosts its way across the back of your neck and through your hair. It feels heavy and muggy, almost like a humid summer day. You want so much to run your hands through, to feel how sticky and damp it is - but you remain frozen.

So much for getting stuck here all the time.

A slow, deliberate, rumbling gurgle slices through the air, your rib cage rattling gently in response. It’s the sound of power, of knowledge; deception and coyness.

Life and death.

The owner’s chuckle oozes from the back of his throat, venomous and taunting in tone. His low, throaty voice is very much the same.

Be careful what you wish for, little child. How do you know what lies beyond these bars? How do you know you’ll actually escape this time? How do you actually know –

The voice trails off, as a soft pitter patter echoes again. The shape moves in front of you, but takes care to remain in the shadows, unrecognizable. He grabs the chain at its end point in the wall, giving a forceful tug as it’s released.

- that you’ll actually live tonight?

He tugs on the chain again, the girl flopping onto her bottom, like a doll. The hand slithers back under her skirt hastily, almost as if it fears being reprimanded.

Dolls are so frail and delicate, easily broken. Living things are much the same. He continues, dragging the unresponsive girl to his side. Why, if I were to tighten this just a bit more, her head would surely pop off.

But he doesn’t tighten it. Instead, he loosens his hold on the chain, the girl simply sitting, staring at the floor. He chuckles again; and even though his eyes aren’t visible, you know he’s sneering at you.

You are so complacent. You think that because you’ve been here time and time again, that things will always be the same.

Suddenly, the girl’s head jerks up, her mouth agape. Even without her eyes, she is clearly shocked at something.

Hmph. Tonight shall be different. The same routine becomes…mundane, no?

Swiftly, he throws the chain over a rafter in the ceiling, and gives it a forceful pull. The girl is yanked from the ground, and is left hanging in the air. Her mouth is still open, almost as if trying to scream.

But no sound is heard.

If only you were a little more vocal… He muses to the girl, a disappointed sigh coughing its way from his lungs. This would be more enjoyable.

His head moves again, back towards your direction. However, you feel…movement. It’s almost like you’re spinning, but spinning backwards. Back down the hall slowly, back towards the entrance to this hellish world.

You feel like something is pulling you away from everything.

Such a shame. Time’s already up. I wonder if I’ll see you again.

He places a sharp emphasis on the “I’ll,” as if he is all that matters, he is all that’s left in this world.

The doors creak loudly as they being to close, his crude grin cutting into your skin, your heart quivering, a frightened child crying for comfort.

Who knows? Maybe he will be all that’s left in that world after tonight. God only knows the fate of the girl contained in that lone cell, dancing her days, her life away.

Just before the door finishes closing, his voice slithers from the gap between the doors; malicious and borderline hungry.

You cannot escape your nightmares. You cannot escape me.

You cannot escape yourself.