Prologue
Hello all, I'm posting the prologue to my next book, the sequel to Affinity's Window. It's called Awakening. Any thoughts?
AWAKENING
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
PROLOGUE
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The chair’s runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and greeting the day in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head caused a second scarlet drop to fall, landing on the doll and soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker pools between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar as a girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against the image, Marie beheld the truth. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Tearing her gaze away from the looking glass, Marie looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. Again, she turned toward the mirror, and again she saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she’d held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying gore she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blue jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris.
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to ask, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, and unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of the family mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
AWAKENING
BY DOUGLAS L. WILSON
PROLOGUE
Reclined in her grandmother’s rocking chair, Marie listlessly stroked the yellow yarn hair of the doll that lay cradled in her lap. The chair’s runners creaked lightly on the hardwood floor. The house was quiet this morning, too quiet really, and she wondered briefly why the girls weren’t up and greeting the day in their usual chaotic fashion. She remembered James leaving for work, his hot breath on her cheek as he kissed her goodbye and told her that today would be better, that it had to be better. So why weren’t Kelly and Rose arguing over the bathroom and screaming for cereal? A drop of blood fell to her chest, bursting onto her skin like a flower in time-lapsed bloom. Her nose was bleeding again.
Lifting her head caused a second scarlet drop to fall, landing on the doll and soaking into the threadbare burlap as if it were a thirsty sponge. Spying her reflection in the full-length mirror on the far wall, Marie screamed. The sound exploded quickly through the house, like a shot fired from a gun. But the eerie stillness returned, as it did each time. Marie Clarke was trapped. She was caught between the hammer of misfortune and the anvil of insanity, and the pounding never ceased.
Blood coated her arms and hands, spreading across the lower half of the white tank top she’d dug out of the hamper in her haste to get dressed this morning. The top half of the blue jeans she’d washed only yesterday were thick with it, too, squishing softly as she shifted her weight to move the rocker.
Most of the blood was beginning to dry, taking on that cracked desert mud feel that peeled off when she bent her elbow, or flexed her wrist, but the thicker pools between her fingers and beneath the waistband of her pants still felt like the time she’d spilled the honey jar as a girl.
Forcing herself to look once more into the mirror, knowing what she would see but steeling herself against the image, Marie beheld the truth. The doll in her lap, the doll Mr. Danville had given her as a token of their mutual trust, was not a doll at all. It was a straight razor.
Tearing her gaze away from the looking glass, Marie looked back down into her lap. Mr. Moppet, the dime store doll with the yellow yarn hair and black button eyes smiled up at her. Again, she turned toward the mirror, and again she saw that she held not a doll, but a razor, a blood soaked straight razor much like the one her grandfather shaved with while she’d held the mustache cup for him. The handle was bone, human bone she somehow knew, and it was held together with two gleaming black rivets and capped with a striking yellow pommel. The blade stood open, and even through the drying gore she could sense its sharpness, its keen killing edge. Turning away from the mirror, she looked back down to find the doll gazing innocuously up at her, a smile playing at the ends of its red stitched mouth.
Rising from the rocker she’d run to in her confusion, feeling the seat of her blue jeans peeling sickeningly away from the polished wood of the antique chair, Marie moved toward the bedroom door. Bloody footprints marked the hardwood, but they were aiming the wrong way, they were aiming toward the rocking chair. Had she left those prints? Everything was a jumbled mess now, a mass of conflicting memories and bits of dream that floated near the surface like tidal debris.
Leaving the master bedroom on wobbly legs, the smell of iron almost choking her to the point of gagging, she stepped into the hallway. More footprints led the way from the girls’ bedroom door back to the master. Her head continued to pound. The pain was almost unbearable. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor, several of the drops landing on one of the crimson footprints left behind by her sandals.
Turning slowly towards the end of the hall, toward the girls’ bedroom door, Marie hesitated. The doll she’d momentarily forgotten wriggled in her hand, as if to ask, “Are you sure you want to go back in there?”
Another flash of memory beat itself against the pounding in her head. Her oldest girl Kelly, crying and asking why. Then the blood. So much blood. Marie turned away from the girls’ bedroom, away from that snippet of terror she’d just viewed through her mind’s bloodshot eye and headed for the stairs. Mr. Danville was the key. He’d given her the doll, but she realized now that he’d deceived her. Oh, she’d taken it willingly enough, she’d welcomed it with open arms, but that was when it had still been just a doll.
Stumbling down the stairs to the first floor, and unknowingly leaving streaks of blood on every surface with which she came in contact, Marie made her way toward the garage. Passing the dining room wall mirror, she paid almost no attention to the reflection of the straight razor she carried. She paid no heed to her blood-soaked clothing, or the wild, frenzied face of the stranger staring back from behind her own eyes. Doll or razor, razor or doll. It didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was finding Mr. Danville.
Strapped in behind the wheel of the family mini-van, Marie burst forth into the tranquil suburban morn. The vehicle was littered with reminders of the girls she’d left behind in that bloody hell of a bedroom, and she set off in search of the creature that had inflicted this pain, that had deceived and defrauded her to the very core of her being. She would find him, and he would pay. Laughter from the passenger’s seat turned her head. Riding shotgun, his black button eyes gleaming like fiery pinwheels in the hot morning sun, Mr. Moppet wholeheartedly approved.
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