Fantasy-Mystery
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Carmiabell Goldmoon Locks is under an ancient curse that threatens to collapse her existence if she does not source the creature that laid it upon her.
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On an easy-going autumnal Monday morning, the last thing Carmiabell's ill...
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Knock knock.
A person who had survived a massive raid in his place on the eleventh eleventh only to walk out with minor injuries was, without doubts, one who had seen more than his tongue could narrate.
The first knock went unreplied or so they thought till they heard a gruff voice muffled within the walls on the other side of the door,”coming.”
He delayed for a moment too long before Zuina impatiently knocked once again.
“I said I'm coming, you idiot.” It was followed by screeching and creaking of wood, like he was unlocking himself from a rusty room with a hundred doors.
Zuina's threshold of patience ran out once again hence knocking successively with unease.
The door flung open before cutting edge words flowed from the now visible old man crippled on a wheelchair, “how many times do I have to tell you fools.” They could tell that there was some fury evoked in him by the tone.
Telling from the color of his hair and the wrinkles creeping on his face, he was nothing less than fifty years old–which was a good sign. Old people knew more about the past.
“What do you want?!” He thunder in his tone rescinded as he worded to teenagers at his door step.
“We need to know something about your accident,” Zuina jabbered in a tone she used when she was out of patience or bothered.
“You are talking too fast!” He shouted as if they were deaf.
Zuina rolled her eyes before taming her temper and uttering slower, “we.” It took her a solid five drops to utter that word. The rest took a century.
“I can't hear you!” The old man seemed to be bluffing and the last person that he should have been doing that to would be Zuina.
“What?!”
“I think he is deaf,” Phoebi interjected.
Damon withdrew a book from his bag and a pen on the other hand scribbling words, as the rest watched in anticipation.
We want to know about your accident.
His font was more of italicized than upright and professional that even if he didn't seem to put in much effort all the letters were equal in size and accurate in frame.
The old fella squinted before switching his glance at them. Specifically damon.
“Leave my house!” There was a growl like a tiger’s at the back of his vocals.
Technically they were outside, so the statement was not exactly accurate.
We come in peace. An instant later Damon scribbled.
“I don't care.” He spun his wheelchair wheels backwards—explaining the screeching sounds and creek—and stretched for the door in an attempt of shutting it close, but his organs were betraying him.
The intersection between the intertwined footplate surface of the wheelchair and the door out-lengthed his arm-stretch. The tip of his index finger was the only part that made it in a tender touch.
“Can you help me shut you out?”
It would have been comical if they weren't the ones being shut out.
“Yeah, sure.” Phoebi's sympathy was beyond benevolence. Zuina pulled her back as Damon scribbled more details.
We know about the eleventh eleventh.
The stun in his face was indiscernible. His eyes widened an inch too long as his lips fumbled, seeking the rightful words to utter next.
“No you don't.” He shook his head just to convince himself that he was right. Which he was. Or at least half was.
Then teach us.
“You don't know what you are getting yourself into.”His eyes switched to Carmiabell and the rest, finally giving in.
He slid to the side leaving space for them to bounce in and peeked outside before Phoebi helped him in shutting the door.
“What do you know?”
There wasn't much on their plate, minus black dreamer and black veins—for the sake of keeping the number of people aware of the secret low—and that didn't seem to surprise the man.
