Short Stories

Footsteps

A silly little attempt at a mindf*ck, quite fond of this one in all honesty though. Picture it:a sh*t suburban gallery containing just a bit of magic, and the protagonist trapped in it twice. I left the little -s and *s to remind me which version of the protagonist is which- feel free to use this too. Enjoy!
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Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack...
The monotonous echoing of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor.

It was my third night shift this week. 8pm-5am, five nights a week. It sounds soul sucking and it is, but I play games to pass the time. I count objects that appear in paintings, or colours and patterns in the frames.  Patrolling the corridors of the gallery, keeping the paintings safe. Funny. As if anyone would want to break into this place. Mediocre paintings by washed up pretentious A-holes with no real talent. And yet I'm needed to guard them. After 3 months of job searching this was the best I could get, despite my law degree no soliciting firm seemed to need new employees.

*I turned the south-east corner again and entered the still-life exhibition. That made 16 suitcases and 5 bronze frames. All the same.

-The north-west corner, the surrealism exhibition, my least favourite part of the gallery. Twisted faces stared at me from ornate frames. Gnarled plants pushing out of the walls and reaching for me. My eyes darted from canvas to canvas, catching on the unnatural shapes and tortured-looking bodies. The last painting of the corridor was in sight; the worst of the lot. "Awake" it was called. A horrific face pressed out of shape against the canvas, as though it was trying to get out of the image, and cast in stomach churning colours of rot and decay.
I neared the painting, keeping close to the wall so that I didn't have to look at it. I slowed to a halt with the rim of the painting in front of me. The thing terrified me, I couldn't bear the idea of passing it; having to look at its gruesome contents. But even worse was the idea of passing with my back turned, where those empty eye-sockets could follow me, the hands reaching for my back...
I shuddered, looking at the frame. An idea came into my head, a solution to my ludicrous problem. Still taking care not to look at the wretched thing I lifted one edge of the frame. The long wire holding it up twisted as I turned the painting around, it's corners knocking one
once, twice against the white washed wall and echoing. My heart rose and I moved on, almost skipping now.

Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack...
Hang on.

*I stop suddenly, listening intently. It seemed as if a constant noise had stopped. Like when the fridge stopped humming and the house became uncomfortably quiet. My footsteps seemed to have stopped echoing. I had reached 6 bronze frames now. I listened very carefully, the head of security told me that break-ins usually came through the skylights. I tilted my head up and strained my ears. Then there was a sound, from somewhere inside the museum two knocks. Two echoing knocks. My brain suddenly switched on, a live wire of fear and adrenaline. Knocking? Was there someone trying to get in? Or out? Or maybe an animal? My hand found the little wooden truncheon clipped to my belt, cold and smooth against my palm. I unclipped it gently, listening again, thinking. The gallery was made up of four long rooms, south west and east, then north east and west. Landscape, Still-life, Sculpture and Surrealism. The sound had come from one of north parts, ahead of me, I set off at a quick march, the missing noise seemed to return at that moment, though I couldn't quite place it, a distant echo of my footsteps or something.
Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack...
The monotonous echoing of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor.

- I moved a bit quicker now, hurrying to get around the loop, begging for it all to be over, wanting time to fast forward to glorious 5am. End of shift when one of the daytime guards would unlock the building so I could get out.
Hurry now, quicker.

Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack...
The monotonous echoing of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor.

*Almost there now, the final corner was fast approaching, I knew what was around it; the north-west corridor and Surrealism. Twisted faces stared at me from ornate frames. Gnarled plants pushing out of the walls and reaching for me. There. I was in the room now, white washed walls surrounding me. All was normal, I walked through the room, keeping my pace. My eyes combed the floors and ceilings, walls and fittings. Until I came to it. My blood froze and a cold swear came over me. The painting, the one I so despised, had turned around, to face the wall. I backed away, facing the wooden canvas backing, until I felt the wall behind me. My heart was crashing in my chest, my mind unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I hadn't passed here in 15 minutes, it had been facing me when I last passed it. I clearly remembered averting my eyes from its gaunt horror. And now it had turned around. I was frozen to the wall. Everything was rushing inside me. I felt faint. Little specks had appeared in my outer vision. I squeezed my eyes she desperately, trying to clear my head. The comforting noise could still be heard. The echoing sound...

Footsteps.

My body sprung into over drive, my fist tightened around my truncheon and I strained my ears. The sound was there. How could I not have realised it before? That faint echoing I had thought to be my own, but was that of another. My feet started to propel me towards it, whatever was making it. My brain suddenly brought up an image, and I stopped. Childish and ridiculous though it was, I could picture it:
The thing from that painting, walking the corridors of the gallery, on the circuit, following me around. Eyeless sockets searching, the rotting flesh of its hands reaching for my back. But my feet still moved, falling faster and faster, I reached the end of the corridor, turning onto the next. My footfalls had built into thundering crashes, one after the other, I had to get it, stop it and end this.

Thud, Thud, Thud, Thud...
The irregular echoing of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor.

- I sensed it before I heard it, something, behind me, coming for me. Then came the sound, the thuds, distant at first that grew into a rumble that instilled into me the kind of fear I have never known. Go. Run. My feet picked me up, carrying me faster than I thought possible, still the sound was behind me. I threw a glance backwards, the corner was receding behind me, whatever was about to round it was sprinting now. I looked ahead and turned the corner, tears of pure terror welling in my eyes. Run. Run. Run.

Crash, crash, crash, crash...
The desperate resonation of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor.

*Behind me, ahead of me, it was there, equidistant from catching me and being caught. The art of the little gallery rushed past me and I continued. The blood pounding in my ears, I fought to be faster that it. Run. Run. Run.

Crash, crash, crash, crash...
The endless roaring of my footsteps bouncing off the hardwood floor. I continued, on and on, following and being followed, as I chased the echo of myself in the infinite corridors of the gallery.