Ghost Fighter

Fight!

The boy stood frozen in the attic, where he and his younger brother shared the make-shift room. There wasn't much space: a set of their double beds, dressers that were found in alleys and front lawns and a few person items fit in an efficient manner. Even the throw rugs were neatly kept over the hard wood floor near the beds. He acknowledged the immovable feet that had been stuck on the path that led down the stairs and into the den. He had been trying to 'will' them to move. He felt a mixture of panic and hate within himself. Any other time, last night for example, he'd whip around at a break-neck speeds up and down the stairs, even tripping and slipping a few steps, but always landing solidly. Now, only the hairs on his neck and arms flinched; he could only feel the wave of goosebumps marching up his legs and back, looking for their next meal.

And he could not move.

He tried to convince himself to snap out of his frozen terror by recalling how many steps it would take to get out of the attic. Five steps behind and he would be at the entrance of the room, the top of the attic. There were twenty-seven steps that lead to the landing. There were some dirty clothes, his brothers', along the way. There were two steps from the landing that opened the door at the bottom. Maybe seven steps from the door leading upstairs to the den's entrance. Five more steps and he would be in the living room. He could hear movement in the living room. It would be his mother getting home and expecting him to have his chores done.  He was far from finishing anything.

The boy seized that moment and reacted.

He didn't think about the number of steps; adrenaline gave him the ability to miscount to a smaller number, but he clawed at clothes that was hanging on the banister near the stairs on his way down. Quickly, he bundled a wad of dirty clothes that his mother had instructed him to fetch, and sent a forward pass down towards the door. As he did so, a sharp, cold feeling went through him, raising the hackles on his neck as he descended the last few steps.

The boy saw something of a thin cloud cover the door, flexing and feeling the sturdiness of the wood. The door gave a muffled 'thwack', and bounced open slightly. The boy had been too panicked to appreciate that the number of jeans and sweaters prevented a firm seal on the door. 

They - It? - had tried to keep him locked up in the attic. Trapped with them? The clothes flopped over and kept the door ajar just enough for it to not trap him. The boy had touched down on the landing and shouldered the door open, sprinting to the the hallway like a mad dog nipping his heels in hunger. In contrast, the den did not have a door leaving nothing but a straight shot to the living room area. He made a bee line for it.

He skidded to a halt when he arrived in the living room. He had appreciated, perhaps for the first time, that the small home had few furnishings; nothing to restrict him or bump in to. Quickly, he jammed his hands into his jeans and fished out two small, gray stones, putting each into a palm. He balled his fists tightly and took up a karate 'ready' stance, cleared his mind - as much as he could - and quickly moved to a kokutsu dachi pose, more offensively, than defensive. He began bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying not to let himself get tense or locked. Blowing wind from his lips, he waited, hoping to keep up the energetic blanket that warmed him. Beads of sweat danced on his lip and slid down next to his ears.

The boy looked directly at the door that almost trapped him in the attic. He saw nothing, but felt  something was looking at him. Waiting. Like the nights when he couldn't sleep.  Like when he was alone and resisted the force tugging his covers. Perhaps the thing was considering what to do next. The boy began slowing his breath, slowly shifted into basic fighting form. Arms and elbows tucked, shoulders rolled forward. The sight was a blend of what he called street boxer and 'Bruce Lee'-ism.