Short Story 0001: Seven Nights- Part I

My Mom and Dad often go to the out at night, leaving me and my sisters to act as we choose. (Don't worry, the house is still intact when they get back) One of these privileges to staying home alone is no bedtime. When you drop, you drop. It was on one of these such nights that I had a writing spree at eleven o'clock at night. (Not exactly the best time, but still, you don't exactly choose when to have a writing spree.) I finished Part I (of III) in about thirty minutes. I was quite glad it didn't take an hour, 'cause when you have a writing spree, you got to see it out till the end. There is no time for sleep, school, reading, or all of the above. (There's always time for tea though! :)) So I hope you enjoy, gentle Reader, the fruits of my night's writing spree.

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Clara woke with a start. The sweat dripped from her brow and onto her starch white sheets. She had felt it again. Tossing of her covers, she swung her legs out of bed and peered out the window. It was a full moon again. Just like it had been for the past several days. The same thing over and over again, the same dream, the same presence in the room, the same night sky.

It had started a week ago, with Clara's coronation. She was now Queen of Cannon, the nation of Living Dead. It was true, she was the queen of the living dead, but not the living dead you'd think of. The people of Cannon were survivors of a shipwreck, 1000 years ago. Clara's great-grandmother, captain of S.S. Cannon, became the queen, and had passed the crown down until it came to Clara. They were called the living dead because everyone down in Earth thought them to be dead. But oh no. They crew of Cannon had survived, building up a civilization so grand, it far exceeded any kingdom known. 

The Cannon Dwellers were said to be strong, to show no fear, for they were the Living Dead. And now I am showing weakness! Their Queen! Clara thought miserably, wiping away the tear that came rolling down her cheek. But she was scared. A week of the same night, the night after her coronation. A week of the same torment, a nightmare, a presence in the room, a knock on the door. 

Clara frowned. Tonight there had been no knock on the door. Yet the dream, the presence in the room, everything had been the same. Except the knock never came. And Clara knew, somehow, that when the knock finally came, Clara would be dead.

Maybe she already was. Maybe this is what it's like to be dead. Reliving the night you died. Over and over again, the same actions, the same feeling, the same thoughts. The same heat, the same chill....

Clara ran through the seven nights in her head. Go to bed, wake up sweating after nightmare, recognize a presence in the room, look at the stars,  the knock comes. Then relive it all again. Over and over she analyzed the night. Suddenly, the missing piece hit her so hard, she realized why she had sweated so bad tonight. There was no breeze. The window had been open the past six nights, letting in a cooling breeze. But not tonight.

The window being closed just reinforced the fear she now felt rising to an unhealthy level. Clara tried the window, hopefully, but to no avail. The window sash stubbornly refused to budge, not even to Clara's pleading. She turned away from the window, discouraged. 

Her eye fell on the glint of steel. My key! Clara nearly screamed as she felt for the familiar weight around her neck. She moved over to it, examining it closely. She strung the key back on its chain, clasping it around her neck. 

It had definitely been around her neck the other nights. Something was changing tonight, but what?

As it turned out, Clara was about to find out. From outside her window rose a horrific wailing. Clara resumed her vigilant watch out the window, seeing a sight far more terrifying than the changing night. Her guards, Cannon's army, (Though they didn't them because no one knew Cannon existed.) was gathering outside her window. There were torches being passed around, feet being stomped, horses neighing, men wailing. All of it was like her nightmare. 

Except now, it was real. 

Clara couldn't keep it in any longer. She screamed! Loudly. Loud enough so that the activity outside her window stopped. It began again, though, with more relish. Louder and louder it became, until Clara, overwhelmed by the noise and the nightmare she was living, fell onto her bed, covering her ears with her pillow.     

Finally it seemed all that the world existed as was the noise outside her window. Clara had a vague feeling the noise had stopped, but inside her head, the racket continued. On and on it went, until it forced her to sleep, lulling her back into her nightmare. Tonight was over, but what would tomorrow's night hold?                                                                                ∂π