Topic: A Peculiar Phantom

Juno

Date: 2011-07-12 15:07 EST
It was nice down here. The darkness wasn't absolute; light filtered in through cracks in the ceiling to where old sets and backdrops, props and costumes, were left carefully stored for use at some point in the future. The little one had made friends with all the faces on the posters, given them names of her own and stories that went with their pictures. She liked them. They didn't push her away or throw her out of her new-found home.

It wasn't silent, either. Every day there was noise from above; the sounds of people going about their business, of voices chattering and laughing together, of footsteps and dance steps and music. She liked music; it soothed the bad memories when they came back to haunt her, made her smile. She knew every one of the voices above who made music, could tell them apart even when they sang together. It helped her to feel safe.

She had everything she could possibly need in this secret, forgotten corner. Playmates in the form of props and backdrops, the faces she had learned from the posters left with them; clothing and bedding, made from the folds of fabric once worn on the stage itself above her; music and movement nearby to stave off the oppressive silence; streams of light to play with before the building grew quiet once again.

Food was always there to find, and creeping up to the world above, where light and sound ruled, was not so difficult as it might have seemed. No one seemed to have noticed that small portions of food were going missing from the kitchens near the cafe, nor that every now and then a bottle or two of something would disappear from the store-room behind the lower bar. And even if they had, what could they do' There was never even a hint of a crumb trail to follow.

The gray lady who walked through walls came and spoke to her sometimes. That was nice. She was nice; very quiet, never angry or upset. She just came and spoke softly to the little one living among the dying souls of plays and shows over and done with, never once giving any clue to those who made their lives in the world above that there was anything down here but mice and memories.

She liked it here. It was ...

....safe.

Juno

Date: 2011-08-07 10:08 EST
Everything was so quiet. Everyone had been gathered up and they had all left together, saying something about a vaccine, but someone had been left behind. The unknown someone who had made the storage space beneath the stage her home. The little one stirred fitfully in her bed of brocaded costuming, crying in her sleep at the pain that wracked her body. Even down here, in a place where no light came and few people ventured ....even here, the Benghu Fever had penetrated.

She hadn't thought much of the first symptoms. Extremes of temperature were common beneath the stage - during a performance, it could grow to boiling point; in the middle of the night, she could freeze. Likewise, the aching of her limbs, while uncomfortable, her juvenile mind had put down to playing too enthusiastically, sleeping in the cold, anything but that she was sick.

But the vomiting was distressing, and worse than that, the bleeding when she knew she had not cut herself. Everything hurt, she couldn't keep anything down. One corner of the little storage space, the furthest she could crawl from where she had made her bed, was rank with body fluids and excretions. And despite her longing to be safe, to stay out of sight, the little girl couldn't help wishing that someone would smell it and come and make her better.

The gray lady came to see her every day, but she had promised not to reveal the child's location, and she held to her promise. Or rather, she had held to it. Today, she had not come at all. Maybe this was what dying felt like; maybe soon there wouldn't be any more pain, and the little girl would be like the gray lady.

She couldn't move. She couldn't stir. Blood trickled from her nose and mouth, her lips were dry and cracked, caked with vomit that decorated her front. There were no more tears that could come, no matter how hard she cried; she couldn't make any sound but a rasping, gasping croak. The blisters that covered her skin were painful, keeping her from finding any kind of comfortable position in which to sleep.

As she struggled, slipping ever deeper into unconsciousness, she was vaguely aware of voices ....or at least, one voice, coming closer.

" ....is she, Hortense" How long has she been down here" ....No, it'll be fine, I just had the vaccination, remember" ....In here?"

There was a creak, just on the edge of hearing, and footsteps entered the room. Through half-cracked eyes, the little girl got a vague impression of an animated face creased in concern, a woman kneeling down beside her.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, look at her," the woman said in horror. "Next time I get a phantom, I don't care what they say, you tell me, Hortense, right?"

The little girl cried out soundlessly in pain as well-meaning, gentle arms wrapped around her, lifting her from her makeshift bed. Cradled against a living body, hearing a beating heart, she nestled closer instinctively, breathless with silent sobs of pain and relief.

"It's okay, sweetie, it's alright, I've got you now," the familiar voice was murmuring to her as she gained a sensation of motion, as though she was being carried somewhere. "We're going to get you some help and make you all better, I promise." A twitch of material was moved over her face as bright light flooded them, shading eyes unused to it from additional pain.

"No, stay back, guys. No one is to go into the storage room until I've dealt with it when I get back, alright' Back to your daily business, no need to gawp. I've got everything under control."

Everything under control. The little girl shifted closer in the arms of her firmly spoken savior. She'd been rescued; someone had come to save her. Trust should be earned, but here and now, it was a gift from a helpless child in need to the woman who had taken charge to help her. Because even though she was out of her hidden place ...

....she was safe.